by B. V. Larson
Leeza stalked away in annoyance. While she rummaged in his bunker, Armel kept trying to stare me down. I returned his stare with my best slack-faced, dumb-assed expression. Sometimes, that threw people off.
He stripped off his armor, so I stripped off mine to match.
When Leeza returned with an old fashioned hardwood box, I broke the deadlock with Armel and checked it out.
“Is that real cherry wood?” I asked him.
“It is rosewood, imbecile.”
He opened the case with a dramatic flourish. Sure enough, there were two long, skinny swords in there. They looked like a pair of meter-long toothpicks to me. The metal was dark, rather than bright, and I got the feeling the swords were really old.
Grabbing one, I flexed it in half, and it snapped back.
“Pretty good steel,” I commented.
“They’re family heirlooms. Relics of a better day. Two hundred years ago—”
Slashing experimentally, I clipped the top of his head, making him duck.
A few hairs floated down.
“You done yapping yet?” I asked.
Snarling, he grabbed a sword and strode a few paces off. Then, he turned to face me.
“Salute, you baboon,” he said snapping to attention and bringing the sword up vertically to his face.
I did the same, and he slashed it down in an arc. It made an impressive sound as it cut through the air.
I wasn’t really a swordsman—sure, I’d been taught the basics, but Armel had clearly studied fencing seriously.
Way back when I’d signed up with Varus I’d been tested in a fight with a robot using a blade like this one, and there had been refreshers since then. The legion thought it taught balance and discipline for a soldier to be familiar with all sorts of weapons.
But real pro fencing is another thing entirely. I had to resort to what I knew, which was knife-fighting, and my force-blade training.
Unfortunately, a rapier is a weapon that requires a different approach to succeed.
Armel came at me with his body turned sideways and his weapon arm extended. His other hand cocked behind him for balance. I did what most people did when someone lunged at them, I gave ground.
Our weapons touched, sparked, and he slid his blade over mine. He almost nailed me in the heart right off. I don’t mind saying that it spooked me.
I managed to beat his blade away as I was stronger and had more reach.
He came at me again, and I was running out of room to retreat. There were open trenches behind me, but I couldn’t spare a glance to look for them.
Rather than fall into one and be skewered like a dog, I decided to launch a clumsy counterattack of my own. My only real move was to slap at his blade and thrust. He fell back smoothly, caught my blade with his, and it slipped past him.
I tried again and again, making rapid thrusts, staying on the attack. He shuffled back, parrying with ease.
Then he began to smile.
“I am your master, McGill,” he said.
To prove it, he riposted and nailed me in the shoulder.
Geez, that hurt! It felt like he’d chipped the bone. Blood ran down my bicep and although I was able to ignore the pain, I knew my arm would soon weaken.
We separated, sides heaving. He came at me again, and I countered. Neither one of us was moving too seriously. He was still grinning, and I was beginning to dislike that grin.
“Children should never be allowed to play with a man’s weapon,” Armel announced, and his blade dipped to thrust low.
I skipped back, but I was too slow. He nailed me in the foot. I countered with a vicious slash—you weren’t supposed to slash with these things, but I didn’t care.
Crippled up pretty bad, I was limping and painting the stones with blood.
Armel sniffed, stepped back, and made a flippant gesture with his fingers. “Switch,” he said.
“What?”
“Your right side is finished. Try your left. I will stand until you’re ready.”
Thinking about it, I decided to trust him. Why would he jump me now? He could have nailed me in the gut that last go-round by my estimation.
Taking the sword in my left, I felt only slightly less skilled. A Varus man soon learns to be as close to ambidextrous as possible. It just came with the job as we got wounded often.
Then, that sick bastard jammed his sword right through my left knee.
He left me hissing with that one, giving me a clucking sound as he walked around in a circle, raising his hands high.
Germanica troops whooped and hollered. They loved it.
Hurting badly and slow on my injured legs, I took a shot when his back was turned, but I’ll be damned if he didn’t whip his blade around, slapping mine so hard I almost dropped it. A red line was drawn across my wrist as well.
Armel turned to survey the damage with the air of an instructor who’s failed to teach a bumpkin. He put his hands on his hips, made little sucking sounds with his mouth, and shook his head.
“So pathetic,” he said. “A dismal performance, even for a man of low skill such as you. All four limbs, useless.”
Rage was coursing through me now. I don’t know where it comes from, but I’ve got a bad temper in me at times like this.
I wanted to hurt Armel. I wanted to hurt him bad. My mind raced, trying to come up with a way—then, I had it.
My face split into a grin of my own. I took his sword and broke it over my good knee. I dropped the two pieces on the rocky ground, where they clanged and clattered.
“Oh, damn!” I called out, shaking my head. “I’m sooo sorry! I bet those swords were important to you, too? Huh?”
After staring at me with insane eyes for a moment, Armel lost it.
I’ve seen that happen before—hell, I’ve done it myself—but this particular meltdown caught me by surprise. After everything I’d done, all the bad blood between us, what had really set him off was breaking a sword? Go figure.
