by Richard Fox
Gage stripped off his undershirt as he turned and went to a rack of melee weapons at the edge the white strip.
“Sir, this is madness,” Bertram said as he carefully folded the coat, brushing dust off the Commodore’s St. Michael’s medal, awarded for destroying an enemy ship in combat. “You can’t trust these brigands to keep their word. They’ll kill you no matter what happens, send me to change out the chamber pots in a house of ill repute for the rest of my days…and who knows what they’ll do to Thorvald.”
“They will not take me alive,” the Genevan said.
“You won’t even try to get me back to the fleet safely. Perhaps if I was taller and a lovely lady with flashing blue eyes and an ample—”
“You are not the principal,” Thorvald said. “If Gage loses…” he cocked his head to one side as pain flitted across his face, “if Gage loses, then I must return to Prince Aidan.”
“Are you all right?” Gage asked.
“My gestalt, sir, it’s giving me some difficulty. The crowd…the duel…everything screams danger to my suit and it wants me to get you out of here,” Thorvald said.
“Well, then why didn’t the voices in your head make you throw the good Commodore over your shoulder and hustle him away before we came into the fighting pit?” Bertram asked.
Thorvald reached out to the smaller man very slowly and put an armored hand on one of his shoulders. Thorvald’s grip tightened slowly, stopping just on the edge of causing discomfort to the steward.
“If this goes poorly,” Gage said, running his fingers along the handles to various swords, flails, and maces, “fleet command goes to Price. She knows the mission.”
“Be positive, sir.” Bertram tried to shrug off the Genevan’s grip but failed. “You could win—will win! Ow.”
“I’ve already won.” Gage drew a saber with a beat-up hilt and tested the weight. “The Harlequins will lead the fleet to New Madras no matter the outcome.”
“You have too much trust in those with no honor,” Thorvald said, lifting his hand off Bertram.
“Loussan—and by extension, his entire organization—made a promise in the open, in the presence of other clan leaders. If they fail to follow through, they’ll be the wrong kind of disreputable. Planets across wild space will turn them away…no using buoy data to travel from star to star quickly, no trade. They burn us and every last one of them in the red and black will wither on the vine.” Gage swung the blade from side to side, then made a quick circle eight with the tip.
“You put your life at risk for the sake of the fleet.” Thorvald tapped a fist to his chest. “My gestalt is sated…somewhat. Let me see your weapon.” He held out his hand, taking the saber by the hilt.
Running his palm down the length of the blade, he frowned.
“This weapon is defective,” he said. “Poorly constructed or sabotaged, a solid blow and it will crack at the hilt.”
“Still think we should trust these pirates, sir?” Bertram asked.
“They won’t interfere during a match,” Gage said, “but before…can you fix it? I doubt the other weapons are any better.”
Thorvald pinched the hilt between his thumb and forefinger. Segments of armor shuffled down his arm and onto his hand; there was a squeal of metal as he squeezed the hilt against the blade. He passed the weapon back to the Commodore.
“What do you know of this Loussan’s fighting style?” Thorvald asked.
“Duels aren’t common for the lower-ranked pirates, but among officers and ship captains, they’re almost expected whenever a raid fails or turns unprofitable due to a mistake. So either a pirate knows how to duel…or he’d best never make a mistake,” Gage said. “They fight with single weapons until one is dead or yields.”
“Then just yield the moment the fight starts,” Bertram said. “Loussan will win, no one—particularly you—gets stabbed, and we can leave.”
“Loussan is under no obligation to accept a yield. If I drop my weapon, he won’t hesitate to kill me,” Gage said.
“And what does your opponent know of your ability with swords?” Thorvald asked.
“That academy graduates are taught to fence is common knowledge. It trains us to use a weapon that’s an extension of our body, meant to build aggression, not see our ships as tools separate from our will. Granted, I doubt he knows I fenced epee, not with sabers.”
Green lights pulsed along the edge of the white strip.
Gage put his free hand behind his back, turned his rear foot perpendicular to his body, and bent both knees slightly, a fencer’s stance.
