Korval's Game

by Sharon Lee

  He believes every word of it, Robertson. Look at the man’s pattern. He might be crazy, but he ain’t lying.

  “So what’s that make you?” she asked, as they approached the mess tent. “Cousins?”

  He smiled and squeezed her hand lightly. “More like students of the same master.”

  She let him see her sigh this time. “OK,” she said. “We’ll give the man his shot.”

  “Thank you, cha’trez,” Val Con murmured, dropping her hand and allowing her to preceed him into the tent. “And remember, I will be watching.”

  ***

  The vets arrived on the field first, took their places and composed themselves to wait for the newbies to straggle in and sort themselves into lines.

  A tall figure strode smartly across the field, straight up to where Miri stood near the situation board, Val Con at her back.

  “Reporting for duty, Captain.” Nelirikk snapped a sharp salute, now he had the merc way of it. Not only that, he was on time—not late, not early. On time.

  Bland-faced, she took his salute, then walked around him as she had the first time, with him nothing but blood, sweat, and nerves and looking as much like a street brawler as a soldier.

  Today, leathers gleaming and boots glowing, he was clearly a soldier. His utility belt held its pouch and the knife he had used in the fight with Val Con, enclosed in a battered but well-oiled sheath. He stood at attention like he meant it, eyes front while she completed her leisurely circuit.

  He was big, but totally lacking the exuberant massiveness that characterized Jase Carmody. Nelirikk, Miri thought, lived private. His eyes might give him away. Maybe.

  Without the tattoos, his face was ordinary: two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and a decidedly square jaw. The rapid-grown hair was sandy brown and wavy. The mustache was a sandy brown brush over the thin unsmiling mouth.

  Circuit done, she crossed her arms and looked up at him.

  “Explorer. Is your kit complete?”

  “If the captain pleases. I have not a sidearm.”

  “I see that. Anything else missing?”

  “No, Captain.”

  “Enough ration-bars for your needs?”

  “If the captain pleases. I am not informed of a mission. The kit and rations are more than adequate for general use.”

  Miri nodded. “Can you march in those boots today?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Could you march in them again tomorrow?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  What she did then was probably as stupid as anything Val Con’d done on behalf of this man, but she didn’t question the right of it. A soldier who didn’t have a sidearm was no soldier at all. Nelirikk, a pro, would know that, right down in his gut.

  “Think you can work with the quartermaster?”

  The tiniest flicker of surprise at the back of those careful blue eyes. “Yes, Captain.”

  “Good. After arms practice, you’ll draw a sidearm and ammo.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “All right,” Miri said, flicking a look over the field. The lines were formed now, soldiers at field rest. Time for class.

  “Consider yourself on duty. And remember to draw extra protein and a second dessert at mess. Orders from the head med tech.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  She marched forward, Nelirikk at her shoulder. Val Con took his usual place, a little off to the side of the main action, and stood there, bland-faced and perfectly calm. His pattern, when she looked at it, displayed some interesting tensions, but no real alarm. He was watching, like he’d said. Aware of the possibility of danger.

  “All right, Irregulars,” she called out over a field that was suddenly very quiet, indeed. “This is Beautiful. He’s my aide and he’ll be assisting in today’s hand-to-hand drill. Squads count off by threes and—”

  “That is an Yxtrang!”

  Oh, hell, Miri thought, locating the miscreant. jin’Bardi. Of course it would be jin’Bardi. Man hadn’t given her a minute’s peace since he’d showed up at Erob’s in the first wave of refugees from the city. Worst part was, when he put his mind to it, he could soldier.

  “No chatter!” Reynolds, that was, a vet from Higdon’s Howlers, and, like the rest of the vets, strawboss to a double-dozen newbies. jin’Bardi, predictably, ignored him.

  “I say that thing is an Yxtrang, Captain! Do you deny it?”

  Miri glared him down the field, which didn’t do much good, jin’Bardi being a mean-tempered somebody, and answered, voice level and pitched to carry to the last soldiers on the field.

  “I say this man is an Irregular, mister. Report for kitchen duty after arms practice.” She looked out over the quiet field. “Count off.”

