Challenge of Steel

by James David Victor

  But most of the time, all it takes is for someone to ACT as though they know what they are doing for other people to think that they do.

  It turned out to be the case here, because the Challenge guard suddenly shrugged. “Fine. But if anything comes of it, it’s the MPB’s ass on the line. I’m not covering for you.” She stepped aside.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to.” Anders smiled sweetly as they marched into the hub.

  12

  Hecta Space

  On the bridge of the Reaver-class Golden Throne boat, Commander-General Cread was hurrying. Around him, there was a sense of tense activity pulsing through the bridge as the other black and gold-suited officers worked.

  It wasn’t just the fact that they were only a day out from the Challenge itself. It was the fact that they were about to receive a very special guest.

  Cread opened a private communication link to his operative far below on the planet surface. “Report,” he said to his assassin, a little more tersely than he would usually. It was the stress of the situation. This was a plan almost twenty years in the making, and now, finally, the Golden Throne would soon have its day.

  “The Ilythian woman seen with Lieutenant Corsigon has no travel or access identification for the Hecta System,” was the reply. Her voice was always just slightly husky. “But I have checked the intel servers and have discovered that she has been spotted twice before. Once as a part of an Ilythian trade delegation to the throne, and another time as a visitor to Terevesin, supposedly on a horticultural exchange trip.”

  “Terevesin again.” Cread frowned as he turned and stalked to his private command chambers off the side of the bridge. “Those damn garden worlds have always been too close to the Ilythians. Now we have proof that they are consorting with enemy spies!”

  For a moment, the Commander-General wondered what he should do. He could assassinate key planetary figures, of course, but the subsequent upheaval would cost them dearly. But that was the problem with assassinations, wasn’t it? Cread thought angrily as he stepped into his semi-circular chamber, one side lined with a view screen of the stars outside.

  You never knew what the aftermath of a successful assassination would be. Even with the best situation analysis, you might end up with some grieving mother or friend who becomes a civil rights hero, hellbent on discovering the truth.

  Ugh. He would have to somehow sneak in an airburst toxin, anthrax or something, but that would require a fully-cloaked ship and the hacking of the planetary satellite network.

  Cread started to feel the pulse of a headache forming in the exact center of his forehead. No one understood just how hard his job was…

  “Do you have the whereabouts of the two of them, at least?” Cread finally asked. He wasn’t particularly worried about the MPB officer, he was much more worried about the Ilythian agent. She was clearly some sort of counter to his operatives—an Ilythian spy sent to undermine the Reach of the Golden Throne!

  “They have just been registered entering the Challenge Hub, sir,” his agent informed him. “I believe they must be on the trail of my associate, Uskol Hecatia. Do you want me to make my way there now?”

  That, at least, was excellent news. “Aha! Marvelous!” Cread suddenly thought of an answer to his problems. “No. Do not go to the Challenge Hub yourself. Return to this ship, where you will wait for your next assignment.”

  “Very good, sir,” and the line clicked off.

  Meanwhile, Cread had other business to attend to. He quickly sent a message to his agents among the staff of the Challenge Hub, with the required instructions of how to deal with the two newcomers to the station.

  After that, he took a deep breath and composed himself, walking to the front of his desk. “I am here,” he said into the empty room.

  An instant later, a tiny light glittered in the middle of the room, starting to glow brighter and bigger, turning into a radiant gold and white glow.

  “Commander-General,” said a high-pitched, youthful voice. There, standing in the middle of the room where before there had been nothing, was the Herald of the Throne. Or one of them, Cread thought. He wore the same ridiculous gold tabard and shorts, the small peaked hat, and his skin was just as gold as it always was.

  But instead of the theatrical, noble, and even elf-like demeanor that the herald usually had for its viewers, this time it scowled and acted as though it was far more cynical than its years should allow.

  “The Eternal Empress is getting impatient, Cread,” the herald said, stalking about the small command room like a bear cub in a bad mood. He hissed the man’s name as if it were an insult. “You know how she gets when she has to be kept waiting…”

  “We are in the final stages of execution, you can personally promise her,” Cread said with a smile, although in his head, he added, Poisonous little twit!

  “Hmm…” The herald rolled his eyes and moved to Cread’s desk, where, surprisingly, the man had a collection of tiny ship figurines. Early spacecraft dating right back to the twentieth century in miniature form. Cread watched as the herald attempted to pick one up, but it fell through his golden holo-hand.

  “And anyway.” Cread coughed. “This way, at least the Eternal Empress will be able to see most of the Challenge undisturbed, yes? She has always enjoyed viewing the Challenge, hasn’t she?” the commander-general pointed out.

  “Maximum impact, Cread,” the herald reminded him. “You were told that the plan had to have maximum effect. The Eternal Empress doesn’t want to lose the viewers after the Challenge has ended. She wants everyone to see the explosion. She wants the evidence to be undeniable.”

  “Oh, it will be, you can assure her,” Cread said, although the words tasted sour. He knew that he had to take orders from the Eternal Empress Helena I, but he hated having to be told what to do by this little toad. Cread very much doubted if the herald—who looked all of sixteen—had ever killed anyone with his bare hands!

