Life Sentence (Forlani Saga Book 1)

by John M. R. Gaines

  “Wilhelm Klein. You killed my friend in cold blood. I’m here to return the favor!”

  “Who was your friend? Some criminal I killed back in my early days as Marshall? I don’t remember the name of every man I’ve killed.”

  “Raul Rodriguez. You killed him when he was drunk.”

  “He was fighting my deputy. I protect my men.”

  “He was drunk, and your deputy provoked him!”

  “What lies do you choose to believe! Who told you what happened?”

  “Someone I trust more than you. Even though you’ve won the election, I still have one right to contest your rule of Xanderburg—a challenge to a personal duel. I challenge you to a knife fight, Aleksandrov!”

  Alek looked at the surrounding crowd. He could still hear their cheers of approval, their droning chants of “Alek, Alek,” but he knew that Klein had caught him at the worst possible time. If Klein had simply snuck into town to try to assassinate him, he could have his men dispose of the intruder like the worthless wretch that he was, and his supporters would still follow him without question. But a challenge in an assembly devoted to Xanderburg’s principal holiday could not be so easily brushed aside and dealt with by subordinates in back alleys. There would be no bullet in the back and unmarked grave for Klein, as there had been for some of Alek’s other challengers. Only Alek himself could answer brazen defiance in public, for this was a battle to prove his own worthiness to lead as much as it was to dispose of Klein. The people of Xanderburg loved physical strength and violence, and respected above all a man who could kill his personal enemies. This had always been true, way back in the settlement days, but had ripened and burst like an infected boil thanks to Alek’s uncontrolled despotism.

  “Very well,” Alek answered Klein. “We fight to the death. Deputies! Form a ring for us to fight in!”

  Several of Alek’s deputies began pushing the crowd back, clearing a small circle in the area next to the podium. Alek stepped down from the stage into the empty space, and Klein walked forward to meet him. As Klein walked into the ring, the crowd closed behind him, creating a tight human wall.

  “Let me see your knife,” Alek said.

  Klein held up a large, gleaming Bowie knife with a razor-sharp blade. Alek’s face betrayed no sign of emotion.

  “Not as good as mine,” Alek said. He drew an even more massive Spetsnaz knife with a metallic handle and a straight blade, and held it over his head for the crowd to see.

  They roared their approval with loud chants of “ALEK! ALEK!” and “KILL THE BAS-TARD!” over and over.

  Alek yelled to his deputies, “We fight only with knives. He draws anything else, shoot him!” and motioned for the battle to begin.

  Klein and Alek began to tentatively sidestep around the interior of the circle, their movements short and jerky, their muscles tensing. Klein watched Alek seemingly prepare for a lunge but correctly anticipated that the move was a feint. Alek’s stab stopped in mid motion. The two fighters moved closer to each other, their eyes locked on each other’s knife-wielding hands. The first stab came from Klein, a jab aimed at Alek’s chest. Alek’s thick knife parried the blow, knocking it aside. Alek countered with a diagonal cut to slash at the arteries of Klein’s arm. Klein’ backstepped to avoid the slash, recoiling towards the throng of spectators.

  As the chants of “ALEK! ALEK!” rang in his ears, Klein knew he would have to bring the confrontation to a quick end. Alek would have been stronger than him even if he hadn’t lost a leg to the horrors of Song Pa, and would ruthlessly exploit any sign of weakness of Klein—which he would easily discover if the fight lasted long enough. Klein needed an attack that would surprise Alek and mortally wound him before he had time to adapt to Klein’s tactics. As Alek closed in, Klein quickly prepared to execute his plan.

  Klein could see Alek’s arm pulling back for another stab. He moved his knife in his right hand to prepare to counter Alek’s jab. At the last second, he quickly tossed the knife to his left hand and lunged for Alek’s chest, while twisting his shoulder around to absorb the impact of Alek’s knife. He felt the Spetznaz knife bite deep into the meat of his shoulder and grunted from the pure liquid agony that assaulted his nerves, but didn’t flinch from his attack and drove his Bowie knife deep into Alek’s chest. Before Alek had a chance to draw his own knife out and stab it into his vitals, Klein dodged to the side of Alek, out of range of his grasp.

