by O. J. Lowe
“Three! Go! Go!”
She stamped her foot in the excitement, the emotion spilling out of her and her spirit went with the flow, Talas swooping forward with the blades readied. No mistaking that intent. He’d been proved right. It might have been an effective attack had he not seen it coming from miles away, already made plans to counter-attack. Bish leaped, sprang with those powerful legs and cleared the oncoming cutter-bug with very little difficulty. As he soared above the bug, one leg kicked out, caught it in the back and a skreeee-ing sound ripped out from the mandibles. It hadn’t liked that at all. It had only been a glancing blow, he’d given the order not to get too close to those buzzing wings, but it had had the desired effect. At the speed they were buzzing, getting caught by one of them would not be pleasant. Already Talas was spinning back around, trying to slash out at Bish again.
It was fucking fast, he had to admit. The speeds those wings were letting it reach, he wouldn’t have fancied Bish to beat it in a pure footrace. It looked like it could keep up with a speeder in a straight race. It helped he’d already noticed one thing in his favour, no matter how fast those wings went back and forth, it still didn’t mean that its claws would move any faster. Wing speed and arm speed were two different things. Comparing it to a human, just because they could run fast, didn’t mean they’d be able to swing a knife with the same degree of speed and accuracy while running that fast.
Blades clashed together, and he knew in that moment that his theory had been proved right or was about to be. Cutter-bugs had those claws in nature, they evolved them for the process of cutting grass. Grass did not fight back. At worst, it might sway in the wind, but it would never actively strike back. Ergo, their claws were normally used against opponents that didn’t retaliate. Unisco training had told him a similar thing, that firing a blaster on a range under little pressure was a world away from firing at targets that shot back. Any blade techniques Tamale had taught her cutter-bug would likely be rudimentary at best. Learned. Repeated. Forced into doing something that wasn’t natural.
Bish was a garj, a species who routinely fought against each other with their blades. They won their skill through the scars of a hard life, every mistake was punished vigorously through pain. Both blades came up, pushed Talas back, he could hear the scrape as the weapons unlocked. Another kick, Bish leaped and spun, planted a foot hard into Talas’ chest. It let out a chatter of anger, came back at the garj with fury over finesse. He didn’t even have to give the order, Bish was intelligent enough to know to counter the attacks. Twice as many blades might have been unleashed against him, none even came close to touching him. If Talas had four claws to try and cut the opponent, Bish might well have had ten to counter them with. Wherever a scythed claw was, one of Bish’s blades was there to counter it. Nick was happy to play defence for the moment, keep it trying to break down the garj. It couldn’t keep that intensity up, fatigue would step in and he’d go for the kill.
It was coming to pass already, the cutter-bug’s stamina was slipping rapidly, the slashes were slowing and he mentally prodded Bish to press the advantage wherever he got it. The garj nodded his head, just a slight incline in the heat of battle, blocked a slash that might have taken it off had his focus slipped. He was starting to feel dulled to the sound of blade meeting blade, bone meeting sharpened exoskeleton, the echo rang in his ears, but his face didn’t change.
Talas’ attacks were rapidly slowing now, it was starting to favour power now over finesse. Every blow looked heavy, more weight being put behind it for additional force and that suited him just fine. Sooner rather than later, it’d overreach itself, it’d lose balance and he’d have an opening. Bish just needed to take advantage. The garj’s stamina was impressive, already naturally high because of the rigors of his environment, he’d worked and worked until Bish could fight for hours at the same level if necessary. That point had never been reached yet, always there would be a first time though.
That opening came, he didn’t even see the hesitation from his spirit, didn’t see him wait for a command and Bish leaped. One moment he’d stood his ground, the next he was airborne and had both blades planted hard in Talas’ chest. That exoskeleton wasn’t thick, certainly not strong enough to keep out the blades of a fully grown garj who’d thrown all his weight behind them. Bish might look willowy and delicate but his muscles were dense and heavy. He probably weighed about on par with an average human woman.