He came at me, and there was no room for doing much. I managed to shift a little, so the deadly tip didn’t go right into my chest. Instead, it thrust through my guts.
He pushed it deep, all the way to the hilt—that was his only mistake.
A real kill was a cold-blooded thing. You were supposed to thrust deeply, piercing the organs, then step back out of the way. Let shock do the work, or blood-loss.
But he wanted to hurt me just as badly as I’d wanted to hurt him. He drove that sword through my belly until most of it came out the other side.
That’s when I grabbed him. He was in close, and I wasn’t about to let him go.
I’m a big man, by anyone’s accounting. My hands were each twice the size of his, and I stood a head taller. When fencing or shooting, that didn’t matter much—but in a clinch, everything changed.
Maybe I should have strangled him. That would have been the more usual approach. But I was pissed off by this time. Pain, embarrassment and just plain being tired of his shit worked on my mind creating an awful concoction.
So, I grabbed him, bent his sword arm over my knee, and broke it.
He gave a cry of rage and pain. He released the sword, which was still stuck through my guts. He tried to retreat, but I had a good hold on him.
I only had one working arm, but I still found it easy to throw him on his back. Standing over him, I looked down, panting.
“Do you yield?” I asked.
His eyes blazed. “Never!”
Nodding, I pulled his own sword out of my guts and thrust it through his heart. It wasn’t a fine thing—it was simple butchery.
Armel died snarling, on his back, with his whole legion watching.
I hoped it would give them all nightmares.
-59-
After the duel was over, I was in a pretty bad way.
“Anyone got a flesh-printer handy?” I asked, but they all sneered.
Only Centurion Leeza relented. She took a can of nu-skin spray off her belt and tossed it to me. It fel
l to the ground, rolling away.
I went after it slowly, painfully, but a long graceful arm picked it up for me. I straightened up, and I met Gytha’s eye.
She was radiant. She looked enamored, and she was still naked.
Taking my right arm in her hand, she began to spray a thick foaming coat of fresh cells. They adhered to wounds all over me, stinging and tickling. She sprayed until the bottle was empty then tossed it aside.
“You have won,” she said. “As I knew you would.”
Forcing a smile, I nodded. My eyes drifted up to the drones that hovered around us still.
“You hear that, Blood World? I command this legion, and my troops won the day. Serve me, and we’ll fight together!”
There was no cheering. The Germanica shitheads were sullen, but they didn’t try anything.
“It’s done,” Gytha said, taking my arm.
My blood stained her hands.
“What next?” I said. “I don’t want to pass out in front of everyone.”
“No, no! That won’t do. Come with me, we must remove you from view.”
I began limping toward Armel’s bunker, but she squeezed my arm, halting me.
“Don’t walk that way. You must appear strong.”
Gritting my teeth, I sucked in a breath and walked as normally as I was able. It’s funny how adrenalin pumping through a man during a fight can keep the pain at bay, but the second your brain knows it’s over, you feel it all.
Each step was agony. Each movement sent fire through my wounded belly in particular.
Gytha had stopped the bleeding, but I was pretty cut up inside. My guts had fresh holes I’d never been born with. I could feel one chamber spilling into another, swelling my internals.
Somehow, I made it to the bunker and slammed the door shut. Sprawling in Armel’s chair, I sighed and leaned back until it creaked in protest.
“Ahhh…” I said, “that’s better. Can you get me a drink?”
“Alcohol? But you have an injury in your digestive tract.”
“You don’t say?” I chuckled, but I stopped immediately because it hurt. “I hope your people loved the show.”
“They did. Reports are coming in—they’re accepting the victory. The final struggle seemed to convince them Earth basics aren’t weak.”
“Fair enough.”
She poured me a glass of straight gin. It tasted pretty bad, but I didn’t care to explain mixed drinks to her.
My mouth was soon numb, and the rest of me slowly followed.
Gytha, in the meantime, was pulling off my clothes. For some reason, I thought she was planning on nursing me back to health—but I’d thought wrong.
She climbed on me and mounted up, right there on Armel’s chair.
I almost pushed her off, as jostling me around right now was going to hurt my gut pretty bad. But after looking her over, and seeing the earnest look in her eyes, I decided to give in.
Gytha had her way with me then. I was pretty sure it was a first for Armel’s field office.
Unfortunately, before either of us had finished—I died.
* * *
When I came back to life, I found myself in familiar territory.
“What’s his Apgar?”
“A low eight—I guess it will do.”
They helped me off the table. I felt sore this time—but not in the guts. It was more of an all-over ache.
“Did you guys used expired plasma?” I asked.
“We never do that, McGill,” the bio said.
Frowning, I realized I recognized the voice. It was Specialist Thompson.
“Hey, Evelyn!”
“Don’t call me that.”
One look at her eyes, which were downcast and all business, and I knew it was over.
“Did you ever really care?” I asked her.
She paused with her poking and prodding. “Did you?”
“Hell yeah!” I said with enthusiasm.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Oh, come on. I didn’t take money to seduce you.”
That line earned me a slap. I let her get away with it, but when she pulled back to take a second shot, I caught her wrist.
“You’re hurting me, Centurion.”