“Your enemy thinks he knows you,” Thorvald said. “Use that against him.”
“Sir, I know you’re a gentleman,” Bertram’s face fell, “but do kill this piece of human filth as fast as you can. King’s rules needn’t apply.”
“Seconds out,” Moineau’s voice sounded through the shield.
The two men stepped through the shield, leaving Gage alone.
A holo of the elderly pirate’s head appeared eye level with the Commodore.
“You understand the rules, Albian?”
“I do,” he said, giving his repaired weapon a quick shake. “All too well.”
“For a jackboot, I rather like you. I suggest you stay on the dueling pitch. The crowd’s awful worked up due to your fleet being in town. Would hate to think what they’d do to you if you’re out of bounds.”
“Why’re you helping?”
“It’s the odds, son! You think I’m making money off just tickets and booze? I’m the house. You want to guess what the bookies have for your chance to win? If your fight lasts more than two minutes, I’m deep in the black for the year. After that, I don’t really care who wins. Fight starts in thirty seconds.”
The old man’s holo morphed into descending numbers.
Gage ground his rear heel into the pitch. The dueling field was a good deal wider than the mats he’d trained on. He thought back to his days at the academy, remembering his fencing instructor’s advice to keep his skills up as a matter of health and warrior ethos…and regretting that he spent his time with pistols and boxing instead. That he might end up in an honor duel with a pirate had never come up during his time as a midshipman.
As the timer ran down to zero, the force field pulled in and stopped at the edges of the dueling pitch. The field blocking his view down the white strip faded away, and he saw Loussan ten yards away. The pirate was also shirtless, his hair pulled into a tight bun on the back of his head. He swung his saber back and forth across his black and red breeches, then raised his arms high as the crowd’s cheering rose to a crescendo.
With the bright lights bearing down on them, Gage couldn’t see more than a few rows of spectators to either side of the volcanic sand extending a few feet from the pitch. But he heard the crowd, thousands and thousands of voices chanting a single name.
Loussan.
A bottle came tumbling out of the darkness and bounced off the force field running along the edge of the pitch. Gage swung the tip of his blade to one side, and it passed through without even a tug at the weapon. Spaceships used similar force fields in their air locks. The field would keep the spectators from interfering but would let either combatant pass through it so long as they were partially inside the pitch.
“I’ve waited a long time for this, jackboot!” Loussan pointed his sword at Gage and marched forward.
Gage raised his hilt up to his face in salute, then lowered his guard.
“You have any idea what I went through after Volera? My first ship and you forced me to dump my cargo. I lost half my crew, then three of my mates—men I’d served with since I was old enough to stand a watch—called me out. Three blood duels in three days, three times I had to kill my friends. And every time I ended them, all I could think about was seeing you on the end of my blade.” Loussan stopped two sword lengths from Gage and held his sword up to a high guard.
“The only reason I didn’t fight a fourth duel, against my own sister, w
as because I declared vendetta against you,” Loussan said.
“You talk too much,” Gage said and lunged forward, driving the sword point at the pirate’s heart.
Loussan parried the stab to one side and flicked his blade toward Gage’s face. He heard air sing over the edge as it flashed across his vision, missing his nose by an inch. Gage pulled back quickly, his sword held straight from his shoulder.
“I just want you to know why I won’t make this quick.” Loussan slashed his sword down, the tip angled toward Gage’s extended forearm. Gage jerked his arm to one side. Loussan lunged forward, driving the strike toward Gage’s knee.
The deft blow should have plunged through his thigh and to the bone. Instead, the blade caught on the vac-suit lining, designed to withstand minor damage during a space battle, and turned to one side. Loussan’s hit ripped through the pants’ outer layers and managed only a shallow cut to the outside of Gage’s thigh.
Gage swiped at Loussan, but the pirate danced back and raised his blade overhead, showing the crowd that he’d drawn first blood.