  “And I say no!” jin’Bardi left his place and ran toward her. She felt Val Con shift—stopped him with a shoulder-twitch.

  “At ease, Beautiful.”

  “That is not a man!” jin’Bardi yelled, voice echoing over the field. “And if you think that it is, you are not fit to lead this unit!”

  You damn fool, Miri thought at jin’Bardi. The vets exchanged glances among themselves, and Winston took the lead.

  “Now, see, among us real mercs, there’s a tradition, kinda, where if somebody don’t like the way the captain’s leading, they can go hand-to-hand and whoever wins, their opinion wins, too. I ain’t especially advising you to try that against Cap’n Redhead. What I’m advising for you is to take the fifty years kitchen patrol you just earned, and get back in line so’s we can drill.”

  He paused and looked around the field, his gaze crossing Miri’s for an instant. One eyelid flicked in a wink.

  “I ain’t got no problem with Beautiful joining up. Fact, I’m glad to have him. Can always tell a real soldier by the way he keeps himself, and shows proper respect to command.”

  The tension was easing out of the field—or it would have if jin’Bardi hadn’t chosen that particular moment to sing out, loud and clear: “Fine, then! I challenge the captain here and now to hand-to-hand combat.”

  Miri sighed wearily, sensing rather than seeing Val Con drifting in from the sidelines. Beautiful stood at her back, at ease like she’d told him. She hoped.

  “jin’Bardi, you got a deathwish?”

  “Afraid to fight me, Captain?”

  “In your dreams.” Damn the man. Nothing for it, now. “Troops!” she shouted across the field. “Form a circle.”

  She unbuckled her belt and handed it to Beautiful, who slung it over his right shoulder, which, by a fascinating coincidence placed her sidearm in position for a reasonably quick draw. He folded her battle-jacket carefully and placed it between his feet.

  jin’Bardi stripped off his belt and jacket and looked around, but nobody was offering to hold them. He dumped the jacket onto the ground, belt on top.

  The circle had formed to include Beautiful. Winston was on one side of him, Miri noticed. Reynolds was on the other. Val Con was on the far side of the circle, not quite directly opposite Beautiful. She hoped he had sense enough not to interfere with this one. There really wasn’t any need for him to be concerned. She could take jin’Bardi hand-to-hand. The problem was going to be remembering not to kill him.

  In the center of the circle, she turned to face jin’Bardi.

  “Beautiful!” she called out. “Give the mark.”

  “Mark in three, Captain. One Captain. Two Captain. Three.”

  jin’Bardi came in fast, like she’d known he would, trying to startle her into a stumble. She sidestepped, got a foot around his ankle and a hand under his elbow and let him do most of the work of flipping himself onto his back.

  He hit hard, but came up in a quick snarl of motion, and was heading back, low this time, and it wasn’t until he was right on her that she saw the telltale gleam.

  She twisted and at least he knew better than to lead with the knife. She countered with a move Val Con had taught her, dancing away, feinting in with a kick, tempting the knife.

  And jin’B
ardi, the idiot, took the bait.

  It was quick, then. She slapped the knife away and gave him a ride over her shoulder, slamming him flat. The air went out of him with an audible whoosh and while he was seeing stars, she spun, grabbed the knife, and spun back, pinning his arms with her knees, and put the edge under his ear until she saw the first drop of blood and real fear in jin’Bardi’s eyes.

  “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t cut your stupid throat!”

  He stared up at her, and it was terror, now, and she kept the knife snug, wanting to be sure he was going to remember today’s lesson for the rest of his life. No matter how short it was.

  “If the captain pleases.” The recruit’s voice was near and respectful.

  Now what? “Permission to speak.”

  “Thank you, Captain. This fighter shows potential of becoming a skilled soldier, with training.”

  Mithras, give me strength.

  “You offering to take him on, Beautiful? Whip him into shape?”

  “If the captain pleases. For the good of the troop.”

  jin’Bardi’s eyes were showing a lot of white. His face was an interesting sort of greenish-gold color and wet with sweat. Miri leaned close, talking real quiet.

