Enter the Sandmen

by William Schlichter

  They both sprint.

  Reynard races for the exit.

  Crackle for her blade.

  She mistakenly assumed she would need it. Any other combatant would move to finish her off. The Osirian doesn’t play the game like any other, or he has an alternative plan to finish her. The longer they live, the greater the betting. His moment of reprieve may be simply to allow more bets to increase. If his companions are betting on him, then he wants to give them all chances to raise the pot.

  Pieces of Reynard’s suit and skin break open. A millimeter closer and he would have had more than a few scratches from the wall of spikes shooting through the floor. He avoids the next tile and finds the canister on the blue pillar less inviting. Nothing in it is metal in the face. He spins on his heels to locate Crackle. She has been warned of the impending booby trap and leaps through the air with the grace of a cat and lands on the lavender platform before the walls of spikes shoot up around it.

  She twists open the canister lid.

  Reynard compels his legs to run. He reaches the door while she fidgets with a new toy. Highly compressed air blows him backward at the halfway point. He lands on his feet crouched like a tiger raising his sword above his head to block the blow of the cutlass. Reynard rotates around on his knees.

  Block.

  Block.

  Parry.

  Thrust.

  Block.

  Block.

  Block.

  Crackle’s fast.

  Reynard expends less energy with his blocking maneuver than she does with the pounding pincer attack she keeps performing. He studies her with each thrust. Flawlessly, she repeats the same singular attack. He wonders whether she knows another. Sweat forms on her forehead. Her arm wobbles with the next thrust. She grows weaker.

  Reynard slides backward forcing her to expend even more energy to thrust forward. The crowd boos and hisses and spits curse in languages his translator doesn’t register. They want blood.

  Around her chest a harness from the canister glows purple.

  More jeers from the begging proles.

  Stronger and stockier, Reynard expends less energy to block her blows. She flies across the wall of air without issue.

  He deduces the purple opal in the harness tells traps to ignore the wearer. Reynard slips past the tile with the wall of spikes under it and grabs the tube. He crosses the barrier. Crackle refuses to move forward or approach him.

  The crowds reach a fever-pitched murmur. All screams have halted. They know.

  Crackle suspects.

  Reynard waves the sword in the air before him like searching for a mine. Nothing.

  Why does she wait?

  How does she know what it is?

  She’s defeated the arena before. Did her companion set this next obstacle? Did they plan it that way? It’s the one trap they agreed ahead of time must happen. It’s the one trap Crackle has defeated and most opponents could not.

  Halfway.

  A full run’s stupid. Crackle’s not attacking. Attack and drive her forward. Set off the trap, but she may move back toward the wall of air. I’ve got some distance on her and should just make for the exit. He slides his foot forward.

  The crushing weight of a steering wheel slams across Reynard’s chest. Smoke billows form under the hood as the crumbled section of his pickup truck lies warped around a tree.

  Wait.

  The last time his body felt such intense pressure on his lungs was that accident. The top of the arena is covered in a clear durasteel shield. He finds himself pressed against it by the pillar shot up through the floor.

  The next fourth of the area has become a rumble of tiles moving up and down rapidly.

  Too rapidly even for Crackle. As soon as one of her toes lands on a platform it shoots into the air. Some platforms slam rocket fast upward; others creep at a snail’s pace to the roof. She leaps from one tile to the next in cat motions.

  His gladius now protrudes from a platform where the ceiling has embedded it into the tile. He doubts even if he had time to reach it he could yank it free.

  The platform releases. He’d be willing to bet his ribs are bruised. Falling with the platform he rolls onto the next one lowering back to ground level on slow. Once on his feet he spots Crackle at the final row of jutting tiles. They shoot up in random rapid succession. It only takes him a moment to hop using the slower tiles to be adjacent to her. She could attack him. Without a sword to defend himself and all the moving tiles he has nowhere to maneuver. His death ends the game.