  No one knows how hard my job is. Cread took a deep breath and steeled himself for what he had to say.

  “Please inform the Eternal Empress that this way is far better. That now, when the Challenge is nearing its completion and everyone is tuning in to watch the winner, that is when we will act,” he said. “It will be spectacular.”

  The herald turned from the desk to look up at the man, his eyes orbs of uncaring cruelty. “Just so long as you are right about that, Commander Cread.”

  13

  Challenge Hub, part 2

  “That is the one I saw,” Dalia said, looking up at the imposing form of the Red Judge Uskol Hecatia.

  Unfortunately, it was impossible for Anders to arrest this form of Uskol, as it was a giant holo-projection of the man some twelve feet high. He stood on an austere metal podium along with four other current contestants and previous winners of the Challenge.

  Dalia and Anders stood in the central dome of the hub itself, with the geodesic crystal-glass structure far above them. This place was busy and crowded with the platinum-pass guests from all across the Reach of the Throne. They were mostly split into the various factions supporting each of the most prominent contestants. Anders saw a large number of Red Judges in their scale-like battle plate, while on the other side of the room were a knot of Secari crab-men who had attached orange-colored ribbons to the nodules of their carapace. They stood under the holo of Master Jid, a Secari that looked almost twice the size of his fellows if the scale to the other contestants was to be believed.

  As well as these two came the more easily recognizable form of Venark of the Mondrauks, a horned alien with a squashed, puggy-looking face and great swathes of shaggy brown hair. It was no wonder that people thought they were devils when they first saw them. Anders shivered.

  The last two holos were of the current human winners of the last Challenge—a rare duo who each stood on their own podium. “Lisa and Jacques.” Anders nodded at them. One was small and dark-haired, while the other was willowy, tall, and light-haired. The two women had
entered as a couple, and although it was not unheard of, it was certainly rare. The lieutenant knew that they had certainly proven uncompromising enough to their enemies.

  “It is barbaric,” Dalia surprised him by saying. From seeing the way that she had coolly handled herself in the Gene Seer facility, Anders had thought that she was an Ilythian warrior with a soldier’s sensibility, that while unnecessary, she might still have been able to appreciate the violent skills involved…

  But why should I be surprised? The man berated himself. It was after all what he himself believed, too. “There are a lot of other contestants, as well,” Anders explained, waving a hand at the much smaller holo headshots of perhaps fifteen or more people—almost all humans—that were set against the walls.

  “Where can we find Uskol?” Dalia asked, ignoring his small act of amateur tour guiding.

  Anders explained that all the contestants, the famous ones and the less famous, would currently be in their respective rooms in this very hub, before being dropped to the surface of Hecta 3 in just a few hours.

  “Then we had better move quickly,” Dalia said.

  “That, uh, might be more difficult than you think…” Anders began. The murderer would be housed in the arm of the hub directly behind his giant holo. Right where the large gaggle of Red Judge fans and followers were congregated.

  “Do not worry, Anders Corsigon.” The Ilythian smiled. “I know of a way to get to him.” She was already reaching for her utility belt, and Anders was terrified to see her pull out one of the pinecone-like electronic disruptors.

  “Wait!” he said quickly, reaching out to hesitantly touch her elbow. “This is throne space. Any action you take will be construed as an act of sabotage!” Which might just go ahead and start an interstellar war, Anders thought. As much as he was prepared to do anything to catch his quarry, he did balk a bit at the idea of starting what would be humanity’s greatest ever conflict.

  “I know it is sabotage. What do you think I do for a living?” Dalia regarded him as if he were mad.

  Anders reflected that there really was no time to try and school her on the idea of habeas corpus and the rule of law. He, at least, still believed in those things, even if some sections of the throne government apparently did not.

  “Let me try something,” Anders said, already marching across the hub space, under the dome of stars above them.

  The first Red Judge looked down at the very small man like he was mad. “You want to what?”

  The second Red Judge, a very tall woman who was even bigger than the Challenge guard who had first met them, just laughed at him.

  “You want to learn how to become as good a fighter as Uskol Hecatia?”

  The congregation appeared to be loyal followers who also had some sort of informal access to the feared contestant. Perhaps they had all trained at the same prestigious Red Judges’ fighting schools, Anders thought.

  “Think of it like an interview.” Anders smiled guilelessly at them. “You wouldn’t believe just how many Hectamon 7 youth want to fight like Uskol.”

  “And you say that you’re the sensei of some Hecta dojo?” said the first speaker, a man with a shaved head.

  “Precisely,” Anders lied. “If I could take back a few words, some fighting tips and perhaps some footage to my students, that would make their year!” Anders knew just how proud the fighters of the harsh desert and mountainous worlds were of their warriors.

  The bald man looked at the woman beside him. “What do you think?”

  She pulled a face. “What’s he got, three hours? He’s deep in his preparation rituals…”

  “But it would be good publicity,” another considered.

