by S. L. Viehl
the door panel, then the crowd. Possible death, or Ichthora. I really had to think about it.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll fight him.”
Everyone cheered, like I’d already won.
“I’ve lost my mind,” I muttered under my breath as I went through my pregame exercises, stretching and
toning my muscles for battle. “If I’m lucky he won’t kill me in the first two minutes.”
I looked up at my opponent, who was not doing anything but staring back at me.
You not belong here.
Damn right I didn’t. But somehow I had to get my mind set for this thing, or I would end up dead. What
would my offcoach scream at me to get me pumped for World Game?
He means to win—has to win, badass blade dancer. Only, you’re better, Rask! You’ve got to be
better! You will be better! Get out there and stomp his goddamn head in the turf!
Rijor’s voice, my voice of reason, chimed in: He’ll try to control the fight, Jory. He’s preconditioned
by drill and experience, just like us.
Look at him! my offcoach screamed. Standing there like he’s waiting for a glidebus! Are you going
to take this shit from a clown carrying a stick?
I knew a lot about psych jobs, too. Playing shockball was really two-thirds muscle, one-third brain. If
your opponent thought you were the fastest Terran on the planet, it weighed his legs down without his
even realizing it. How else could I have outrun every runblock, even when I’d played injured?
Rijor’s ghost laughed at me. The Jorenian blood didn’t hurt, either, Jory.
Shut up, Rij. I climbed into the quad. Go ahead, pal. Take your best shot.
The Rilken stepped between us and held up a couple of slimy coils. “Match between the breed and the
dancer, moves only. Pin for a ten-count to win.”
There were a lot of ways and places I could be pinned. “Shoulders to the quad floor.”
“Shoulders to the quad floor for ten to win,” he added as he scurried out of the way. “Begin!”
The dancer went still for a moment, then fluidly sidestepped, going for my left side. I went into a
block-break crouch and backed away.
The crew began shouting out encouragement, mostly for me—evidently I was the home team. Or the
underdog. I kept my eyes on his hands and mirrored the dancer’s movements, both of us revolving
around the center.
He was so quiet I couldn’t hear him move—no dimsilk rustle, no footsteps, no breathing. He never
stopped moving, either. Sweat beaded on my brow, and I felt that first, irrational wave of terror slam
over me.
He’s going to kill me.
Rijor had taught me how to channel my fear, let it block out everything but what was important—scoring.
Use it for focus, Jory. Don’t center and fixate; see the entire field. Move; don’t freeze up. You
should be afraid; everyone around you wants you dead. Make it work for you.
My offcoach didn’t mince words. Quit whining and kick his ass.
I moved, keeping my fists up and my weight balanced on both feet. The dancer changed his languid pace
and strode up to meet me as if he were walking down a corridor.
I struck, then recoiled in shock as he neatly dodged my right.
God, he’s fast.
I circled, still countering his position, though we were only two feet apart now. Keeping my left in to
protect my head and abdomen, I threw a few more jabs at him. He kept dodging, gracefully turning to
the right, or back, just enough to avoid the blow.
We could do this all day, I thought, then had to whirl to the left as he struck back. The blow glanced off
the side of my right arm, enough for me to feel the power behind the punch.
Fast and strong.
A surge of adrenaline made me slightly dizzy, and I backed off, trying to shake the rush. Now was not
the time to get rookie jitters. There was a lull in the noise, and out of the corner of my eye I saw heads
turn and heard whispers hiss.
So he swiped me. Not like I’m going to cry.
Yet that one punch made the difference, and the audience began cheering the dancer. As he advanced,
some of them even shouted out suggestions on how to pound me into the deck.
Hyenas.
Now I had to dodge him as he came after me. It was like being in a rain shower and trying not to get
wet. Still, I managed to keep him from landing a solid blow.
“So this is why you call it dancing,” I said, ducking under a punch and trying to get at him from behind.
He whirled and eluded my sneak attack. “You like?”
That was the weird part. I did like it—a lot. Fighting felt like shockball, only I had to go for the score and
defend myself, instead of relying on blockbacks to protect me.
I’d nearly socked him in the abdomen when something totally bizarre happened. My vision blurred and
my stomach knotted. I’d never felt anything like it. Then I did something I’d never done in all my years of
playing pro ball, even when I ran injured.
I tripped over my own feet.
He should have jumped on me then, but incredibly, the dancer hesitated. I latched onto the ryata rope
and fought for balance. The stick appeared in his left hand.
