by Gary Gibson
Corso heard a whine like the jaws of a trap shutting tight around him. Bull Northcutt had murdered Corso’s fiancée years before, for the exact same reason.
‘But why didn’t Breisch warn me?’
‘Maybe,’ Kenley suggested, ‘he’s hoping you’ll kill Jarret for him.’
Harsh, pumping music floated through the air towards them from the direction of the combat ring, and Corso recognized the call. He stared back towards the tent, standing further around the curve of the bay, and decided now was not the time to confront Breisch. Anyway, by now he would be waiting at the combat ring with the rest.
He turned back to Kenley. ‘Come on, Marcus. Let’s get this over with.’
They turned from the shore and headed inland, finding their way along a narrow path trodden through hardy grasses and spiny plants by decades of fighters and their audiences. Corso mentally reviewed his training as they walked. There were certain tricks Breisch had taught him; now he would have to watch out for Jarret using those same ploys against him.
They ascended a steep incline and were dazzled by an eruption of light and music as they reached the crest. A casual observer, with no knowledge of Freehold customs or laws, might have concluded there was a party taking place here; in a sense there was, albeit with a deadly conclusion.
Wagers would be made, small fortunes won and lost. None of it was strictly legal, of course, but old habits died hard, and everyone knew what refusing a challenge entailed.
Huge portable heating units, scattered here and there, pumped out heat, while a speaker system filled the air with crunching martial pop; tales of the Freehold’s legendary warriors and their excesses bellowed over a monotonous beat.
The audience for this challenge was sixty to seventy strong. The few women present were either wives and mistresses, or more likely whores flown in for the pleasure of the senators, military officers and hard-faced bureaucrats standing around in anticipation swilling hot beer.
The combat ring itself was a circle of open ground marked by a perimeter of hissing flares pushed deep into the soil. It extended a little over eight metres in diameter, more than enough room for two men to try their damnedest to kill each other.
A muffled cheer went up from dozens of breather-equipped throats when they saw Corso and Kenley approaching. Jarret’s entourage considerably outnumbered his own, which comprised a dozen or so of his advisers and various Senate staff gathered together over to one side, a few looking distinctly uneasy. They knew what they would face if Corso died today and there was no one left to protect them in the Senate.
Corso scanned the rest of the crowd until he saw Jarret himself, standing with the bearing of a king returned from a victorious campaign, his arrogance barely masked by the tan-and-silver breather he wore over his lower face.
Corso’s own senior Senate staff approached him and he was glad to see Nastazi, Velardo and Griffith all present. These three were the men Corso trusted. The rest were good enough at their jobs, but one or two of them were probably spies.
‘McDade’s your marshal for the challenge,’ declared Nastazi. ‘There’s even a rumour he pulled strings in order to get the job.’
Corso nodded. ‘Well, the man hates my guts, so that’s hardly surprising. Anything else I should know before I murder his nephew?’
‘There was a move within the Senate to block us from flying out here to witness the fight,’ said Griffith, behind whom the flares hissed and spat sparks into the night. ‘They cited security measures: a report that the Uchidans had got wind of the fight, and might try a strike against the Aaron peninsula while it’s taking place. Be warned, they mean to fight dirty, Senator.’
Corso paused, staring out into the darkness. He was thinking of Dakota, but why had she popped into his head just now? She had already disappeared, swallowed up by the mystery of the Maker, leaving him alone and defenceless as head of the Peacekeeper Authority.
The music peaked, and he listened carefully as the address system was handed over to McDade, who began to list both parties’ grievances as a precursor to the challenge itself. The next step would be to offer both himself and Jarret one last chance to back out of the contest.
‘Is there any truth to that report?’ Corso replied quietly to Griffith. ‘Is it likely the Uchidans would use a high-profile challenge like this as an opportunity to carry out a tactical strike while everyone’s looking the other way?’
