by Lincoln Cole
Jayson used the distraction to sweep his leg. He caught the old man just below the knee and tripped him. Desmond hit the ground with a thud as broken plates landed everywhere, scattering wildly.
Richard chose that moment to wade in, rushing in and aiming a kick at the man’s head. Tricia flanked in the opposite direction, going instead for the man’s legs. It was a good strategy, difficult to counter.
They had him right where they wanted him.
But they never even came close.
The old man kipped up, landing nimbly in a crouch. He swept the cane through three quick arcs. The first disarmed Tricia with a jolt to the back of her hand. The second hit Richard hard in the foot he was kicking with, and the third landed on Tricia’s right temple.
She dropped like a sack of potatoes, unconscious before she hit the ground. Richard stumbled, hopping on one leg while holding his foot and cursing.
Jayson took a few steps back, creating separation. He couldn’t believe how fast the old man was, how precise. No motion wasted.
Jayson had spent two years in the militia on his home world of Eldun, learning hand-to-hand combat and weapons training. He would have considered himself moderately skilled, but against this man he knew he was outmatched.
The old man stepped limped away from Jayson, gingerly testing the weight on his left leg. His expression was grim; the twinkle gone from his eyes.
“Bum knee,” he explained, letting out a low sigh. He grabbed the knob on the end of his cane and twisted. It rotated ninety degrees and clicked. Then he drew the knob away from the cane, sliding a long and thin blade out of the wood.
It looked sharp.
The old man held the wooden shell in his left hand and the blade in his right.
“I thought this was an initiation.”
“It is,” the old man said. “But we don’t need all of you.”
The old man went for Richard first, swiping first with the blade. Richard dodged clumsily, hopping on his one good foot. The feint was followed by two quick jabs with the cane.
The first landed on Richard’s thigh and the second thudded on his shoulder. Richard went down with a grunt of pain.
He started to stand back up. A quick kick to his head ended that plan, knocking him unconscious. Jayson was the last one standing, and he knew that if something didn’t change he was in a lot of trouble.
He used the momentary distraction to mask his approach, needing every advantage he could get.
Jayson launched a kick, aimed for the man’s midsection and kidney.
The naked steel dipped low, moving to intercept his kick.
Jayson barely stopped his leg in time. His leg hit the blade. It sliced through his pants and drew a deep cut along his shin.
The man turned, facing Jayson and holding the weapon at ease. Jayson tested his leg. He felt blood running down the calf, pooling in his shoe, the leg seemed to hold his weight with only a mild throbbing.
Jayson moved to attack again. The old man raised the blade to parry the attack and Jayson was forced to back off again.
“I can’t fight against your blade,” Jayson said, gritting his teeth against the pain.
The man’s smile was brittle. “You can’t win against a blade.”
“Then what’s the point? Of any of this?”
“Respect.”
“Respect would be you lowering the weapon,” Jayson replied. “And letting me walk out of here.”
“You aren’t leaving,” the man replied. He twirled his blade and took a few steps closer. “Until you are finished training. Or dead.”
Jayson backed up a few steps, leaning against the table. His hand closed on one of the metal serving trays. His left shoe was squeaking and leaving little globs of blood behind. “Can I take option three?”
The man hesitated. “Option three?”
“The one where I kill you and walk out of here.”
The man barked a laugh, stroking his beard. He bowed ever so slightly. “You are more than welcome to try.”
Jayson rushed forward, whipping the tray around in an arc. He didn’t aim for the man, but instead attacked the air in front of him. The man backed up, not bothering to deflect, and Jayson swiped again.
Another feint. The man ignored it. Jayson cursed and quick stepped forward. His opponent took another step back, but Jayson was quicker. This time the attack that came aimed for the man’s head.
It was easily deflected by the blade. Jayson twisted his wrist as the two pieces of metal collided, turning the tray ninety degrees. He let the blade slide along the tray, holding it between him and his opponent. He didn’t have any moment for an attack, but that wasn’t his intention. He put the large flat tray right in the man’s field of vision, breaking line of sight.