“Not impressed,” Loussan said as Gage tested his weight against his injured leg. “These people paid for a show. At least have the courtesy to give them one before you die. I thought Albion officers were all about proper manners.”
Loussan put a hand behind his back, mimicking Gage’s stance. He trotted back, then skipped forward, laughing as he twirled his blade tip in a circle. Loussan brought his forward knee up, telegraphing a lunge from a mile away, then stabbed forward.
Gage lowered his blade and caught the strike against his hilt, pushing the lunge to one side, the naked steel of their weapons hissing at each other. Gage sidestepped the pirate as he rushed past him. The Commodore twisted his weapon over and slashed at the back of Loussan’s head. He felt the blade connect, then the pirate tumbled forward.
Loussan turned the fall into a roll and sprang up onto his feet as his mane of hair came loose and fell around his face.
The crowd went wild as Loussan removed a broken gold hair clip caught in his locks. He tossed it through the force field, then swiped his weapon around as Gage approached.
“That’s the spirit,” Loussan said as he leapt at Gage, surprising him with a midair thrust aimed at the Albian’s neck. Gage batted the blow aside, raising his arm up and across his face.
He didn’t see Loussan’s kick, but he felt it when it slammed into his side.
Gage stumbled back…and fell through the force field. He landed on his back, the black sand falling into his mouth and eyes. He spat and rolled onto his hands and knees.
In the front row of the audience and right in front of Gage, a long-bearded, burly pirate in Totenkopf colors rose to his feet and fumbled with a knife sheathed on his chest just beneath his beard. Gage glanced back and saw his feet still inside the force field and Loussan screaming threats at the Totenkopf pirate.
Gage pushed himself back and into a roll, falling onto his haunches just as the man in the audience hurled his knife at him. The blade bounced off the force field as a mix of boos and cheers ran through the crowd.
A shadow passed over Gage. He swung blindly up and caught Loussan’s swing, turning the blade flat against his. The side of the pirate’s sword smacked against the top of his head, hard as any blow he’d ever taken in the boxing ring.
Gage kicked out and connected with Loussan’s knee, earning a shout of pain, then scrambled back to his feet, trying to shake away the effects of Loussan’s last blow.
Loussan braced his knee with one hand, his sword tip scraping against the white pitch as he moved backwards.
“All right, a minute to rest?” Loussan asked.
Gage went back into his fencer’s stance, his guard low and ready.
“Didn’t think so.” Loussan shifted forward onto his “bad” leg and slashed his sword up at Gage, who got his blade beneath the pirate’s and tried to deflect it up. Loussan stretched out and sliced into the outside of Gage’s exposed shoulder.
The crowd roared as bright blood spilled onto the white dueling pitch.
The Commodore’s sword arm dropped to his side as blood streamed down his flesh and onto the hilt. Gage could feel the cut, the hot blood, his sluggish arm, all dampened by adrenaline coursing through his system. He realized he had only seconds before the real pain broke through.
Loussan brought his sword back, the blade pointed at Gage’s heart, and lunged forward with a killing blow. Gage stepped to the side, blocking his opponent’s view of his other hand as he brought it out from behind his back.
Loussan recovered from the lunge just as Gage hooked a fist into his jaw. The pirate’s head snapped to one side, his hair whipping into the air. Gage kicked the pirate’s legs open, then punted him in the crotch, lifting him off his feet with the impact.
The crowd gasped.
Loussan fell to the ground, retching. Gage kicked the pirate’s sword through the force field, then grabbed his own sword with his good hand. He reversed the grip, raised it high as the crowd went into a frenzy, then rammed it down.
The point sank into the pitch a half inch from Loussan’s throat. Gage grabbed the pirate by the hair and yanked his head toward the sword, pushing his bare throat against the blade, coming perilously close to cutting the flesh.
“Her name was Ensign Cara Foche,” Gage spat.
Loussan’s eyes were wide, locked on the blade that was about to end his life.
“Her death demands justice…” Gage grabbed Loussan’s head with both hands as blood ran down his injured arm steadily, staining Loussan’s mane and dripping onto his face. “But my fleet needs you.”