  “I’m going to move the knife, jin’Bardi, and then I’m going to stand up and back away three paces. Then you’re going to stand up and present yourself to Beautiful. Vary, and you’re meat. Are we clear?”

  “Clear, Captain,” he managed, sounding pretty hoarse. He swallowed. “I yield,” he added. High Liaden.

  “You bet,” she returned in Terran, and took the knife away.

  She rose, backed away and stood holding the knife while he climbed painfully to his feet and walked over to where the big man stood between Winston and Reynolds, his face impassive.

  jin’Bardi was shaking and he must’ve been hurting, but give him credit, he walked right up to Nelirikk and saluted.

  Nelirikk didn’t move. “It is proper discipline to thank the captain for a valuable lesson.”

  There was a moment of utter stillness from jin’Bardi. The circle waited. In her head, Val Con’s pattern was cold, watchful, and stringently calm.

  Slowly, jin’Bardi turned and bowed. “Thank you, Captain, for a valuable lesson.”

  “No problem,” she said and looked up at Beautiful. “Take this guy to the medics and have them check him out, then report back here. Give my stuff to Winston.”

  “Yes, Captain.” A salute. Her belt and jacket changed hands and Beautiful moved back from the circle. jin’Bardi, shoulders slumping, began to follow, was stopped by a raised palm.

  “It is proper discipline,” Beautiful stated, remorselessly unemotional, “to take leave of the captain.”

  Once again, jin’Bardi turned, made the effort and straightened his shoulders, snapped a salute. “Captain.”

  She nodded. The two of them moved away and the circle began to come apart. Miri walked forward.

  As he came even with the situation board, jin’Bardi abruptly spun. “I want my knife back!”

  Nelirikk stopped. “If the captain pleases,” he coached, “may I have my weapon.”

  Miri stopped, feeling the weight of the thing in her hand, and something tickling at the edge of her mind. The balance was good . . .

  “You want this?” she snapped.

  “Yes,” jin’Bardi snapped back and that quick the knife reversed itself and she threw.

  The knife tumbled in the air, traveling fast, much too fast for jin’Bardi to have time to move. The blade passed so close to his cheek it seemed to glide over the skin, then buried itself deep in the situation board, a lock of his hair pinned tight.

  “Say ‘thank you, Captain,’” Nelirikk directed into the absolute stillness that followed the knife’s thunk, “‘for returning my weapon.’”

  jin’Bardi licked his lips. “Thank you, Captain,” he said faintly, “for returning my weapon.”

  After a moment, Nelirikk reached over and pulled the knife from the board. He offered it, hilt first, to the shaking Liaden.

  “Soldier, your weapon. Inspect it for damage as we walk to the medical center.”

  Around her, she started to hear buzzes as the Irregulars shook themselves back into normal mode. Miri turned, caught Val Con’s eye and decided she’d worry about where she’d learned how to throw a knife like that later.

  “All right!” she shouted, over the growing noise. “Squads count off by three for hand-to-hand drill! Double-time!”

  LIAD:

  Department of Interior

  Command Headquarters

  The operative commissioned to discover what nature of mishap had destroyed Tyl Von sig’Alda’s ship, innocently in orbit about the busy world of Waymart, had filed her report.

  Despite that this document directly contravened several apparently known facts, Commander of Agents readily accepted the operative’s assertion that no such ship had been in orbit about Waymart during the span of days designated in the search grid, nor had such a ship exploded upon the day, hour, and nanosecond also named. The operative expressed herself quite certain of these things.

  Commander of Agents ordered the operative to her immediate superior for deep questioning under the drug, but it was a formality. He believed her report, utterly. Oh, certainly, he had the raw data received from the hidden transmitter upon sig’Alda’s ship, as well as his own excellent memory of event. Mere facts.

  And facts, as any Agent knows well, are open to manipulation.

  Seated behind his desk in the room of chronometers, Commander of Agents indulged in fantasy.

  Tyl Von sig’Alda, the fairy tale went, had not departed the world of Vandar. Indeed, let it be that he had died there, during that brief period in which his ship had rested on world.