The old man jabbed out with the wooden cane in his left hand. Without sight, however, the attack was misguided. Jayson caught the cane with his right hand and yanked hard. The man stumbled forward off balance, pulling back hard on the wood so that Jayson wouldn’t disarm him.
Jayson let go, releasing the tension, and then shot in at his opponent’s legs. He shouldered into his thighs and caught the calves before the old man could sprawl, then used his lower center of gravity to lift him into the air.
And then Jayson brought him down as hard as he could, slamming him onto his back as hard as he could. It should have been enough to knock the air out of his lungs. Then he could take the man hostage and use him as a bargaining chip to get out of here.
Jayson leaned forward and raised his head…
…and saw the pommel of the cane-sword coming at his face.
It hit Jayson right in the temple. Even without good positioning the close quarters attack hurt. He saw stars fly as his head jerked back and cursed his stupidity. He punched out, aiming for the man’s ribs, but too slow. The old man rolled with surprising agility, twisting his leg and pushing Jayson off.
Another jab of the sword hilt hit Jayson in the cheek. He managed to turn his head enough to make it a glancing shot, but it still hurt like hell. Jayson ducked and shoved, trying to extricate himself and get clear, but the old man held on. Now his takedown was working against him. The old man launched two more precise hits on Jayson’s shoulder, sending agony rippling down his left side.
Then he slipped free. Jayson forced himself to a knee and then wobbled to his feet. His head was spinning and his face hurt.
The old man stood five feet away, red faced and breathing in short, ragged breaths. The mirth was gone from his eyes. So was any forgiveness. Jayson watched, the world spinning and stars exploding in his vision, as the old man stalked in. His white beard was mashed against his face and his bright clothes were stained with blood.
Jayson’s blood.
The sword came first. No feint. No games. Just an attack meant to kill. Jayson threw himself to the side, and the attack meant for his chest drew a long gash on his side instead. He ducked and weaved away from the man, but it did no good. His opponent was relentless. A cut on his arm was followed by another on his leg. He was moving slowly and his right arm wouldn’t work very well. He couldn’t raise it any higher than his chest.
But that didn’t matter, he couldn’t see well either. Blood as running from a cut above his eye. I can’t keep this up for long, he knew.
It didn’t matter. Jayson side stepped, and his footing betrayed him. The bloody shoe slipped on the smooth marble floor and he landed on his hip. A groan came out his lips as pain flashed through his body.
One hit on his arm knocked him to the floor, and a second hit his diaphragm, knocking air from his lungs. His already blurry vision felt like he was looking through a tunnel, and he didn’t even have enough breath to moan.
He watched as the old man towered over him, breathing in ragged grasps. The old man set his bloody sword on the table and knelt down in front of Jayson.
Jayson lay on the groaned, writhing and wondering if he would ever breathe again. His head felt like it was going to explode from lack
of oxygen, and he was starting to black out. He longed for the peace of it but was terrified at what would happen next. Would he be killed? Tortured? Left for dead in the forest? What would they do to him if he blacked out?
The man knelt in front of him and wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. He hefted the wooden cane and leaned forward.
A few seconds passed with only the sound of their breathing separating them.
In a soft voice, the old man said, “My name…is Alexander Robertson.”
Then he brought the cane down, hitting Jayson right between the eyes. The world went black.
Chapter 6
Sector 1 – Axis
Abdullah Al Hakir
1
“Come on!” Eddie Boleman shouted, pumping his palm against the metal bench press. “You got this! Come on!”
Abdullah strained his muscles, blowing air in a tight stream through his lips. The weight bar moved up an inch and then stopped. It felt like he was pushing against a brick wall. He could feel the blood pumping through his skull, making him lightheaded.
