by Andre Norton
"They scraped us out of a rotation depot. We had bad luck a while back. Rey got bit by a bug during our last stretch and we had to default out of Oosterbeg's Horde four months short. So we were flat enough in the purse to sign on here when the assign officer looked at us as if we were slightly better than muck worms."
"You doubled yet, Karr?" asked Nalassie in a husky voice.
"No, I was delayed in leaving Training. And all the fellows who shipped out of Prime with me were vets—"
Mic lost his half grin. "That's tough luck. Most of us Threes are paired already and you wouldn't want to double with either Krosof or the rest—"
"Heard tell that if you come in solo, Yorke puts you with a vet," Rey volunteered. "Got a theory youth should be tamed by age—or something of the sort."
"And that's worse than tough," broke in his partner. "You shouldn't team up with anyone until you know him. I'd play it single as long as I could, if I were you, Karr. You might be lucky enough to find some good fella who's lost his partner. Stick with us until you do double if you want to—"
"And a very good way to stay out of trouble with the jeweled ones"—Rey nodded toward the rankers' side of the hall—"is to get out of here." He put on his helmet and buckled the chin strap. "They aren't going to muster until morning, we can still have a night on the town. And, fella, you haven't seen excitement until you've seen the leave section of Secundus."
Kana was enthusiastic until he thought of the leanness of his purse. Four credits wouldn't even pay for a meal in a base town—he was sure of that. But, as he shook his head, Mic's fingers closed on his arm.
"No quibbling, fella. We'll be a long time in the back country and we aren't comfortable, shipping out with credits sticking to our fingers. We'll stand you—then when you get your first star, you can repay in kind—that's fair enough. Now, quick about it, before someone gets the idea of putting the younger generation to labor for the good of their souls!"
Beyond the walls of the Combat area a typical leave town had grown up. Taverns, cafes, gambling establishments catered for all ranks and purses, from Bladermasters and Mechmasters to recruits. It was certainly no place to visit with only four credits, Kana thought again as he blinked at the light of the gaudy signs lining the street before them.
And, to his discomfort, the ideas of his guides were not modest. They steered him by the cafes he would have chosen and dragged him through a wide door where Terran gold-leaf was overlaid with the sea-green shimmer of Trafian scale lac. Their boots pressed flat the four-inch pile of carpets which could only have been woven on Caq, and the walls were cloaked with the tapestries of Sansifar. Kana balked.
"This is strictly a glitter boy's shop," he protested. But Mic's hold on him did not relax and Rey chuckled.
"No rank off field," Mic reminded him sardonically. "S-Threes and Blademasters—we're all the same in our skins. Only civilians worry about artificial distinctions—"
"Sure. In Combat you go where you please. And we please to come here." Rey sniffed the scented air which stirred the shining arras, shaking the figures on them to quivering life. "By the Forked Tail of Blamand, what I wouldn't give to be in on the sacking of this! And here comes mine host's assistant."
The figure loping toward them was one of the skeleton-lean, big-headed natives of Lupa. He greeted them with a professional smile, disclosing the double row of fangs which tended to make Terrans slightly nervous, and inquired their pleasure in a series of ear-taxing growls.
"Nothing big," Mic returned. "We have muster tomorrow. Suppose you let us trot around by ourselves, Feenhalt. We won't get into trouble—"
The Lupan's pointed grin widened as he waved them on. When they passed through a slit in the curtain to the next room Kana commented:
"I take it you're known here?"
"Yes. We got Feenhalt out of a hole once. He isn't a bad old Lupan. Now—let's mess."
They escorted Kana through a series of rooms, each exotic in its furnishings, each bizarrely different, until they came to a chamber which brought a surprised exclamation out of him. For they might have stepped into a section of jungle. Gigantic fern-trees forested the walls and looped long fronds over their heads, but did not exclude a golden light which revealed cushioned benches and curving tables. Among the greenery swooped and fluttered streaks of flaming color which could only be the legendary Krotands of Cephas' inner sea islands. Kana, meeting such travelers' tales in truth, bemusedly allowed his companions to push him down on a bench.