‘There are a dozen reports of suspected offensives every day, Senator. I imagine they just picked one of them and blew it up out of proportion. They’re trying to make it look like you’re disrupting the normal process of Senate business, by making a nuisance of yourself
‘I am making a nuisance of myself,’ Corso replied. ‘That’s the whole point.’
Breisch approached, moving with the kind of casual, easy grace that came from years of intensive physical training. Corso drew in a breath, forcing himself to keep calm.
‘I gather Mr Kenley’s spoken to you about my connection with Jarret,’ said Breisch. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.’
Corso couldn’t keep the mixture of confusion and anger out of his voice. ‘So why didn’t you?’
‘I made you work harder than you ever have before, Lucas. There’s a part of you that always stands back, that refuses to wholly engage with the fight. You’ve learned, over the past few days, to put that part of yourself to one side and fight without distraction. I cannot emphasize how important a step forward that is. If I’d told you about Jarret, you would have likely fallen into a false belief system, and concluded that Jarret might be more than an even match for you.’
Breisch shook his head. ‘Besides, I only trained him for a short while, and he’s never picked fights he can’t win. But this time is different. He’s undoubtedly more skilled than most of those you’ve faced, but you’re more than capable of defeating him.’
Corso took a moment before replying. ‘I think I might have done the same in your position, but I need to know I can trust the people around me implicitly.’ He reached out and took Breisch’s hand and shook it. ‘I want to thank you for everything you’ve taught me, but I won’t be requiring your services any more.’
Breisch didn’t seem surprised, merely nodded his head fractionally. ‘I wish you well, Lucas. You exceeded my expectations.’ Then he turned and walked back to join the crowds waiting for the contest to start.
McDade, now finished with his preliminary announcements, jumped down from the marshal’s platform and headed over to Corso.
‘Senator,’ he acknowledged with a nod.
‘Mr McDade, I hear you worked quite hard for the chance to be marshal tonight.’
McDade met Corso’s gaze easily. ‘We may not agree on many things, Senator, but you still deserve the same chance to fight for what you believe in as do any of the rest of us. I can’t say I’ll be sorry if you lose, but any man prepared to walk into a combat ring deserves respect, whether or not he walks back out of it.’
‘Jarret’s a known killer. He’s murdered people who didn’t have a chance of beating him. Are you sure he deserves that level of respect?’
Corso watched as McDade fought to control his temper. ‘The Senate floor’s the place for debate, Mr Corso,’ he replied tautly, his manner suddenly much more formal. ‘I’m here in my official capacity as judge and marshal of this challenge, to offer you your final opportunity to back down.’
Corso listened as McDade continued with the familiar litany: ‘You may stand down from this challenge, with honour, while waiving your rights to your Senate seat and your family’s inheritance. If you decline to do so, the challenge will not end until either yourself or Senator Jarret is formally pronounced deceased. Do you agree to such terms of challenge?’
‘I agree to the stated terms, Mr McDade. I am both willing and of sound mind, and wish to challenge Senator Jarret to a duel to the death.’
McDade looked over at Kenley. ‘Will you attest that you have heard and witnessed
Senator Corso’s decision?’
‘I attest to the Senator’s decision, and uphold his right to participate,’ Kenley responded.
McDade nodded. ‘Good luck, Senator,’ he said finally to Corso, then glanced briefly over at Jarret, with a small smile curling up the corners of his mouth. ‘Because you’re going to need it this time.’
Corso stared back at him calmly, watching as McDade turned on his heel and went over to read the same terms to Jarret.
‘How did it ever happen?’ he asked Kenley, over the din of music and voices. ‘How did they turn me into one of them?’
Kenley shrugged. ‘You said yourself, the only way to beat them was at their own game. Besides, the way you’re going, most of the opposition is going to wind up dead before long.’
Corso grinned at this. The copters and trucks formed dark silhouettes against the evening sky as he looked west, towards the great swell of the ocean beyond the shore, and spotted the figure of a woman standing well apart from the rest, too far outside the pools of illumination cast by the lights for him to make her out clearly.