The dizziness was bad enough, but this? “Hey! No weapons!”
A blade shot out of the end of the stick, unlike the other two he’d pulled before. This one looked shorter,
sharper. The stick dwindled and darkened, and became a blunt-looking hilt about a split second before
he threw it at me.
Really stupid idea, Jory. I braced myself for the impact, but the blade flew past my belly, missing me
completely.
Someone screamed; then things got very, very quiet.
I hung on to the ropes and turned to see one of the crew lying half in, half out of the quad. It was the
friendly, stalk-eyed one who’d slapped me on the back before. His arm was flung out, pinned to the deck
by the blade sticking out of it. A strange-looking emitter sat next to his spasming hand.
By then the dancer was standing over the crewman. He picked up the emitter and switched it off.
My nausea and dizziness vanished.
“Brain tumbler.” He brought it over and handed it to me, then reached around to pull something off the
back of my neck and placed a tiny adhesive chip on my palm. “Tagged you. Signal made you trip.”
I studied the device and the chip for a moment, then glanced at the sobbing, cringing crewman. “Hedging
his stake.”
“Yes.” The assassin returned to the downed man, bent and jerked the blade out of his arm, then did
something to make it resume the bland stick form. “You kill him.”
I tossed the device between my hands as I considered it. “I’d like to. Slowly.”
He removed another, shorter dagger from inside his garment, making me wonder just how many knives
he had hidden on him. “Use this.”
“I don’t need it.” I flexed a hand, flashed some claw.
That impressed the crowd. “Suns, she’s Jorenian.”
“I thought they were blue,” someone said. “She’s pink.”
Another made a disgusted sound. “She’s a breed, you thick skull. They come in different colors.”
It felt good to see the crewman’s eye stalks stiffen and his eye clusters bulge just a little bit more, but I
retracted my claws. “Not worth the hassle.”
The assassin gazed down at the crewman. “Agreed.”
The Rilken who had arranged the fight edged up to us. “So? Will you continue?”
The fight felt like a stalemate. I couldn’t beat the dancer’s agility; he couldn’t beat my speed. There’s
always a point when you have to accept that something’s pointless.
“No, the fun’s over. Unless this idiot”—I nudged the terrified crewman with my foot—“wants to dance
with one of us.”
My opponent looked at the Rilken. “You arrange this?”
Now that wasn’t something I’d considered, but maybe my brains were still a little scrambled.
“No, no, I knew nothing about it.” The little alien paled as the assassin fingered his blade. “I swear to you,
that’s the truth.”
“It had better be.” I crushed the chip under my boot before I tossed the emitter to him. My leg throbbed,
and my stomach still felt queasy, so I decided to head to my cabin. “See you later, boys.”
The dancer took a bulging credit holder from the Rilken and slapped it into my hand. “For trouble.”
I didn’t like charity, but I wasn’t going to argue with him. I curled my fingers over the holder. “Thanks.”
I strode out of the quad, making sure not to limp until I reached the corridor. Yet even after the door
panel closed behind me, I could still feel the assassin watching me go.
CHAPTER FOUR
“The wise traveler knows his destination.”
—Tarek Varena, ClanJoren
After checking my knee, which despite the stress I’d put on it looked fine, I went to my console to check
on the database, search I’d started that morning. The display showed the results:
List any/all news/immigration/bonding/civil/criminal/penal/obituary files on native Jorenian citizens born
****28:****29 with following names: Jakol Varena. Nalek Zamlon. Galena Nerea. Osrea Levka.
Danea Koralko. Renor Xado.
Database search complete. No files found.
Which meant they were all still citizens of Joren, not bonded, not in prison, not dead, and hopefully
on-planet. As for my second search string—list any/all news/immigration/bonding/
civil/criminal/penal/obituary files on native Terran male surname Kieran—the screen offered one
file found:
Found one [1] on native Terran male Kieran/cross reference: order for apprehension and detention.
I opened the file and began to read.
Allied League of Worlds Transport Security Apprehension and Detention Order: Planetary and Trade
Route Authorities are advised to immediately apprehend and detain the following individual, Terran male,
PID63915179, known as Kieran, wanted on multiple counts murder, theft, piracy, assault, unauthorized
detention, destruction of property…
The list of Kieran’s offenses was further broken down by quadrant, the details of which continued for two
more screens. The file ended with:
Last reported physical description of subject: Biped humanoid, 100.23 kilos weight, 1.824 meters height,
standard Caucasian derma, black hair (upper cranial case only), green eyes (two)… no photoscan
available.