"Krotands? But how—?"
Mic's knuckles rapped and drew a metallic answer from the bole of the fern tree immediately behind them. Kana reached out to find that his fingers slid over a solid surface instead of rough bark. They were in a clever illusion.
"All done with mirrors," Mic assured him solemnly. "Not that it isn't one of the best bits of projecting Slanal ever designed. Feenhalt's got the business head—but it's his boss who thought up this sort of thing. Ha—food."
Plates arose out of the table top. Warily Kana tasted and then settled down to hearty stoking.
"It'll be a long time before we get another feed like this," Rey observed. "I heard Fronn's no pleasure planet."
"Cold to our notion—and the native culture is feudal," Kana supplied.
" `Police action,' " mused Mic. "Police action doesn't match a feudal government. What is the set-up—kings? Emperors?"
"Kings—they call them `Gatanus'—ruling small nations. But their heirship is reckoned through the female line. A Gatanu is succeeded by his eldest sister's son, not his own. He is considered closer kin to his mother and sisters than to his father or brothers."
"You must have studied up on this—"
"I used a record pak at Prime."
Rey looked pleased. "You're going to be an asset. Mic, we've got to keep our paws on this one."
Mic swallowed a heroic bite. "We sure have. Somehow I am visited by a feeling that this jump is not going to be foam-pad riding, and the more we know, the better for us."
Kana glanced from one to the other, catching the shadow glimpse of trouble. "What's up?"
Mic shook his head and Rey shrugged. "Blasted if we know. But—well, when you've trotted around the back of beyond and poked into places where a `man' is a mighty weird animal, you get a feeling about things. And we have a feeling about this—"
"Yorke?"
The morale of any Horde depended upon the character of its Blademaster. If Yorke could not inspire confidence in those who followed him—
Mic frowned. "No, it's not Fitch Yorke. By all accounts he's a master to latch to. There have been a lot of the glitter boys beside Hansu to sign up for this jump—you can always tell by that how a Blademaster stacks. It's a feeling—you get it sometimes—a sort of crawling—inside you—"
"Somebody kicking at your grave mark," Rey contributed.
Mic's big mouth twisted in a grin aimed at himself. "Regular mist wizards, aren't we? Step right up—read your future for a credit! Fronn isn't going to be any worse than a lot of other places I know. Through? Then let's show our greenie Feenhalt's private rake-off. Only time the old Lupan showed any imagination—And, flame bats, does it ever pay off!"
Feenhalt's flight of imagination turned out to be a gambling device which enthralled a large selection of Combatants. A pool sunk in the floor of a room was partitioned into sections around a central arena. In each of the small water-filled pens sported a fish about five inches long, two-thirds of that length was mouth lined with needle teeth. Each fish bore a small colored tag imbedded in its tail fin and swam about its prison in ferocious fury. The players gathered about the pool studying the captives. When two or more had chosen their champions, credit chips were inserted in the slots on the rim and the pen doors opened, freeing the fish to move into the arena. What followed was a wild orgy of battle until only one warrior remained alive. Whereupon the bettor who had selected that fish collected from those who had sponsored the dead.
No more attractive game
could have been devised to snare credits from the Combatants. Kana measured the twisting finny fighters carefully, at last choosing a duelist with an excellent jaw spread and a green tail disc. He bought a credit chip from the house banker and knelt to insert the releasing coin in the lock of the pen.
A meaty, hair-matted hand splayed against his shoulder and Kana only caught himself from landing in the pool with a back-wrenching twist.
"Outta th' way, little boy. This here's for men—"
"Just what—!" Kana's words ended in a cough as Mic's fist landed between his shoulders and someone else jerked him away from the man who had taken his place and his fish. The fellow grinned up at him maliciously. Then, as if he expected no more trouble, he turned back to encourage the fighter released by the recruit's chip.