Somebody shouted for quiet, and people began shushing each other. The music was replaced by an angry buzzing sound as it was turned off.
McDade strode to the centre of the combat circle, and began. ‘This Challenge takes place regardless of the legal restrictions placed on us by the Consortium trade treaties, and is therefore not officially recognized by our Senate.’ His amplified voice rolled out across the hills beyond the canopy tree. ‘However, we here, every last one of us, will attest to the God-given rights of the victor as derived from the ancient precepts of our society. We came here to escape the bloodless atheism of the Consortium and the moral corruption of our fellow human beings. We came here to build a society of warriors willing to fight for their right to participate in our democracy, and who do not constantly live in fear of death. It is my firm belief – McDade was clearly happy for this opportunity to lecture Corso and his entourage – ‘that justice and might will win out this evening, and that we will overcome our oppressors and those who stand against us, for together we are strong, and they are weak.’
A huge cheer went up from the crowd gathered around Senator Jarret.
‘This challenge,’ McDade continued, ‘takes place because Senator Corso chose to commandeer our proud flagship the Mjollnir for reasons that have never been properly explained nor justified to the Senate’s satisfaction. Since Senator Corso has refused to relinquish his Senate seat, and until these questions have been answered to the satisfaction of all, Senator Jarret has asked that the two of them should meet in a challenge of deadly combat. Is there anyone here with reason to believe this contest should not take place?’
There was, of course, no answer.
‘All right, then,’ McDade finished up. ‘This is a senatorial contest, and the winner can, in turn, be challenged at any time by any citizen or non-citizen who chooses to do so.’
Corso returned his attention to Jarret and his memory flashed back to the time he had similarly faced Bull Northcutt on the shores of Fire Lake. Both men were of a piece: hair shaved close to the skull, active subdermal tattoos that recorded previous kills in graphic detail, and thickly overdeveloped muscles that hinted at steroid abuse. Jarret had stripped down to a pair of loose camouflage-style trousers and a light shirt that clung to his augmented musculature. His exposed skin glistened with thick grease that would be good for keeping the cold out for a few extra seconds. Clearly the man was gambling on an early win.
At that point, McDade stepped out of the ring and removed an antique pistol from within his own bulky winter gear. Following their cues, Jarret and Corso both stepped just inside the ring’s perimeter. Two long, curved knives lay, crossed over each other, at the ring’s precise centre.
McDade raised the pistol high over his head, its barrel pointing upwards. ‘On my mark,’ his voice boomed over the sound system.
Corso pulled off his heavy coat and threw it outside the circle. His skin wasn’t greased, but he wore a tight, long-sleeved tunic made from layers of fibre that efficiently contained his body heat. Already the cold bit savagely at the exposed skin of his neck and face where it wasn’t covered by the breather mask.
McDade fired a single shot high into the air, then retreated quickly back into the crowd.
Corso sprang forward, as if someone had sent an electric jolt through his body. Jarret simultaneously threw himself towards the knives and grabbed one.
It was the obvious first move for both of them to make, and Corso had been gambling on this. Instead of reaching for a knife, he aimed one booted foot at Jarret’s head, connecting with a dull smack. But Jarret saw it coming at the last second, and responded by slashing out low with his newly acquired weapon, aiming for Corso’s thigh and the delicate femoral arteries.
Corso jumped back out of reach, the blade missing him by millimetres. Jarret came up fast and they faced each other warily, both now oblivious to the baying of the audience.
Jarret was undoubtedly daring and vicious. For all his accustomed bluster and swagger on the Senate floor, he was now thinking strategically, his movements considered and economical, despite the intense violence of the moment.
Breisch had taught Corso that it was not always necessary to go straight for a weapon; the overwhelming desire of one’s opponent to get hold of one was another weakness to be exploited. From personal experience, Corso knew that it was a move that could end challenges in seconds rather than minutes. However, instead of disabling his opponent, Corso’s opening ploy had left him on the defensive, and lacking a weapon of his own.