All of his attention was on the weight, straining through his energy reserves and willing it to move. He grunted with exertion and pushed.
It didn’t budge.
“Come on, God damn it!” Eddie growled, leaning over the bar. He looked angry and frustrated. And he wasn’t even the one trying to lift the damn weight! “Lift the damn thing!”
Abdullah struggled for a reply. Something like ‘how stupid can you be to think that helps?’ or ‘shut up, moron.’ Something clever. Instead, he groaned in exhaustion, which didn’t have quite the same impact.
The weight bar slipped an inch lower and his arms threatened to give way. That vein in my forehead is going to explode, he decided. Blood will start spurting, and everyone will run away screaming. Then I’ll drop the bar on my neck and suffocate. And Eddie will finally stop bugging me about always going to the damn gym.
But no blood spurted out. Nor did the bar move. Abdullah groaned through the fog that was his mind. An eternal second slipped past…
And that was it: the heavy bar plummeted down, thudding hard against his chest and knocking the last bit of air free. Eddie was slow in catching it.
“Damn,” Eddie muttered, helping to lift the bar off his bronze skinned friend. “I thought you had it that time.”
Abdullah drew in a ragged breath, then another. It hurt. His heart had climbed up into his head and was working to punch its way loose.
“So did I,” he managed to gasp, sitting up. The world spun in confused circles before reorienting. “But my arms disagreed.”
“You were so close.”
“If by ‘close’ you mean ‘never stood a chance,’ then yes. Yes, I was,” Abdullah said. He accepted the offered towel and wiped sweat from his face. His arms were tight, on the verge of cramping.
“One more set?”
Abdullah stared at Eddie like he was crazy. Eddie raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. How about we get lunch instead?”
“Sure,” Abdullah agreed. Eddie lifted Abdullah to his feet by his left arm like he was a pillowcase instead of a one-hundred-kilogram man. Eddie was twenty-two, several years younger than Abdullah, still enjoying the boisterous energy of youth.
His real name was Alonso Edward Boleman the Third. He was a trust fund baby with golden locks of hair and a smile that melted girl’s clothes off. His body was rippled with muscles, and his eyes were an intense shade of green.
Those were good reasons for hating Eddie. The problem was, Eddie was also one of the nicest guys Abdullah had ever met, friendly and outgoing.
Abdullah was a few inches shorter than Eddie, and his body was built stockier. He had to work to keep himself in shape. If he even looked at food too long he gained weight.
And it didn’t go to his arms or legs but settled right in his abdominal region. He shaved his head in anticipation of the receding hairline his grandfather left him, and his eyes were plain charcoal. Walking anywhere with Eddie was equivalent to being invisible.
Eddie was his closest friend. He had abandoned the life of privilege to join the military, planning to earn everything.
Abdullah finished wiping off his face and checked his watch. Late morning still. Normally he would be on duty this time of day, guarding the armory. But, after Captain Schmidt died they were all given a few weeks of leave to relax.
It had gone past the point of being a pleasant vacation. Abdullah had run out of things to do.
“How long do you think until we get moving again?” Abdullah asked. His nerves were settling back down. His muscles had set into a dull ache of mixed pleasure and pain.
“Another week at least,” Eddie replied.
“Another week?” Abdullah asked incredulously. He had to remind himself that Eddie was only guessing. There was no official word from higher up about when Denigen’s Fist would start out on its patrol routes again.
He hoped like hell that Eddie was wrong: another week of downtime would have him rocking quietly in his quarters muttering about potatoes.
They walked through the second-floor gym heading to the exit. They passed by various pieces of shoddy or well-used gym equipment. This was an enlisted soldier’s gym, which meant that it wasn’t well taken care of or cleaned despite being one of the busiest on the ship.
The entire room smelled of stale sweat and body odor. It was mostly empty and had been since leave started. Most of the crew were down on Axis partying and blowing their hard earned cash on alcohol.
“You really think it will be that long?”
