The Tetra War_Fractured Peace

by Michael Ryan

  “They’d hunt me down, tie me to a tree, and wait for the sharbeel to come and eat me.”

  “The sharbeel?”

  “Catrilla.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I guess you shouldn’t run away.”

  “You don’t have to whisper, Avery,” he said. “I guarantee none of them speaks Common English.”

  “Yeah, okay…”

  The tribe allowed us the freedom to wander around their camp. They fed us well and treated us kindly. Breakfast included a healthy drink that contained a stimulant, and Pow told me that after the battle, regardless of which side won, there would be an alcoholic beverage that was as easy to drink as it was potent.

  I had to admit their hospitality and food was good. I tried to push the fact that Callie would be raped to eternity if I were called to fight and lost out of my mind; but I failed.

  The two combatants were selected after a light lunch.

  After the lots had been drawn, Pow approached us. “I’ll explain what happens now.”

  A corporal named Acciont Veerch had been selected. He was a tall and muscular Gurt, and I liked our chances because he outweighed his opponent by a good ten kilograms. “So,” Pow continued, “you’ll get taken to a special tent they’ve set up to spend time with your woman. Assuming you have one.”

  Acciont nodded.

  “You’ll be allowed to spend a few hours with her and then you’ll be introduced to your opponent’s family.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “If you win the battle, you’re responsible for them.”

  “Avery!” Acciont shouted.

  “We’ll figure it out later, Acciont,” I said. “Just win the fight, okay?”

  “Okay. But I don’t want–”

  “You’re overthinking. Just fight with your head.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. He followed Pow, his opponent, and a small group into the woods.

  “I hope this is over tonight,” I said to Abrel.

  “Me and you both, brother,” he answered.

  Weapon selection took place a few minutes before the fight.

  A large circle in the dirt, made with a powdery red substance, defined the arena. A lone bowman stood at the edge of the ring. Pow explained that if a warrior attempted to flee, he’d be shot. The duels were fought before sundown, but the tribe placed torches around the circle. Flickering light and shadow danced on the ground. Pow said, “It’s acceptable to step just outside the circle, and there’s no penalty if your opponent pushes or forces you outside the bounds of the arena. Just don’t run. That would be bad.”

  “Yeah, I heard,” I said. “The fleeing guy gets shot.”

  “Not only that,” Pow said. “You’ll all be killed. And your women, too.”

  “That seems extreme,” I said.

  “The tribe believes if one of you is dishonorable, then you all must be defective. No tribe of honor would allow a cowardly warrior to remain among them.”

  “Seems reasonable, I guess,” I said. “None of my Raiders will flee. I’m pretty sure the space marine types would be offended if you even suggested it.”

  “Good,” he said. “They’re about to roll the die for weapons.”

  We approached the leader. He held up a single die made of bone. After some native chanting and a lot of chatter in a strange tongue, the die was cast. Grunts and cheers among the natives ended when their armorer brought out two spears. The weapons were two meters long, pointed at both ends, and made of a smooth, ebony hardwood.

  The leader took both weapons and approached Acciont. He held the spears out to him.

  “You get to choose,” Pow said. “Visiting team privilege.”

  Acciont took both spears, inspected them, and picked one. I’m not sure what method he used, as they appeared identical. His opponent took the other spear and walked into the circle, stopping at the far edge.

  “Take a position opposite him and stand on the red line,” Pow said. “When the chief claps his hands, fight. Don’t stop fighting no matter what happens. If you’re winning, don’t show any mercy. You must kill your opponent.”

  “Good luck,” I said.

  Acciont nodded at me and walked to his starting point.

  The chief clapped his hands a moment later, and our first duel began.

  The native fighter was called something that sounded like Caarpish, but the strange tongue was challenging to understand. Acciont’s nickname was Ace, and that was what our guys shouted in encouragement.

  “Keep him in front of you, Ace!” someone shouted.