  Or does it? Does a single survivor still have to make it to the exit facing obstacles bet by the crowd, or does all deaths but the one conclude the trial? Reynard chooses not to find out. He dives forward over the tile before him on its way back to the floor. It juts back to the ceiling fast enough to catch his boot. The concussive force disrupts his dive, causing his shoulder-roll landing to be interrupted and leaving him in a crumpled heap.

  Less than a hundred feet to the exit.

  He staggers to his feet stepping on the next tile ready to spring clear of anything. Reynard catches Crackle, out of the corner of his eye, giving up her blade. She drives it into the corner of a rising tile, using the handle as a pivot point to swing over a lowering tile avoiding touching it. She lands on her toes and sprints toward the exit.

  She makes three tiles further than him when darts shoot across the next row of tiles in a crisscross pattern. She halts. Crackle extends her left hand out palm flat and inches it over the darted tiles. She yanks her hand back so fast Reynard barely views the blood-soaked finger.

  Micro thin wire.

  Each dart was attached to micro thin wire. Appearing invisible to the naked eye, it will be nearly impassable. Reynard kneels. The darts are laid out in a pattern leaving gaps in the wires to step over or duck under. The darts tips embed in the floor too deep to pull free, so he has to ease through the invisible wire web. Now would be a good time for some betting assistance from my crew.

  Crackle, even more limber, contorts herself through the maze. Blood dribbles from torn sections of her lavender jumpsuit. Reynard could follow her lead. He calculates his shoulders are too broad for most of the invisible triangles to wiggle through. He steps back and lowers himself to a tile in a meditative position.

  The crowd jeers the stop in action. “What are you doing? Get up! Stupid Osirian!” along with dozen more slurs bombard the arena.

  Crackle, bleeding from a half-dozen thin cuts, stomps her feet as she paces before him. The wall of razor wire between them.

  “You want to kill me, you’ll have to come back through. Leng t’che isn’t on my plate for today.”

  “I’ll cut you a thousand times—filthy Osirian.”

  “Come back over here to do it,” Reynard taunts.

  Agitated, the crowd chants for blood not words.

  Crackle paces before the invisible wire.

  “I’m not going to kill you,” Reynard adds.

  “I’ll kill you! The door won’t open with two life signs in the arena,” she screams.

  Interesting.

  Reynard contemplates his preparation under the guise of his Old Maestro. The year he spent honing his skills on Calthos taught him exercises in meditation and the enlightened path to physical perfection. Something most of the warriors had proficiency in since birth. He knows the meditation implementation to lower the heart rate. They showed him the inaugural steps but nothing more. The first step is controlled breathing, but he has nowhere near the mastery to attempt it under these conditions.

  Crackle screams—curses his mother for allowing him to be conceived. She already risked the razor wire and won’t crawl back. Projectile weapon and blasters are forbidden in the arena—the only rule. She keeps mumbling something about why have no new weapons been bet upon.

  Reynard slows his breath, not thrilled he’ll have to work through the wire.

  A tile behind Crackle pops up. She scampers to it. Lavender Frisbees rest atop it. She scoops
up the first one, flinging it at Reynard’s head. He prepares to duck.

  Twangaaann!

  A single razor line snaps. A dart shifts. He knows which one. Too bad it’s on the other side of the maze. Chunks of sliced Frisbee sprinkle onto the floor as the razor lines shred it. He spots the blades in the curricular device. She must have hit the line just so to slice through before the remaining line cut the weapon into useless wedges.

  He smiles. A devilish thought races through his mind. “You’ll never reach me with those.”

  Crackle scoops up another. Chunks of Frisbee smatter on the ground. No twang sound. She has to hit the line with the blades of the disk just right.

  Reynard shifts his position across from the loose dart. He jumps back as more Frisbee pieces rain toward him. Only this time, a dart shifts after a twang resonates. The invisible field fills with a whipping clap before the reverberation of a broken piano wire. The severed line sliced though other lines as well. The release of pressure on the darts causes them to uproot enough to tell which ones are no longer attached.