  That was another part of Anders’s plan. One of the most depressing facts of the Challenge was that a whole lot of people made a whole heap of money out of people dying down there. If the contestant survived, then they could be sure of a hefty payout in throne credits, as well as all manner of sponsorship deals for the next year. Whole cottage industries had sprung up around previous winners, selling everything from branded contestant nodes to clothing. A returning winner like Uskol Hecatia was sure to be making hundreds of thousands.

  “After.” The woman shrugged.

  “With the greatest respect—” Anders hazarded. “What if fortune doesn’t favor Uskol this time?” He might die, Anders didn’t say. But the Red Judges in front of him caught his drift just the same.

  “Fortune has nothing to do with it!” The woman grabbed Anders’s throat with her mesh gloves and slammed him against the nearest wall.

  “Ach!”

  Oh yeah, the ribs, Anders thought as pain shot up his side. It seemed that Dalia’s strange potion really was just a pain reliever after all. But that wasn’t the entire problem, was it? The Red Judge was also squeezing his throat.

  “Uskol doesn’t need to be lucky, little man!” the woman snarled into his choking face. “Uskol is the best fighter in the galaxy!”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Dalia, throwing her arm in a viper-like motion to seize the woman’s wrist.

  In a moment of adrenaline-fueled slow motion, Anders saw Dalia twist her hold just slightly as she also turned on her hip, and there was a sharp snapping sound as the woman howled in agony.

  “Dalia!” Anders coughed as he slumped forward, one hand moving to his throat as the other moved to his hip holster. “What did I tell you earlier about—”

  He never got the chance to finish that sentence, as the bald Red Judge landed a knee into his already fractured side, sending him spinning onto the metal.

  That was another thing about the Red Judges: they really liked a good fight.

  Dalia made small, cat-like hissing noises as she lowered her stance and raised her arms in a loose, outstretched position. The first Red Judge leaped in with a stomp, but she swerved her upper body, pushing out against the man’s leg so he almost seemed to roll off of her.

  The next one had been behind her, however, and managed to cuff the Ilythian agent in the small of the back, sending her staggering forward.

  She quickly spun on her heel, catching the man’s wrist as she had done the first attacker, and kicking out her long foot to send him flying.

  Anders, on the other hand, had his own problems. He had managed to snatch up his laser pistol and was already half-rising from his crouch when the bald Red Judge kicked it out of the way.

  “No guns, little man!” the judge shouted, and Anders could see that he was actually grinning. Red Judges experienced a kind of euphoria when fighting that other people felt during happy things, like eating or dancing.

  “Fine. No guns,” Anders groaned as he managed to almost get into a vertical position. The man’s strike had set his side on fire once more. He cursed himself for not at least trying to avail himself of some of the Gene Seer’s fabulous medical treatments while they had been down there!

  “Eighty-five percent possibility of a forward jab, sir,” Moriarty chirped in his ear.

  “I never knew you did tactics as well,” Anders hissed under his breath. He ducked to one side as the bald judge ahead of him did exactly that.

  “Psychological profiling is a part of my programming, sir. Secondary jab coming up. Haymaker or stomp after—” Moriarty was saying as this time, Anders managed to block the second jab with his arms. He didn’t even try to return a counterstrike, as he trusted Moriarty implicitly.

  The next blow was indeed a stomp, and Anders had been expecting it thanks to the simulated intelligence. He took a half-step back as if the judge’s jabs were forcing him more and more out of the way.

  But when the man raised his foot and pushed out, Anders grabbed the heavy metal-shod combat boot and lifted. The effort was excruciatingly painful of course, as it pulled all the muscles and tendons in his side—

  However, the surprised look on the face of the Red Judge was worth it as he flailed and went over backward.

  Anders, ever the pragmatist, wasted no time in turn
ing to leap for his pistol. There is no honor in getting beaten to death, he considered.

  There was his service pistol, lying in the middle of the avenue that led down the corridor. Anders hit the floor and slid toward it. His side exploded into agony. He could hear the slaps and grunts of Dalia attempting to hold off the rest of the Red Judges.

  His hand had almost reached the pistol grip when there was a vicious stomp on the gun from a giant metal-shod boot. Anders saw parts of the muzzle shatter and sparks fly.

  “No!” he cried as he looked up, straight into the face of Uskol Hecatia himself.

  The murderer wore only the lower half of his scaled battle suit. Above the waist, he was bare chested, and his torso was a mess of thin bloody streaks. How did he get those? Anders thought in shock. But then he remembered the woman’s words. His preparation rituals. Anders suddenly realized how deeply committed this man was. He practiced self-scarification in order to release the frenzy that he needed to.

  “Are you disturbing me before the Challenge?” Hecatia growled, his one good eye glaring, the cybernetic patch on the other side of his face flaring with a single red dot.

  “Uskol Hecatia, I am Lieutenant Anders of the—” Anders managed to say, just as something very solid, and apparently very heavy, landed on his head.

  All the lights went out in Anders’s mind in an instant.

  14

  The Surface

  “Daddy?” said a voice that Anders would recognize anywhere, even if he hadn’t heard it for years.