More than that, as he pulled the blades clear, Nick saw they were sticky with a gelatinous yellow gunk. Bish screamed with triumph and thrust them straight back in, working the wounds with surgical precision. If he kept it up, he’d split the bug in two pieces. He doubted it’d go that far. Nothing usually did when one of the combatants had a gaping great hole in their chest. It was one of nature’s immutable laws. He’d go as far to say it was mortal. The wings weren’t buzzing as rapidly now, they looked like they were struggling to keep it in the air. He could see them twitching, a dozen beats and then a stutter. They couldn’t hold it up for much longer, even as Bish jumped back clear of a frenzied spasm of claws coming at him. That was the danger now, Talas knew it was doomed and it might try to take Bish with him. It wasn’t the most glorious manner of defeat, but some were satisfied with it. Who knew what Tamale was telling her spirit to do, he sure as hells didn’t but it wasn’t going to be what dragged him down into defeat.
Another mental command to Bish and the garj moved, dancing across the dirt in several quick steps, lunging in behind the flailing cutter-bug. His blades flashed, the wings were suddenly a good half-foot shorter than they had been before. A chattering squeal broke from the mandibles, followed by the crash of it hitting the dirt, suddenly unable to keep itself airborne. A cutter-bug on the ground was infinitely less deadly than one in the air and with it at his mercy, Bish’s mouth started to glow. Nick was ready to end this now, he’d had enough. It hadn’t been much of a test, Tamale was a first-round opponent at best in his opinion now. Someone you usually had to get past to the latter rounds, probably able to trouble you if they fought to their potential but never going to be a serious challenger. She was still young, she had time on her side but right now that rawness had cost her. Bish wasn’t even one of his main battle spirits. Using Empson the penguin, or Carcer, it’d have been already over.
The burst of pure energy that erupted from Bish’s jaws was pure orange-white, painful to look at in its radiance. It was like staring into a melting eclipse, he had to shield his eyes with his forearm, but still his smile grew as it engulfed Talas. That was the way to do it. He’d thrown appropriate force out the window and moved onto overwhelming force. Mallinson’s words still rankled with him, no doubt. Letting the steam off was a relief, if unsatisfying. He could have done with some sort of sterner test. That other caller probably would have given him that.
Talas wasn’t continuing. The light faded away, the burns across its body were testament to how badly it had suffered in death, blackened and scorched. The majestic blades had melted, fused into shapelessness that could never hope to cut again. The wings had burnt away to smouldering cinders, eyes little more than empty holes in its pointed alien face. Because spirits weren’t truly alive, death wasn’t the end. The cutter-bug’s physical form would be dispelled, all the energy that had gone into making it suddenly ceasing. The first few times he’d seen it as a young caller, it had bothered him. That was no longer the case. If they weren’t alive, it was hard to feel sympathy for them.
He tilted his head at Tamale, trying to gauge her reaction. You could tell a lot about someone by how they reacted in defeat. If they got upset at being hammered, it said a lot about their passion. If they cried, it said a lot about their temperament. If they took it on the chin and didn’t look like it bothered them too much, you had to wonder about their commitment to the sport. Tamale bore a sort of weary smile that belied equal parts disappointment and glee. He liked to see that. Nobody liked to lose but failure fuelled a thousand fires. And if she still enjo
yed the experience of the fight, then that was something. More and more he felt that there were callers out there who were just in it for the fame and the credits, glory for the sake of glory. They wanted to see their name up in lights, they wanted to hear people scream their names, they wanted those in the media to say how skilful and brilliant they were.
He'd never subscribed to that view. It was the Unisco training that had done that for him. They’d always taught him to be humble in victory and learn from his defeats. It was truly scary how much the agency had done to shape him not just as an agent, but as a caller and a man. More than anything, it felt like it was the sole thing in his life that defined him. He might as well change his first name to Agent. They’d done a lot for him, he’d done a lot back for them by extension. He couldn’t complain about anything that had happened in his life up to this point. He’d had losses but no more or less comparatively than someone his age and position might have. It’d be churlish to think that he’d been dealt a bad hand in his life when the reverse was true, his fortunes had been grander than others.