  Klein could see the effects of his attack on Alek. The man was howling in agony, blood pouring out of his chest as the knife remained embedded in it. Klein was certain he had hit a lung, for Alek was gasping for air, and spitting up blood. It was only a matter of time before his hated adversary died from loss of blood and oxygen. But there was still vitality in Alek; with the speed of a striking mamba, he pulled a smaller knife from his pocket and pushed a latch that turned the blade into a flying projectile, aimed at Klein’s Achilles heel.

  Klein knew he couldn’t move fast enough to dodge the knife entirely, but he could make a choice of which leg was hit. He swiveled and let Alek’s ballistic knife bury itself in the part of his prosthetic leg that would have housed the Achilles tendons, had it been a natural limb. Alek was shocked at the fact that Klein was still standing. “Fake…leg?” he asked, wheezing as his blood and oxygen deserted him.

  “You’re not the only one who has some tricks,” Klein said, “nor are you the only one who knows about a shooting knife.”

  “Fucking…bastard,” Alek forced from his mouth before he finally slumped down, spending his last moments in agonized silence. As Klein tore the Spetznaz knife from his shoulder, he watched as Alek’s eyes turned glassy and ceased motion. Aleksandrov, the man who had driven him into space and ruined Site 89, was finally dead.

  The crowd, eager to salute the superior fighter responsible for the carnage, quickly turned on its fallen hero. The chants for Alek ceased, replaced with a “Klein” chant. It began tentatively, with only a few particularly bloodthirsty individuals eager to chant the conqueror’s name while the rest of the audience was lost in short-lived mourning. But it caught fire, quickly building like flames on parched-dry wood, the chant steadily mounting to a rhythmic “KLEIN, KLEIN!” Finally, other spectators began chanting “ON THE STAGE, ON THE STAGE!” and “SPEECH, SPEECH!” Klein knew what they wanted of him now—after calling for his head a matter of minutes ago, they now wanted him for their new marshall, their king pin, their dictator. Although the agony of his shoulder wound was overwhelming and Klein could think of nothing he could possibly want any more than some anesthetic and an immediate trip to the infirmary, he walked up to the podium to answer. Klein tore some cloth from his shoulder to fashion a crude patch for his shoulder wound as he stood at the podium, relaxing before he spoke.

  The chants of “SPEECH, SPEECH” quickly diminished as Klein held up a hand for silence. Klein looked out to the crowd again and saw the smiles of approval the savage horde were offering him. Their fury was only temporarily contained with Alek’s death. They would demand more duels, more killings for their amusement, from either Klein’s subordinates or Klein himself. The tradition of bloodletting had been crafted by Alek to cement his rule, but it would not simply vanish at his death. Klein knew then that Alek had corrupted this town so thoroughly that it could never be cleansed, and he felt a sense of failure that a place as evil as the Sinful Earth could exist on Domremy. He cleared his throat and prepared to give the mob the speech it deserved.

  “Citizens of Xanderburg, Alek brought you the joy of killing and murder for your amusement. He was a great Marshall for you, a man who would answer to no law and no man other than himself. After my time on Domremy—and the way you choose to support me now—I must tell you that I cannot live up to his example.”

  “All that you care about is sadism and bloodshed. You turned on me once before, when I still thought I could bring progress and civilization to you. You turned on Alek, when he died, because he could no longer live up to the image of strength and
power he projected. And I damn well know every last one of you would turn on me the moment a quicker gunman or a stronger fighter showed up to challenge me. This place is a rat’s nest that deserves to get burned off the map.”

  The crowd’s chants had turned to boos and shouts of rage. He could hear cries of “Fuck you!” and “Hang the son of a bitch!” coming from the crowd. It wouldn’t be long before the crowd overcame its shock and tore him to pieces in its wrath. But Klein had just one more thing to say before he left.