“At least,” Eddie said. He waved his hand in front of the sensor and the door sprang open. They strode into the silver and white hallway. “They still have to do the Pass of Command ceremony. And that’s only after they pick the new Captain.”
Abdullah groaned. Eddie smirked and kept walking.
The Central Walkway stretched off in both directions, running the length of the ship on all floors with various elevators for the crew to move up and down. Right now the two men were near the middle, one level above the engines and two levels below the midshipmen crew quarters.
Normally, the CW would have been packed beyond capacity and they would be swimming through a sea of bodies. Engineers, enlisted men, soldiers; all of the lowest level crew used this hallway to go about their daily lives.
That meant a good twenty thousand crew shared fifteen percent of the ship’s space. That was when Denigen’s Fist was at half capacity. Abdullah was terrified that the ship’s budget would grow and they would hire on the rest of the crew.
About half a kilometer farther down the CW, the hallway opened into a chamber called the Borough. The Borough was a six block open-air structure resembling a city-center. It contained house sized structures built into the walls and a gated Arboretum. It was premium space for the highest ranking crew, Captain, diplomats, and Ministerial Envoy.
It was entirely off limits to most of the crew unless they were assigned guard duty, of course. Abdullah had been there twice and saw the shops and theaters. It could have housed fifteen thousand soldiers with very little effort. Last ship census put its population at eight hundred. It was a comfortable place, filled with important men and women.
On the opposite end of the ship was the equivalent chamber for working men and women. That area was less than a quarter the size of the Borough and contained a few shops selling cheap trinkets with three dive bars. It was affectionately called the Belly of the Beast. Everything was for sale if you knew who to ask.
Abdullah hated the separation between enlisted men and officers. High ranking crewman and diplomats considered themselves nobility. They couldn’t empathize with the soldiers who served them. To do that would make them aware of the impoverished conditions of their crew. And that would make them feel bad, and everyone knows it is a tragedy for a rich person to feel bad.
The men and women down here were the lifeblood of Denigen’s Fist. Abdullah had dreamed about the Im
perial Navy as a child. He believed in the promised glory and honor. He bought the propaganda wholesale and signed on for a three-year contract. One day, he promised his mother and father he would be a great man. One day he would be important.
He’d never imagined just how wrong he could be.
No one gained rank in the military through skill or ability. Status was bought with blood, the kind flowing in veins, not spilled in combat. If someone was born into the right family, then he or she could make something of him or herself. For everyone else…
They lived in the Belly of the Beast.
“Who do you think they’ll get to replace Captain Schmidt?” Abdullah asked. They diverged off the CW onto a side hallway.
“Dunno,” Eddie said with a shrug. Their footsteps echoed down the silver luminescent walls. “Someone just like him, most likely.”
Abdullah snorted. “There’s no one ‘just like’ Captain Schmidt. At least not one that could make Captain.”
“True enough. They’ll replace him with an old ass-hat arrogant enough to think God chose him for the job.”
“Yeah,” Abdullah agreed. “And we need it.”
Eddie coughed, then laughed. “What?”
“Schmidt was soft-spoken. He treated us well,” Abdullah explained, “And things were bad.”
“How so?”
“Training, preparation. If we were attacked tomorrow, how do you think we would handle it?”
Eddie shrugged. “No idea. We’ve never been attacked.”
“That’s just blind luck.”
“No, not blind luck. Peacetime,” Eddie argued. “We don’t need a war general. We need another lazy bastard like Captain Schmidt. So what if training goes to hell? So what if we can’t fight our way out of a wet paper bag? We don’t need to be ready to kill people.”
“If you want peace, prepare for war,” Abdullah said.
“If you prepare for war, then you plan to start one,” Eddie replied. “If you have a powerful new weapon, you want to try it out. The problem with training for war is you get good at it. And when you’re good at something, you want to do it. Writer’s like to write. Singers like to sing. And killers like to kill.”