Obviously Kieran didn’t like having his picture taken, I thought, and input a third request:
List any/all news/transport/recovery/demolition files on Jorenian Star Vessel MoonWave.
The console bleeped an acknowledgment, and after several minutes produced one more file, a
multiple-quadrant alert that had been transmitted and archived twenty-seven years ago.
Located: database STS relay archive file ALW/ TW16914107
I rubbed my palms on my trousers before opening the file.
ALW ITS relay 1OO327/pridistr/poTW725426: Allied League of Worlds Interstellar Transport Security
requests any/all data pertaining to the current location and disposition of Jorenian star vessel MoonWave,
TWSID M2991E5070V. Vessel’s last transmission indicates possibility of raider pursuit and/or capture.
Transmit data to ALW ITS via SGRC8354145…
No mention of Kieran, or the others. So Mom was right; Joren hadn’t reported any of the specifics
regarding the MoonWave incident back to the Allied League.
Why not?
From what Mom had told me about her people, they didn’t like anyone messing with their blood
relatives. Someone from her HouseClan and all the others involved had undoubtedly copped the right to
track down Kieran for what he’d done to the Moon Wave’s crew. But big as the galaxy was, how could
they hope to find one coldblooded mercenary who didn’t want to be found?
I looked at the screen and saw I had typed . My database had interpreted that as a query, and offered a
generic definition:
Blade Dancer: proper noun [blAd ‘dan[t]s&r] Etymology:
Archaic Terran blœd + dancier. One of a covert order of assassins for hire, one who murders with a
transmogrifiable weapon [see tån]. Origin of order: Planet Reytalon, charted location unavailable.
I put in more queries. Outside of the unilang dictionary, I found very little hard data on the dancers. Some
sensational stories that read like bad League propaganda, a few speculative theories from news relays,
and a list of planets that refused to grant them immigration visas.
A long, long list.
Not that I imagined any blade dancer would covet residential status. An assassin’s profession meant
plenty of travel, as well as the need for anonymity. Blade dancers had to be homeless, constantly on the
move, always pursuing their target. I could even sympathize—I certainly knew how it felt to be forced to
keep moving and never let anyone know who I really was.
I switched off the terminal. Over the past revolution, blade dancers had been blamed for more than a
hundred assassinations in seven different quadrants, but not a single one of the elite killers had ever been
seen or identified, much less caught.
They might be scary, and murderers, but you had to admire that kind of skill. I might make a half-decent
blade dancer, myself.
You’re nothing like them. My conscience sounded a little worried. You’ve only got to get to Joren,
and you’ll have a real family, and a home, and the chance for a new life.
The problem was, I couldn’t see myself setting up shop on Mom’s homeworld, or trying to fit into a
culture I’d only heard stories about. ‘Gill’s warning about my knee ruled out contact sports, if they even
had them. But once I’d kept my promise and contacted the others, what could I do?
I’d never been trained to be anything but a runback who could pass as Terran. No one was going to hire
me because I used to run fast and knew how to spit like the best of the xenophobes.
They won’t be like the Terrans. They’ll help me make a new start.
I lay on my sleeping platform and stared at the upper deck for a few minutes. The Shadow had been so
hot to challenge me, would have beaten me—I could admit that now—and had ended up defending me.
Not exactly the kind of thing you’d expect from someone who made death his living.
Why would a killer want a fair fight?
I drifted into sleep, and dreamed of fighting dozens of dancers, all of them trying to carve my eyes out
with their blades. I woke up thinking I was screaming, then heard the screech coming from my panel.
“—repeat, all crewmen to defense stations!”
Defense stations meant someone was attacking the ship. Not a very bright someone, either. Gun runners
like the Chraeser maintained state-of-the-art firepower. Unless it was someone who had better.
Since I had no intention of waiting to die in my cabin to find out, I grabbe
d my knife and headed out to
the corridor.
A crewman distributing pulse rifles from a storage unit at the other end of my level tossed one to me.
“You want another fight, breed, head down to cargo level nine.”
I checked the power cells, which were full. Something hit the port side of the ship hard enough to send a
shudder through the entire hull. “Who am I shooting at?”
“The Hsktskt.”
Ah, the reptilian butchers who either killed you or enslaved you, currently at war with anything humanoid.
My kind of target. “Any League ships around?”
“What do I look like, an S.O.?” He tossed me a spare charged cell. “Go kill something green!”
I was stopped the minute I stepped off the lift onto nine, but a security guard recognized me from the fight