All the good humor was gone from Mic's face and even Rey's dancing eyes were sober as they moved Kana away, holding him motionless between them in an "unarmed in-fighting" grip against which he knew better than to struggle.
"We blast—now—" Mic informed him.
"Just what"—he began again—"do you think—"
"Fella, you might have dug your own grave there. That was Bogate—Zapan Bogate. He has twenty duel notches on his sword—eats greenies for breakfast when he can get them." Mic's words were light but his voice deadly serious.
"Do you think I'm afraid—" Kana smarted.
"Listen, fella, there's a big difference between being prudent and alive, and kicking a Zartian sand mouse in the teeth. You don't last long after the latter heroic deed. You can't be given a yellow stripe for ducking a run-in with Bogate—you're just intelligent. Someday one of the big boys—Hansu or Deke Mills or somebody like that—is going to get annoyed with Bogate. Then—man, oh, man—you'll be able to sell standing room at the fracas to half the forces and be a billion-credit man! Bogate is sudden and painful death on two crooked feet."
"Besides being about the best scout who ever sniffed a trail," cut in Rey. "Bogate at play and Bogate in the field are two different characters. The Blademasters tolerate the one on account of the other."
Kana recognized truth when he heard it. To return and tackle Bogate was stupid. But he still protested until they were interrupted by Hansu. The veteran, followed by two base policemen, bore down upon them.
"Yorke men?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Report to Barracks—on the quick. Blast-off has been moved up—" He was already past them to round up more of the Horde.
The three started back to the Combat area at a trot.
"Now what?" Rey wanted to know. "Last I heard we launched at noon tomorrow. Why all the hurry? We haven't even had muster line yet."
"I told you," grunted Mic, "that there was a smell about this—not perfume either. Octopods! That dinner we downed—and pressure chamber conditioning coming up! We're going to be might sorry we ate, mighty sorry."
With this dire prophecy still ringing in his ears Kana collected his war bag from the bunk he had not had a chance to occupy and took his place with Mic and Rey on the hoist platform to be slung on board the transport. Counted off by fours Kana found himself sharing a pressure chamber with his two new acquaintances and a supply man—the latter obviously bored by his juvenile company. They stripped to their shorts, submitted to shots from the medico. And then there was nothing left to do but strap down on the bunks and endure the ensuing discomfort.
The next few days were anything but pleasant. Slowly their bodies were forced to adapt to Fronn, since the planet was not going to adapt to them. It was a painful process. But when they landed on that chill world they were ready for action.
Kana still lacked a double. He clung to Mic and Rey as they had advised, but he knew that sooner or later that threesome must be broken and he would be assigned a partner. He was shy of the veterans, and the three or four other S-Threes who were not yet paired for muster-line were not the type he desired to know better. Most of them were older men with experience who were incorrigible enough to remain permanently in the lowest ranks. Good in the field, they were troublemakers in barracks and had shifted from one Horde to another at the end of each enlistment with the relieved sighs of those who had just served wafting them on their separate ways. Kana continued to hope that he would not draw one of them as a double.
The Terrans' first sight of Fronn was disappointing. They planeted at dusk, and, since Fronn was moonless, marched through darkness to the squat, rough-hewn stone building which was to serve them as temporary barracks. There were no fittings at all in the long room and the three sat on their war bags, wondering whether to unroll sleeping bags or wait for further instructions.
Rey's long nose wrinkled in disgust as he moved his boots from a suspicious stain on the dirty floor. "I'd say we got this place second hand—"
"Second hand?" Mic asked. "Closer fifth. And most of the others before us were animals. This is a Fronnian cow barn if my nose doesn't deceive me."
The call Kana had been dreading came at last, doubles were to register at the table a Swordtan had set up at the far end of the room. Rey and Mic, after a word of encouragement, got in line.
Kana hesitated, not knowing just what to do, when the harsh rasp of a new voice startled him. Zapan Bogate and another of the same type had fallen into line near him. A third of their pattern stood beside Bogate grinning.