  Val Con yos’Phelium, rogue Agent, having overpowered the man sent to return himself or his severed head to Headquarters, used the ship’s key and lifted to orbit. There, he had not after all dawdled, but engaged himself in a fever of busyness, first seeking and then subverting the hidden beacon, the existence of which he would have easily deduced. That done, he had Jumped, but never, so Commander of Agents was willing to wager, for Waymart.

  Or perhaps he had, as he was both subtle and intelligent.

  In short, Commander of Agents concluded his fantasy, Val Con yos’Phelium could be anywhere in the galaxy, not excluding the hallway outside his Commander’s door.

  A peculiarly unnerving conceit, that.

  It would all, of course, need to be checked.

  With a feeling not unlike dread, Commander of Agents leaned forward and touched the switch that would summon his second to him.

  A team of Agents, so he considered, in the few moments before that efficient person appeared. Certainly, a team of Agents to Vandar, to discover the whereabouts of Tyl Von sig’Alda, or the manner of his death. What else? How might they now discover a hint to Val Con yos’Phelium’s thought, a clue that might point to his ultimate destination?

  “You summoned me, Commander?” His second bowed and then stood silent.

  Commander of Agents stirred, issued his orders regarding the team and the maximum priority mission they were to undertake. His second bowed. “There is something else?”

  Where? Where might he go, whose clan, save one, was scattered to the Prime Points? What cause might move him more strongly? Balance? Or the safety of his kin? What reason might be read into random action? Which actions were deliberately random? Which only mimed chaos, with cold reason as the lodestone?

  Where would he go, with all the galaxy to choose from?

  “Dispatch a team to Jelaza Kazone,” Commander of Agents said to his second. “I do not wish Anthora yos’Galan to depart her clanhouse just now. Contain her, first. If necessary, detain her.”

  His second bowed. It would be done.

  “Also,” Commander of Agents said, hearing himself with something akin to astonishment. “The raw data regarding the Terran female. Robertson. Hav
e that sent to me here, Commander’s Priority.”

  Again, his second bowed. “At once, Commander.”

  LIAD:

  Jelaza Kazone

  It was late when she closed the old book and returned it to its place among its fellows. That done, she stretched, hands high over her head, feet above the floor, chair tipped nearly horizontal. For the count of ten, she held the position, taut, every muscle straining. On eleven, she went abruptly limp, breath exploding outward in a “hah!” that echoed along the metal walls.

  The chair snapped back to vertical and she laughed, using one hand to push the wild tumble of dark hair up out of her face. The other hand she held negligently downward, palm out, fingers curled in silent summons at the comb that had deserted its duty and now lay on the floor three feet beyond her languid grasp.

  Thus summoned, the comb flew to her hand. She used it to anchor the hastily twisted knot of her hair, fingers lingering along the satiny wood. This was a precious object—carved by Daav yos’Phelium, Val Con’s true-father, to adorn the hair of his own dear lady. It had come to Anthora on her halfling nameday, given by Val Con. Thus, the gift was thrice precious and it was the ornament she wore most often.

  She stretched again, somewhat less heroically and accompanied by a yawn, then gently came erect. Youngest of the yos’Galans, she had inherited the full body of their Terran mother without the height necessary to satisfactorily complete the effect. Still, she was of Korval, and a pilot of the line, light on her feet and elegant in her bearing.

  She turned now, spinning a graceful circle, and called aloud, “Lord Merlin? Come, sir. We walk and then we sleep.”

  Her voice came back from the metal walls, deep and nappy as velvet, with a ring that glittered off the edge of the ear and might, after all, have been the walls.

  From somewhere down within the books came a “Mmerwef!” and the thump of something solid striking carpet. A moment later, a rather large gray cat sauntered ’round the edge of a shelf and looked up at her out of round golden eyes.

  Anthora smiled and moved toward the door, the cat flowing along at her ankle. He waited patiently while she worked the pressure-latch and followed her into the paneled hallway, then waited again while she canceled the lighting and sealed the library tight.