  The next Frisbee skips through. Reynard dives out of the way as two pieces bounce past him. He flips in midair and catches the final disk and twists around, sending the unbroken disk back to its sender.

  She dives behind the raised tile unable to escape Reynard sinking his thumb into her clavicle. “Now that’s X-tream Frisbee, bitch,” Adrenaline surges through him. He applies six and three-quarter pounds of pressure onto Crackle’s clavicle.

  She kicks at him. As her calf makes contact with his side he loops his free arm around it pinning her leg against him and slams her to the ground.

  The praising cheers of the crowd return before screams of bloodlust overtake them.

  “Do it quick, Osirian.”

  Reynard keeps his eyes locked on hers. The rich greens and browns match his own: her running from the abusive home, the hiding from the abusive streets, accepting abuse in order to eat. It’s all there in those green flecks. The pain, the torment brought on by a lifetime of everyone using this girl as a toilet wipe. Now he must kill her—use her to entertain the masters of this depravity.

  The Silver Dragon contains two nuclear-level thermite missiles: the translation is thermite. He should send this degeneracy to dust. “I don’t want to kill you.”

  “There’s no honor code here, Osirian. Forcing me to yield won’t open the door.” She contorts her body rising toward him forcing him to exert more pressure on her shoulder until he snaps the bone. She collapses back. He releases his grip on her calf.

  She kicks his face with her free leg. She’s trying to force him to break her bone in the hopes he would release her so she could use the advantage to escape.

  White spots blotch his eyes as Reynard stumbles back three steps. For a moment there are two Crackles in his line of sight about to punch him. He has a millisecond to choose which fist to block. He coils into a kata to block the impact of a punch. He chooses the incorrect girl.

  The pounding swift stings haven’t the strength behind it to bruise him. They are offsetting and since he still sees two Crackles he’s unable to effectively block all the cuffs keeping him dazed.

  Most humanoids resembling Osirians have two major arterial veins in their neck that supply the brain with oxygen needed to function, with nothing but soft tissue around those important arterial walls where even the mildest pressure prevents flow. Reynard digs his thumb and forefinger into those two conduits. As the current of fresh oxygen ceases, Crackle’s curses garble into unintelligible gibberish before her entire body hangs limp in his vice grip.

  Reynard maintains pressure until she faints. He keeps the pressure choking the life from her. Her hot breath stops and rapid chest rise of a panicked girl discontinues until Crackle has no life left in her.

  The crowd hushes. Their bloodlust has been quenched until the next round of fresh combatants.

  Reynard keeps his thumb deep into her neck. The calculating betting board declares him the victor and the exit door opens. He flings Crackle over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and jogs out.

  He slides her onto a bench just outside the arena exit before slapping her face. “Wake up.” No chest rise. Reynard laces his fingers together driving his palm into her chest. He forces her heart to pump blood with each rapid compression. He skips the rescue breaths, not trusting that this thief wouldn’t bite his lip off when she wakes. He keeps the rhythmic push of blood through her body until she coughs. He rolls her onto her left side, backing out of her reach.

  She gasps for air, confused by the man who snuffed her life.

  Guards in the knightly armor surround the two escorting Reynard from the holding cell. Marched to a lift, he is paraded before the spectators so they know he’s victorious.

  Given a choice Reynard wouldn’t be on this lift. He certainly doesn’t want his arm raised like the champion boxer at the end of a TKO. He didn’t earn this. It was forced upon him. His training as a warrior was for combat, combat with an enemy destroying lives of innocent people. Not for sport. He was never much of one for sport. Even the traditional November deer hunt. Necessary, important and the stalking with skill of a defenseless animal was for meat. Sure, keep the head as a trophy, but the goal was to fill the freezer. Never to leave the carcass among the leaves just to say you shot a twelve-pointer.

  The lift grinds to a halt. The humanoids in knightly armor march forward forcing Reynard to step as the door opens to a cheering mob. The Circus Maximus has thinned. Those who bet on Crackle and lost vacate the grandstands. They’ll see other pleasures with what’s left of their money.