  “This town doesn’t deserve a marshall. Even a rotten chickenshit who spends all his time cowering behind his desk in the Archive doesn’t deserve to be the marshall of this place. Do whatever you want, choose whoever you want. I’m done trying to save you. Better yet, clear out of here. You can go sell your dope in the new places Hyperion is opening offworld for you. Leave now, before they forget you and cut you off forever. Get your rotten hides off this world that doesn’t want you. I’m clearing out now myself. And if I find a herd of Locals out there in the prairie someplace, I swear I’ll stampede them through this shithole and they can eat every last one of you down to the bone.”

  The crowd was dumbfounded. Here was a man who had fulfilled Alek’s laws, who had killed and brought them joy, yet would not lead them. Some of them simply wanted to charge the podium and tear this weird new Alek to pieces, but others felt that killing a man who had obeyed the harsh laws of dueling and had won his fight would bring bad luck to them. A few of the more intelligent ones questioned whether killing a man who had technically won the right to be marshall would make it impossible to recruit anyone to the position. As Klein rushed off the podium, clutching the bandage to his shoulder, the mob had already begun to turn on each other in frustration. Klein took a last look at them over his shoulder as a massive riot began and saw their faces so incandescent with furor that they looked more like the demons of Perdition than men. Longing to get away from the disgusting nightmare Xanderburg had become, Klein headed for the old thallop stable, found it still held a few of the beasts, slung some packs of supplies on their backs and led them on foot out into the grasslands, never looking back at Xanderburg again. But the townspeople’s bloodlust that day would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life, ensuring he would never be truly rid of the horrors of that hellhole.

  Chapter Nine

  When Ayan’we walked into her mother’s office suite at the mahäme, she found her feeding her newest sister and dictating messages to a secretary. Her trip back from the Blynthian frontier had been smooth and relatively swift, since the Eyes of Alertness had arranged diplomatic passage for her. As a practical Forlani, she had planned to simply take the tram from the spaceport, but had been surprised to find a gaggle of friends assembled to wish her welcome. They hired a transport and arranged a little party at a new juice bar on the way. Though this delayed her a bit, Ayan’we concluded that was just as well when she recovered her many pieces of luggage and realized how impractical her tram plans had been. She had almost no personal effects, but instead had brought back every piece of memory and every typical Blynthian object she could get her hands on. The matriline was expecting her to begin teaching a course on Blynthian communication and culture as soon as possible, so Ayan’we felt a bit abashed at having a great responsibility on her shoulders. Much in the planet’s future depended on maintaining good relations with the awesomely powerful but reclusive aliens she had visited.

  “Greetings, dear mother,” Ayan’we chirped, with a special ultrasonic trill at the end that was appropriate for reunion after a long trip. She gave Entara a hug and tickled the baby at one of her breasts. “Iqtho’pa, isn’t it? Only one this time?” At the same time, she gave a smile to the secretary who was discreetly making for the door to afford mother and daughter a little privacy.

  Entara answered, “Well and safe return,” with a trill of acknowledgement.“You’re a bit later than you had said in your last onboard message.”

  “So much to carry! Fortunately Ploondiqtha and some of the sisters from school waylaid me with a transport and dragged me off to that new Three Plums place for a little libation.”

  “I’ve been there just last week. Did you try the Pear & Spice special? Made with fruit from some of the trees the Dissenter Peebo brought to us.”

  “Next time, mother. So you also have been in contact with friends on Domremy?”

  “A couple of times since your ingenious linkup with Klein. Did you hear what happened? As Peebo warned, there was a showdown with that Aleksandrov character and Klein wound up wandering off into the wilderness. Sometimes I just don’t understand his reactions, even when I know what to expect. Surely he knew that the Dissenters would want him to stay among them. For that matter, he could have remained in that town and those barbarians would have hung on his every word. There must have been a kind of disgust or futility that I can’t quite grasp.”

  “You’ll always see him through a cloud of adoration that no other male can cause. Or deserves, either.”

  “Sometimes I think he left in my womb a seed of skepticism that passed on to you, firstborn. Fortunately, you are wise enough to control and manage such thoughts. I just wish you didn’t take quite so many risks with yourself. I’m so happy that for once you’ll be here on the home world for a good long stay teaching the novices about Blynthian ways. And maybe, with time…”

  “Isshh. Please, mother dear, at least hold off a little on the marriage lecture and the matchmaking. I know I’ll be in for a barrage of that from I’shan and Tolowe.”