Jarret came towards him fast, moving his knife in swift patterns through the air to make it harder to block. Corso feinted to one side, then managed to grab Jarret’s knife-hand before flopping on to his back.
Jarret was pulled along with him, and as Corso hit the ground he shoved both feet into his opponent’s stomach, so that the momentum of the fall carried Jarret over the top of his head. Corso meanwhile kept a tight grip on Jarret’s hand and wrist, twisting hard.
Sharp grit dug into Corso’s back even as he caught sight of Jarret’s pained, tight-clenched expression as he rolled past him. The man’s knife-hand was seriously injured now, placing him at a serious disadvantage.
A soft murmur arose from the watching crowd, and Corso estimated they were already almost a minute into the challenge.
He got himself back upright, surreptitiously scooping a small handful of dust and grit into his left hand. He found he was now close to the centre of the combat arena, the remaining knife within easy reach. He took it, and found Jarret ready facing him once more, his own blade now grasped in his weaker left hand. By now the cold would be seeping in past the dense grease coating his skin, sapping his strength. Corso could feel it too: an icy numbness spreading through his arms, while slowly and inexorably weakening him.
Corso caught sight once more of that same lone figure standing well back from the howling mob of onlookers. It seemed impossible, but in that moment he felt certain it was Dakota.
He went on the attack, moving in fast, and gratified to see Jarret take a defensive step backwards in response. Corso swung his knife towards his opponent’s head, but Jarret ducked easily, and attempted to parry left-handed. Corso dodged the blade and threw the handful of grit straight into Jarret’s eyes.
As Jarret backed off, something slithered across his eyes. Corso realized that he had artificial nictitating membranes – secondary eyelids. He had hoped to blind his opponent, but the ploy had not worked.
Corso covered his brief disappointment by going on the attack once more. Jarret stood his ground, blocking Corso’s stabbing thrust and taking the opportunity to punch him hard in the throat. Corso jerked back, ignoring the pain, and moved in close to his rival once again.
When he had the chance, he grabbed hold of Jarret’s injured hand once again, and twisted it as hard as possible.
Jarret’s teeth clenched in agony, then Corso f
elt something slice through the flesh over his ribcage. He twisted away, but did not dare spare a glance down in case Jarret took advantage of his distraction.
At least two minutes had passed, and the fight became more desperate, Jarret feinting towards Corso, then kicking out hard once he was close enough. Corso neatly avoided the kick and threw himself forward, trying for a chance at Jarret’s jugular. Instead Jarret managed a successful slash at Corso’s back, scoring a deep flesh wound.
They hit the ground together, Corso on top. Jarret lost his grip on his knife once again and it spun out of reach. Corso tried to get in close with his own blade, but Jarret fought furiously, pressing the heel of one hand against Corso’s face while maintaining a grip on his knife-hand with the other.
A deep thrumming began to fill Corso’s ears at the same moment he realized most of the blood staining the ground immediately around them was his own. He had to finish it right now, or he was going to die.
He let go of his knife and used his feet to propel himself in an arc over the top of Jarret’s head that landed him on his back, head to head with his opponent on the frozen soil. Then he quickly reached up and wrapped both arms around Jarret’s neck before the other had a chance to twist out of the way. Corso sat up quickly, digging the heels of his boots into the hard soil and pulling Jarret after him, twisting his neck backwards.
Jarret struggled and let out a gargling scream, then there was a terrible, sickening crunch as his neck snapped. He twitched spasmodically for a few moments and then fell still. Corso released him and struggled back to his feet, before retrieving one of the knives and stabbing it into the ground to signal the end of the challenge.
Kenley and some of Corso’s staff darted forward, grabbing hold of him before he crumpled to his knees. His entire body now felt like it was on fire. As if from a great distance, he heard McDade call out the duration of the fight: three minutes and twelve seconds, Corso’s longest-lasting challenge yet.