  “Caarrrrr!” the other side shouted.

  I felt like I was at a sporting event, but knowing that someone was going to die soon robbed any pleasure from the competition. This wasn’t the case with the natives, who seemed to enjoy the duel as if it were a soccer game. As the fighters circled and sized each other up, the locals yelled and cheered with more and more excitement.

  Ace drew first blood.

  Caar moved with a fast jab, which Ace dodged. He spun to his right and drove the spear low, striking the native’s thigh. Caar leapt and evaded the next jab. The spears weren’t heavy enough to be thrown; the winner would be the fighter who waited for the right opening to stab a vital area. Ace backed away from the crouching opponent, and the crowd growled at him.

  Caar sprinted.

  Ace lowered himself to prepare for the oncoming assault.

  I saw his mistake before he realized it himself.

  The native threw his spear, not to kill but to distract. From his crouching position, Ace had to move off balance to evade the thrown spear. Had he been thinking clearly, he’d have merely batted it away or even let the spear strike him. What happened instead was that Caar jumped and used his weight to jamb Ace’s own spear back into his face.

  It happened in an instant.

  Ace fell backward, his weapon pierced through his eye and into his brain.

  Caar retrieved his thrown spear and drove it through Ace’s chest. He bowed to his dead opponent and then looked up and offered a wide grin.

  I felt sick, but then realized my entire adult life had revolved around killing enemies. How could I be a hypocrite and not respect that in a fair duel, the native had won? Of course the tribal warrior felt joy and power. Just as I’d felt many times, perhaps more than my share of times.

  “Troops,” I said, “listen up. You must respect the culture we’re in and not display anger or sadness. Mourn Ace in your own way and in your own time, but don’t mourn him publicly. Show respect because our lives may depend on it.”

  The next morning at breakfast, Caar was talkative and excited.

  “Pow?” I asked.

  “He’s explaining that he had to fight twice last night, but that he won both battles,” Pow said.

  “Ace’s girl?”

  “She’s alive, Avery,” Pow said. “That’s something.”

  The day proceeded without animosity. The tribe selected the next two warriors: Sam Jordan for our side, and a native with a short name that sounded roughly like Gorg.

  Sam was the videogame-playing heli-jet pilot who’d saved my life when we crash-landed.

  “I guess this is it,” he said.

  “Just pretend you’re playing an RPG,” I said. “Kill him before he kills you, Sam. Good luck.”

  “Thanks, Avery,” he said. “I’ll do my best.”

  The chief rolled for weapons, and the natives cheered loudly when the result was announced.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The difficulty is not so great to die for a friend, as to find a friend worth dying for.

  ~ Homer

  Sam kept his composure.

  Which couldn’t have been easy. The armorer brought out the weapons: short battle clubs topped with four translucent claws.

  Catrilla claws.

  Sam was allowed to pick between the two. He took his time inspecting them. His shoulders sagged as he ran his finger along one of the claws. The point looked as sharp as a needle, and memo
ries of my old tom, Maximus, ran through my mind. I banished the memory and studied Sam’s opponent. The native was taller and had a longer reach. I understood why Sam looked depressed.

  He was about to be bludgeoned to death.

  Unless he got lucky or came up with a superior strategy.

  “Jordan,” I called, using his last name like he was a professional fighter and we only had to worry about a win or loss, and not death.

  He looked at me but didn’t speak.

  “You’ve got to outthink him,” I said. “He’s going to be overconfident.”

  “Duh,” he said. “Look at his reach. He’s going to slaughter me. Literally.”

  “Remember how Callie took out that last mecha. Go for extremities. Go low. Don’t go for the kill at first. Fight dirty. Stay confident.”

  “Thanks, Avery,” he said. “It’s been a pleasure knowing you.”

  The chief spoke a few clipped sentences to Sam.

  Pow interpreted. “He said hurry up.”

  “I’ll take this one,” Sam said. He handed the second weapon to the armorer and walked to his starting position. He kept his head up.