"Jus' a greenie—don't know what to do next. Poor little lost greenie. You, Sim, go and take him by the hand. He needs his nurse—"
Kana tensed. With Bogate's encouragement Sim shuffled forward, his brutal face twisted in a wry grimace he might have intended as a smile.
"Poor little greenie," Bogate repeated, his voice rising so that half the line were turning to see the sport. "Sim's gonna look after him, ain't you, Sim?"
"Sure am, Zap. Come along, greenie—" His hairy paw caught Kana's sleeve.
What followed was mostly sheer reflex action on the recruit's part. The disgust which that touch aroused in him triggered his move. His hand chopped down across the other's wrist, striking the hand from its hold. As Sim goggled, Bogate stepped out of line, his small eyes gleaming with sadistic joy.
"Seems like the greenie don't favor you, Sim. Whatta we do to greenies who don't know what's good for them?"
Kana thought he was alert but Sim surprised him. He had not expected the hulking bully to follow code custom. Sim's slap across his face had power enough to swing him half around, blinking back tears of pain. As he regained his balance Kana's mind was working feverishly. Barracks duel—just the sort of encounter these bullies wanted—legal enough so no watching Combatant would dare to interfere.
He had a single advantage. They would expect him to choose the usual weapons—swords with shielded points. Thanks to his study of the record-pak on Terra he had an answer which would give him a chance to escape a nasty mauling.
He and Sim were now surrounded by a circle of expectant spectators. Kana tasted the sweet flatness of blood from the lip the other's slap had scraped against his teeth.
"Meet?" Automatically he asked the proper question.
"Meet."
"Give me your sword, Sim. I'll cap it for you," Bogate ordered genially.
"Not so fast." Kana was glad that his voice sounded so even and unhurried. "I didn't say swords—"
Bogate's grin faded, his eyes narrowed. "Yeah? Guns is out—not on active service, greenie."
"I choose bat sticks," returned Kana.
A moment of utter and uncomprehending silence was his first answer.
3 — FORWARD MARCH
Those Archs who had been longer on Fronn began to understand, though Sim apparently did not. As he glanced to Bogate asking for direction, Hansu elbowed his way into the center of the circle. Behind him was another man, much younger, but bearing himself with the same unselfconscious authority.
"You heard him," Hansu said to Sim. "He's chosen bat sticks. And you'll meet here and now. We want this over before we march out."
Sim was still be
mused and, seeing that, Kana began to hope. Blunted swords were one thing—a man could be maimed or even killed when he faced an expert in such warfare. But armed with one of those wands made of a highly poisonous wood which left seared welts on human skin—the whips used by Fronnian caravan men to subdue the recalcitrant guen—he had a chance, and maybe more than just an even one.
Kana unbuckled his helmet strap and found Mic's hand ready to receive the headgear as he discarded it. Rey edged up to help him unfasten his cross belts.
"Know what you're doing, fella?" he asked in a half whisper as Kana shed his tunic.
"Better than Sim does, I think," Kana returned, peeling off his shirt.
His first little spark of hope was growing into steady confidence. Sim was still confused and Bogate's grin had been wiped from his ugly face. The young man who had followed Hansu disappeared. But before Kana had time to shiver in the chill of the unheated building he was back, carrying in gloved hands two of the bright crimson bat sticks. Seeing what he held, those who knew Fronn gave him quick room.
Kana drew on a gauntlet and gripped the nearest stick. They were of equal weight and reach. And, as the circle of spectators moved out to give them room, the recruit believed that Sim's battered face now registered a certain uneasiness.
They came on guard at command, using the canes as they would the heavier and more familiar steel. But where a duelist must fear only the blunted point of the sword, here the slightest touch would bring pain. Their boots made faint whispering sounds as they circled, the sticks meeting with a thud as they thrust and parried.
Kana, after the third pass, knew that he was facing a master swordsman, but he also guessed that the relative lightness of this strange weapon was bothering Sim and that his opponent was not quite sure of himself or aware of the potentialities of the cane he wielded.