  “Did you ever manage to make contact with Klein’s human daughter?”

  “Her name is Amanda Pedersen, and no. She and her mother left the Epidemiology Center in the Coriolis system. I couldn’t track them exactly, but I am worried that they were headed for the anchorage at Tau Ceti. You know about the plague among the humans?”

  “I have heard awful news passed through the houses. Oh, I hope they are not taking such a risk. One more tragedy and who knows what will happen to Klein? Maybe it’s a blessing that he is out in the wilderness, away from communication. Is there any way to learn if he is still alive? At least the Dissenters seem to believe he is, but they don’t seem to have any proof.”

  “I wouldn’t underestimate their opinion, mother. They’ve got a lot of experience dealing with secrets – more than we do, for sure. The other humans even mumble about them having some kind of mystical powers.”

  “Ayan’we, please don’t try to dampen my fears with a lot of mumbo-jumbo! What I want is a nice, simple GPS plot showing that he is still moving around in the grasslands somewhere.”

  “Sometimes one creature’s mumbo-jumbo is another creature’s established fact. That’s what the Blynthians state again and again, based on their eons of observations. I can’t help but feel that Klein will never really be alone. As fast as he tries to run away, he draws people to him. As for me, I’ll keep trying. The GPS on Domremy is off since Hyperion abandoned the colony. I suppose the Dissenters on Domremy feel they know where they are and where they’re going and don’t see the need to tell anybody else. They only maintain a few low-tech contacts with passing freighters and their settlements on two or three other planets. You can’t appreciate how much trouble I had linking to Klein. I had to hunt out a freighter in the vicinity that was headed for Domremy and when they made contact to order some goods, I piggy-backed on their signal. While I was waiting to speak with him, some other fellow kept trying to sell me something called molasses.”

  “Well, I have sisters in the last few houses that remain open on Domremy, but I want you to use your technical skills to keep track as well. Right now, let’s take little Iqtho’pa here back to the family house, where I have some clothes for you to try on. If you parade around in that diplomatic cape, you’ll never have a moment’s rest. We’ll have a little meal together and then, if you want, you can come back to the mahäme and spend the night with some of your chums.”

  After Klein stomped away from Site 89, he
traveled for days before stopping to make a proper camp. Only then did he really inspect the thallop packs and discover that they contained months and months of rations. The animals could satisfy their appetites munching grass, which was all around them for hundreds, then thousands of kilometers. They also proved reliable in finding the one necessary commodity, water. If he let them follow their own long noses, they were bound to arrive within a couple of days at a little pool or pond on the prairie invisible to human eyes. Klein discovered that there was a certain type of reed on the grasslands that was almost woody in texture and burned slowly enough for a good fire. He just kept going in a more or less straight line to the southwest, knowing that sooner or later he would run into Domremy’s ocean. He let his hair and beard grow and washed when it rained, naked amongst the grasses, while the thallops looked on with what seemed to be a quizzical expression at this bizarre creature’s behavior. Perhaps they were really wondering why he bothered to put on those tattered old clothes at all.

  In this total solitude, Klein’s feelings subsided into insignificance. He began to feel he was as much a part of the landscape as the sun and the plants. He thought fondly sometimes about Peebo and his family, even Felicia, toward whom he realized he no longer had mistrust or fear or ill will. In some moments, particularly on a hot day when the air shimmered, he would imagine a mirage of a settlement ahead, as he thought to himself, “I’ll just saunter up there and see if they have a nice cold beer for me.” But when he reached the spot and found nothing but more of the same, he wouldn’t be the least disappointed, and would take a swig of water from his canteen with as much relish as he had a frosty Kölsch on the banks of the Rhein. His only remaining quirk was that he would take care to dig a little latrine wherever he stopped and to cover it over with earth as he left the place. He told himself that this was really to cover his trail in case anyone was following him, but after a time he admitted this was a ludicrous excuse and owned up to having a drop of inexpugnable civilization left in him. Months passed, then seasons.