  They force him to stand before the spectators in an undesired victory ceremony. He won’t play to the crowd. He won’t fuel their bloodlust. Nothing about this satisfies his warrior code except he denied the mob blood even if they don’t know it.

  The guards step back in unison, allowing Reynard to slide back onto the lift. It continues to rise to the box seat level.

  This needs to be over. I have to find that bounty. If I had my magnum— The lift rises beyond the box seat level. Reynard calculates grabbing the left guard, using him as a shield in order to take his weapon. Depends on just how heavy the armor actually is. It’s one of those algebraic variables his high school math teacher said one day would save his life. Can he move the armored humanoid? No X to solve for.

  The doors to the lift open. His crew, minus the tall brunette, awaits him.

  JarBok bows to him. JC keeps her head low. She has the bag securing his clothes on her shoulder and his jacket draped over her arms. Scott and Joe both look ready to pounce on the nearest guards. They didn’t round up Amye or Doug. He must be on his way back to the Dragon with the holoemersion unit. Where could she be?

  “You have spoiled your welcome here,” JarBok scolds. “If not for the necessity of victors to be seen wandering the casinos, we’d exile you now. You are not to return once you leave.” He snaps his fingers.

  More guards drag in Crackle. Her face is cut and purpling from a beating. They fling her to the floor before JarBok and the crew. “This one, due to her previous win in the arena, has become known to many patrons.”

  Two guards grab the woman and rough her in an execution pose despite her struggles.

  JarBok draws what Reynard would consider a revolver with the cylinder-style device near the trigger. The click-chunk of the device moving the emptied shell to a fresh one overwhelms the rushing burn of plasma as it melts the durasteel slug steaming into Crackle’s brainpan. Reynard jumps as brain, bone and blood exit her head with the stream of super-heated molten metal.

  “Bloody hell!”

  “It was merciful. She could not be seen after you had ended her life in the arena.”

  “You could have shipped her off-world!”

  “She was a thief and had no transportation. Attendees here do not seek hirelings.”

  JC squeezes Reynard’s bicep. “We should conclude our gaming and go.” She reaches out. Let it go.

/>   Reynard shifts his weight and marches from the lift. He snags his jacket from JC’s arm as he storms past. The thump of disheveled leather draws his now narrow glance back at JarBok before he spots the second jacket on the carpet.

  “Where’s Amye?” he demands.

  JarBok shakes his head, “It was left in one of the booths. I graciously returned it to your crew because it contained your pennon.”

  Reynard’s mouth tightens. His hand flexes. A shoulder jerk puts him in position to ponce. He doubts, even with Joe at his back, he could defeat all the armored guards. He’ll deal with this depravity dealer later.

  JC grabs Amye’s jacket. She shifts her eyes to point Reynard toward the door.

  Raising his arms so his jacket falls down around him, Reynard advances on the exit. “We better find her, and not in the arena.”

  “Better men than you have made threats before and we are still here, Commander Reynard,” JarBok sours his name. “You should consider leaving.”

  “Not without my entire crew.”

  “A contingent of Tibbar have learned of your presence here due to your win. They don’t carry blasters and rarely gamble. Their preferred sport—the hunt.”

  JarBok’s intended threat carries weight. Reynard must locate Amye and the bounty before those reptiliods do.

  Reynard spins on his heels, jerking the bag from JC as they round the corner away from the viewing boxes of the arena. “Would Doug come back into the casino after getting the holoemersion unit on the Dragon?”

  “Doubtful.” Scott adds, “He’s probably hooking it up.”

  “Find Amye and Ki-Ton so we get out of here. You need a Mecat to take on a Tibbar, and we only have knives.”

  “What about the bounty and Admiral Maxtin?” JC asks.

  “I’m open to suggestions.” Reynard jumps, yanking his pants to his waist.

  “We look for all three. We find Amye and Ki-Ton first, then we blast out,” Scott offers.

  “Flight from a superior enemy shows wisdom; flight without gaining sought knowledge reveals inanity.”