As this conversation developed, the orderlies in the room fell quiet. They had big eyes and exchanged surprised glances.
I let her go and got off the gurney. Pulling on a uniform, I regretted that there was no shower to step into.
“You know,” I said to Evelyn, “you guys really should put a shower in here. If I could wash this goop off, I’d feel a lot better about going back to the front.”
She sniffed at the idea. “I’ll make sure to mention that to my CO,” she said in a sarcastic tone.
“Germanica does it.”
“Why don’t you sign up with them, then? Or better yet, desert and go down to your girlfriend on Blood World.”
Turning around, I put my hands on my hips. “Are you serious? Is that what your problem is?”
Something in my tone sent the orderlies skittering out of the chamber. In the old days, when I’d been a noncom, they might have tried to kick me out—but now that I was an officer, they bailed out and left Evelyn to face me alone.
Trying to calm down, I remembered who I was and turned away. I headed for the door. When my hand was on it, I heard Evelyn sigh behind me.
“I’m sorry.”
She’d said it fast and quiet—but I figured she probably meant it.
“Me too,” I rumbled, then I left.
In a bad mood, I headed for my module and my long-empty bunk, but my tapper began buzzing. Someone had put a change-alert on my revival status. The damned computers always tattled on a man these days.
It was Tribune Deech, so I didn’t have much choice. I answered it.
“McGill?” Deech asked. “Is your head on straight?”
“I’m good-to-go, sir.”
“Excellent. Clean up, and present yourself on Gold Deck in your dress-blues.”
That was a surprising request. I kind of liked the implications.
“Will do, sir.”
A few minutes later, I was whistling in the shower. Ten minutes after that, I arrived on Gold Deck. Hell, even the tubes were working again.
“Centurion?” Winslade asked as I approached. “What are you doing here?”
I stopped and appraised him.
“What are you doing?” he asked again. “That’s a demented look on your face—even for you.”
“I’m considering throttling you, sir. It’s the only way I can be sure you’re not Claver.”
Winslade made a pffing sound. “Of course I’m Winslade. Claver was arrested and executed half-way through that nonsense in the pit.”
“Yeah? Who did the good deed?”
“Graves. He did it down there in the pit… It’s disturbing, actually. What if he’d guessed wrong?”
I’d known all about this, naturally, as I was the one who’d put Graves up to it. Still, it was fun to make Winslade sweat a little.
Winslade’s account did give me one piece of vital information: apparently, Graves hadn’t told him I was the one who’d spotted Claver. That was just as well, I figured.
Nodding, I stepped past him—but he snapped out a thin-boned hand to block me.
“You still haven’t told me—”
“Deech summoned me. Dress-blues, she said.”
He looked me up and down and let me pass in disgust. That was a good thing, because my mood had been shifting into a dark zone. If he’d riled me up any further, I might have punched him and spent the night in the brig.
Deech let me in the moment I reached her door. Graves was waiting inside as well.
They stood up and congratulated me. That was damned unusual, but I took it in stride.
“McGill,” Graves told me. “I thought you were dead as a mackerel after Armel ran you through. That you managed to beat him after that—well, mark me impressed.”
�
�Nah,” I said, “never count out a Georgia boy. There’s always a little more juice left in a man like me.”
“Indeed…” Deech said.
I thought it was a strange thing to say, but I didn’t complain. After all, I was the hero of the hour, and it seemed like people were acknowledging that fact for once.
“Is that why you summoned me, sirs? For a hearty congratz?”
“Not just that,” Deech said. “You have a few more duties to perform. You must be present in the morning for the review of the Blood World army.”
“Uh… down there? On the planet?”
“That’s right,” Graves answered. “You’ll review the troops while they parade around in their full kits.”
“But that’s not all,” Deech said. “Ah… Graves, could you excuse us?”
His eyes slid from me to Deech, then back again.
“Are you sure about that, Tribune?”
“Quite sure,” she said sternly.
Shrugging, Graves walked out.
My eyes followed him. Graves was acting like I was going to face something unpleasant. Perhaps he knew what this was all about. I certainly didn’t.
“Tribune?” I asked when we were left alone.
“Centurion…” she began. “Are you a loyal soldier? A man who would give his life for Earth and Empire?”
“Um…” I said, already not liking where this was going. “I think I’ve proven that by giving my life a hundred times or more, sir.”
“Yes, of course. Perhaps that was the wrong way to say it.”
“Tribune? Could you just get to the point and tell me whatever it is you’re holding back?”
“All right. McGill, we’ve won Blood World—no, that isn’t quite right—you have won Blood World.”
“That doesn’t sound like a reason to be so down in the dumps to me, sir.”
“No, you wouldn’t think so. But here it is: the Blood Worlders aren’t satisfied with the generalized concept of James McGill as their hero. In order to march into our gateway by the millions—they want you to be there. To command them personally.”
Deech met my eye then, and what she was saying began to sink in.
“Are you serious? They want me to preside over this dirt-hole planet like a king, or something?”
“Or something. In particular, you’ll function as Gytha’s consort. That shouldn’t be too painful for you, hmm?”