Loussan called out for help.
“Murdering savage or not,” Gage said, moving the pirate’s neck a bit closer and into the blade, drawing a line of blood along the edge, “you know the routes. If you’ll keep your word and get us to New Madras, I’ll let you yield.”
Loussan’s eyes snapped toward Gage, then to the blade, then back at Gage. He nodded quickly, his chin barely moving.
“Say it!”
“I yield!” Loussan called out.
Gage let him go and stumbled back. He went down, one hand pressed against the cut on his shoulder.
There was a snap of air and the force field around them powered off.
Ruprecht rushed out of the darkness, thin blades held in each hand. The cyborg moved with the same fluid grace that plagued Gage’s nightmares of the battle on Volera. Gage stared down the assassin and spat on the mat.
Thorvald jumped between Gage and Loussan, a dueling mace in each hand.
The Katar skidded to a stop next to the pirate and retracted its swords back into its forearms. It knelt over Loussan and pressed a hand to the cut on the man’s neck.
When Thorvald moved Gage’s hand off his injured shoulder, a gout of blood spat out.
“Your circumflex humeral arteries are damaged,” Thorvald said. He raised one hand and the armor around two fingertips morphed into tiny surgical instruments.
“I need you to hold still.” The bodyguard brought his hand just beneath the one covering his wound. “On three. One...”
Thorvald poked his fingers into the gash and Gage’s shoulder exploded in pain. He growled and bashed a fist against the ground.
“Not bad.” Moineau floated over on a hover chair. He kicked a battered-looking first-aid kit to Thorvald, who picked up a compression bandage as it fell out of the case and rolled toward them.
Moineau lifted his head up and cocked his ear to the grumbling crowd.
“Bread and circuses normally keep everyone in line,” the old pirate said. “Losing money when you bet against a jackboot tends to make everyone grumpy. Get back to your ship. Now. I’ll send Loussan up to guide you out soon as I can. Don’t ever think you can come back here, Gage.”
“I’m not planning on it,” the Commodore said.
Moineau’s chair spun around and he floated off after Loussan as his Katar helped him off the far end of the st
age.
“What do you think of my plan now?” Gage asked Thorvald.
“Your footwork is terrible. You missed at least four opportunities to land a fatal blow and you’ve lost over a liter of blood. Other than that, it went as you predicted.”
Gage rocked back and forth slightly and blinked hard.
“Spinning…” he said.
“That’s the blood loss. Let’s get you someplace moderately safer for a transfusion.” Thorvald pulled Gage up onto his feet.
“Sir! Sir!” Bertram ran up the steps and waved them toward an open door. “Car’s here for us and…Commodore, look what they’ve done to you. I don’t know if I can mend those pants and you know how poorly the laundry does with bloodstains.”
“Can I crush his head?” Thorvald asked Gage.
“Maybe…later,” Gage mumbled.
Chapter 8
Gage stepped out of the car parked near his shuttle. His injured leg buckled before he made it to the base of the ramp, and Thorvald caught him under his good arm and kept him mostly upright. He felt blood ooze down the gash beneath the bandages on his forearm. Pain stabbed through his side with every breath.
“I’ll do a proper suture once we’ve taken off,” the Genevan said.
“While the shuttle’s bouncing through turbulence?” Gage asked through gritted teeth.
“It’s a minor procedure, very easy.”
“Why didn’t you do it in the car? Can’t say I care if there’s a bit of blood on their upholstery.”
“Too much risk of an attack on you. I can guard your life and treat your wounds, but I can’t do both effectively at the same time.”
Gage made his way up the ramp slowly as Bertram hurried past him.
“I’ll get tea and sandwiches ready,” the steward said.
“And a few pain relievers if you don’t mind,” Gage grunted.
Shouts carried across the tarmac. From the gatehouse along the perimeter, two men burst through the doors and sprinted toward the Albion shuttle.
Gage looked up into the open, empty cargo bay, then to Thorvald.
“That them?”