She smiled at him as he approached, a little dimple undulating in her cheek as she did. He had to admit that it was adorable, not that he was going to tell her that. “Congratulations.” She sounded exactly the way you wanted a loser to sound in this situation. Disappointed but not petulant. Sad but not angry. Relieved that it was over but the chance had been there for a win on another day.
“Thank you,” he said. “You’re not bad, you know. How old are you? Early twenties?”
She went a little red at that, muttered something that sounded like there was a teen on the end of it. Maybe she was shy about her inexperience. He didn’t know why. Standing here on an afternoon while waiting for a flight, taking on everyone and anyone no matter how much better they might be than her, it took some balls. She didn’t lack for confidence on the field and that counted for a lot.
“Even better,” he said. “You know what my girlfriend always says? Nobody’s good in their first few years, and it’s true really. It’s like anything that involves skill. You need to work at it.” He considered her approach to the bout, glanced at the time. He had plenty of it for the moment. “I think you’ve got a solid base to work from.”
She raised her eyes, studied him. “Yeah?” She sounded curious, a little proud. Pride wasn’t a good trait for a caller. Not early in the career, not during their peak, not at the end. They all knew what came after being prideful.
“Your cutter-bug is an impressive specimen.” He’d had his earlier opinions of it but puncturing her ego wasn’t going to help her much at this point. Sometimes an approach needed some jam with the salt. “But you need to learn balance, Ms Tamale. Your approach works up until the point where it doesn’t. It’s okay until you meet an opponent like you faced today. One with the skill and speed to counter everything you throw at it and the stamina to hold out for long periods of time. Overwhelming force is okay, but you need to pick the time and the place for it. Preferably when they can’t do a damn thing to counter it.” Like I did with you, he wanted to add but didn’t. If she had anything about her, she’d pick up on what I meant.
“Does that mean hit them when they’re on the ground? Or when they’re looking the other way?” She cocked an eyebrow as she asked it, a curious tone in her voice. She gave the impression she thought it dishonourable. She’d caught his meaning though.
“Sweetheart, if you think kicking them while they’re down on the ground is something to avoid, you’re going to lose more than you win,” Nick said. “It might not be the most glamorous way to win it but it’s effective. Who do you remember more? A winner or a loser?”
“Suppose it depends on the manner of the defeat…” she started to say before he cut her off mid-sentence. He didn’t want to hear it. Whatever her argument was, it wasn’t going to help her.
“You remember the winner for absolutely kicking the crap out of them if it’s comprehensive, you might get a few words about how bad the loser was. You hear all the clichés about the losers if it’s a narrow margin. You want me to throw some of them at you?” He tried to keep the harsh edge out of his voice as he fished around his memories for some of the better ones. “Unlucky. Not street-wise enough. Inexperienced. Lacking killer instinct. Lacking quality. One trick wonder. Do you want these to be your labels?”
She shook her head, sending that pink stripe cascading over her face before it settled back over her eye. He wondered how she saw past it. Maybe she had a glass eye and didn’t need to. Wasn’t his concern. Maybe she was trying too hard to stand out amidst a mass of up-and-coming callers. Before they did anything, the whole mass of them started to blend together into one featureless face, hard to remember, difficult to recognise. She’d set her mouth defiantly, like she wanted to argue but couldn’t quite find the right words to call him on what he’d said. He hoped she’d realise that it wasn’t personal, and he was giving her free advice on how to better herself.
“No,” she said. “I want to be the best.”
That brought a smile to his face. He heard that a lot. He’d probably said it himself once or twice before. So many people said it without considering what it meant.
“You think that’s funny?” She sounded angry, he shook his head quickly.
“No, just wondering about something,” Nick said. “You know what the strange thing about aspiring to be the best is?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer, instead carried on speaking regardless. “People say it like it’s the destination. I’ve always seen it as the journey. If you ever get there, then what? The moment you reach it, people are going to try and knock you off your perch. Someone will eventually. That’s the nature of calling. Nobody can do it forever. Sooner or later you’ll have one bad day and it’ll be gone. You might not even have the chance to truly enjoy it either. Life is fleeting.” He thought about Lysa and realised how true those words were. “You never know how long you’ve got.”