  The chief clapped his hands shortly after Sam’s opponent, Gorg, landed on the red line in the dirt.

  Gorg was big, but he was also slow. He rushed Sam, but Sam was able to dodge his swing easily. Sam skipped to the other side of the ring. He stared fiercely at the enemy and bounced on the balls of his feet to be ready for the next attack. Gorg moved even slower this time, as if he realized he was telegraphing his movements. He extended his arms like an eagle, lifting the club high. Sam stepped left, the native to his right, mirroring his adversary. The taller fighter swung downward in a brutal arc; Sam blocked the swing with his club. It clearly damaged his resolve, and he ran.

  I thought for a moment Sam was going to get us all killed, but he stopped before leaving the ring.

  Gorg yelled something in their guttural language, and the crowd followed him with cheers and screams. Sam flipped them off with a standard SDI “fuck you” salute, but I suspect none of the tribe understood what it meant. They cheered even louder as the native sprinted at Sam.

  As his opponent got close, Sam dove to the ground. He swung low and connected with the enemy’s ankle. Gorg screamed in pain and went tumbling out of the circle into the crowd. Sam stood. “Does this mean I win?” he asked. He wasn’t thinking straight. A combination of adrenaline and fear had affected his judgment, as is often the case on the battlefield.

  “No!” Pow shouted. “Continue pursuing him before he gets up.”

  “Go!” I shouted.

  Sam realized he’d lost his advantage. He rushed the fallen warrior without judgment and calculation and swung downwardly in an attempt to strike him before he rose. But the native was skilled with the club. He rolled away from Sam’s swing and countered.

  Sam took a blow to the thigh.

  Gorg screamed a terrible war cry and struck Sam again, this time on the other leg.

  Sam dropped to his knees.

  “Get up!” I screamed, but it was too late.

  Sam tried lifting his club, but it was batted away with ease by the other fighter. Gorg retrieved the weapon from the ground and raised both clubs above his head. His face contorted into a demonic scream and he circled Sam.

  “What’s he doing?” I asked Pow.

  “It’s a great dishonor to be killed by one’s own weapon.”

  “Why doesn’t he finish it?”

  “He’s going to punish Sam for being weak. The Tsalagians believe that if Sam can remain strong while being viciously beaten, he’ll regain some of his lost honor. It may seem bizarre, but they believe a quick death here would dishonor your friend’s memory.”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “He took a beating like a champion,” Abrel said. “So it must be a universal custom.”

  I could barely watch the display, but Pow had reminded us all several times earlier that day to never look away. “To not face another’s death with courage is a great dishonor. You’re not going to like watching one of your friends get butchered, but you must.”

  Sam, to his credit, didn’t cry out or scream. His opponent struck him multiple times in the arms and legs before delivering a brutal blow to the abdomen and pulling long strings of small intestine from his dying victim with the club’s claw. He screamed a final battle cry and brought his own club down onto Sam’s head.

  “That was an act of respect,” Pow said. “Sam showed incredible courage, so he received the death blow from his killer’s club, not his own.”

  “I don’t know if it matters,” I said.

  “It matters, Avery,” Pow said. “This is an ancient race with customs you might not understand or care about, but everything they do has important meaning to them. Remember, if one of you can win, you’ll be living among the tribe. Your lives depend on accepting their ways, not just today and tomorrow, but probably a year from now. If you’re lucky.”

  I nodded in understanding and joined our men in carrying Sam’s body to the funeral pyre where he’d be cremated later that evening. I didn’t like the ways of this tribe, but I knew Pow was right that I didn’t have a choice. The celebration began with drinks and elaborate dancing among the native women. Pow had reiterated that to not celebrate with the natives was to dishonor Sam’s memory. It seemed counterintuitive to me.

  “Avery, did you like Sam?” Pow asked.

  “Of course. He was a nice kid. He saved my life once,” I answered.