She said nothing, he took that as a sign to continue. “Wanting to be the best shouldn’t be about reaching one set point where you can say that you’re above everyone else. It should be waking up every single day, doing what you can to the best of your ability and going to bed satisfied. You might not be better than everyone else. But you’ll see the improvements in what you do.”
Another glance at the time, he had to get going if he wanted to be sure of being at the departure gate in advance. He didn’t like to leave things too late. Just in case. He offered her a hand, she took it. “Consider my words, Ms Tamale. I say them not out of spite but in the genuine hope that one day, you might get where you want to be. You seem like a grounded young woman with plenty of common sense. That counts for a lot in this game. Don’t waste it. I mean it. Focus on what you do have as a caller. Not what you wished you had. Play to your strengths.”
Now who was throwing out the clichés? He had to smile at the words. A cliché usually became that way for a reason. There was always something in there that made a drastic amount of sense.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I’ve got a flight to catch. Hope you have a safe one wherever you will go. We may meet again one day.”
As aeroships went, it wasn’t a terrible one. He’d been on worse. Some of them were little more than airborne cans with wings attached to them. Sometimes the seats didn’t have padding on them, metal frames bolted together. If you didn’t bring your own cushions, you were destined for discomfort. The trick was to avoid budget companies, you always got what you paid for. That didn’t include spinal pain and any sort of drink. He had a bottle of water in his bag, he might not need to break into it just yet. A pair of attractive hostess’ moved from seat to seat, checking everyone had everything they needed. As one of them moved past him, a big smile on her painted lips, he nodded at her and let his eyes linger on her nylon-clad legs as she moved along back towards the cockpit. Very nice indeed. The benefits of travelling alone. If he’d done it in company of his other half, she’d have picked
up on it in an instant. Nothing got past her.
Krysoto Air. He’d never flown with them before but if everything carried on as it was, he would again. They’d been the first flight out of Serran to where he wanted to go, he’d booked it up immediately. Mallinson had warned him to leave as fast as he could, and he’d chosen to take him literally on that subject. If Saldana wanted him gone, he was gone. End of story. Nick settled back in his seat, closed his eyes. He hadn’t slept the previous night, only now he’d sat down was the exhaustion starting to catch up with him. The adrenaline of the raid, the failing of Lysa’s health, his interview with Inquisitor Mallinson, his bout with Tamale, all in the space of a day and a half. He’d been resorting to falling back on his training, there’d been days when they’d deprived them all of sleep at the academy in Torlis. They’d operated under the assumption that a tired mind was a receptive mind, that things were more easily absorbed when the subject was weary and pliable.
Even now, he found he couldn’t rest, not until the aeroship took to the skies. He’d always had a problem with sleeping through it. Statistically, that was when the aeroship engines were at their loudest. Once they got into the air, engine activity was cut back to minimal levels and they used the thermal updrafts to glide through the air. He’d seen the wings on the aeroship as they’d come in, they were little more than stiff canvas sheets that would trap the air amidst flight. It was the reason aeroship flight was as cheap as it was. With the engines only operating at full capacity during take-off and landing, as well as emergencies, it meant less fuel consumption. Less fuel consumption meant they used less fuel, ergo they didn’t have to pay as much. It worked out for everyone.
As a method of travel, it was a lot safer than it sounded. There were very few recorded crashes of aeroships in the last twenty years. Safety checks were run frequently. Any imperfection in the canvas on the wings was flagged up immediately, it wasn’t expensive to replace. He had no qualms about using this method of travel. Just didn’t mean that he had to like it. If it hadn’t realistically been too far to do so, he’d have brought Carcer out and flown back to Canterage. It was the best part of a thousand miles to Belderhampton. Certainly, it was too far to fly on the back of a winged shark lizard. One of them would end up collapsing and given an ocean separated the two kingdoms, he didn’t fancy a fall in the drink.