  “Then prove what a good man he was by drinking and celebrating with your men. To honor Sam, you cannot show your mourning in public. It would signify that you think he’s gone to the Tsalagian version of hell. Even if you don’t believe, accept the fact that the chief is watching you. If you’re not showing happiness, he’ll assume you believe Sam went to hell. Trust me, act as if you’re happy for Sam and that he’s in a better place. Get drunk. It’ll help.”

  I followed Pow’s advice and commanded the men to do the same.

  I wasn’t happy that Sam was dead, but after a couple of drinks, I realized that mourning my dead friend served no purpose.

  “To Sam,” I said, lifting my cup. “He saved my life once, and he was a damn good heli pilot.”

  I woke up with a terrible hangover.

  “God, I hope I’m not picked today,” I said to Pow over breakfast.

  “I think in English that is called a jinx,” he said.

  “Quit being such a smart-ass,” I said.

  “Here, eat this,” he said. “It’s a cure.”

  He handed me a small fruit. It tasted a little like a cherry, and my headache went away an hour later.

  Pow was right; I’d jinxed myself. My name was called, and I resolved to end this ritual killing with a victory.

  “You can do this, Avery,” Abrel said that evening just before the die was rolled for weapon selection.

  “I hope the die comes up with a Gauss gun or an EPL blade,” I said, trying to make a joke.

  “Whatever it lands on,” Abrel said, “stay aggressive and confident.”

  “He’s right,” Veenz said. “I’ll try to shout out strategy if you want.”

  “Sure. If you think I’ll be able to hear you over the crowd, it can’t hurt.”

  “Do something unexpected,” Noleerz said. “These are traditionalists. They expect an opponent to follow predictable patterns. Don’t break the rules, Avery, but bend them enough to outwit your adversary. Think. Strategize. Win.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant,” I said. “I’ll do my best not to get beaten to death…”

  Chief Gunju held the die up and threw it. I didn’t recognize the symbol, but I knew the weapon the armorer brought out and presented to me.

  A flail.

  The natives used a tightly woven material instead of a chain to attach a spiked ball of metal to a wooden handle. The ball appeared to be roughly cast iron. It was covered with thumb-sized protrusions that were sharp enough to draw b
lood with only a slight touch. I know this because I poked my finger and a little bubble of blood oozed from the wound. I sucked the blood clean and smiled with red teeth.

  My opponent was a sleek native about my size. He was called something that sounded like Doole. He followed my example and smiled at me after he removed his bloody finger from his mouth.

  “That happens to be a blessing,” Pow said.

  “What?”

  “You offered him a blessing on the many children he’ll have with your woman if he’s successful killing you.”

  “Oh,” I said. “The joke’s on him, then.”

  “Pay attention, Avery,” Abrel said. “Have you ever seen that weapon in practice?”

  “Not really,” I admitted. “Maybe in a couple of movies.”

  “Never mind that. The industry never gets that shit right.”

  “Advice?”

  “Hit the other guy,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Seriously, Avery. Keep the ball in motion in a wide arc. Don’t do short swings that’ll come back at you.”

  “Got it. Hit the other guy, not myself.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Sounds easy.”

  “Don’t die, my friend.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  I squatted and rubbed my hands in the dirt.

  The chief clapped.

  We swung our weapons, slowly at first, but with increased velocity as we each moved toward the center of the ring. There was something primal and slightly vulgar about being armorless and half-naked. A few months before this gladiator-like death match, I had been traversing the galaxy in a starship.

  My friends called out with cheers of encouragement and advice. I tuned them out and concentrated on the mesmerizing effect of my opponent’s morning-star as it orbited above his head.

  I stepped within striking range as his ball passed, and reached out with mine. My weapon barely missed striking Doole in the head. He was quick, and he jumped back. I mimicked his reversal to evade the swing he brought after he’d retreated a step. I realized that first blood in this battle would probably establish the winner, especially if the blow was to the head.