by S. L. Viehl
As we headed to the exhibition platform, the door panel opened and two of the other trainers entered.
Neither one looked happy. Bek consulted with them briefly, his own expression turning to stone before
he left them to address the class.
“There is a change of schedule. All third-level trainees are to report to the challenge quad. This session is
dismissed.” He then came up to the platform, stopping me and Kol from following the others out. “Your
injuries will not exempt you from participation in this, Sajora,” he told me bluntly. “Stay paired with Kol;
he can best assist you during the melee.”
“Why are they doing this, Trainer? Is it some type of war games?” He nodded, and I took in a deep
breath. No wonder the trainers looked worried. “I will, thank you, Bek.”
“What is a melee?” Kol asked as we left the session room.
“It’s an archaic battle term. My offcoach used it to describe our practice scrimmages. It means
free-for-all,” I said. “You take everyone you have, divide them into two teams, and have them fight each
other.”
“Uel cannot intend to do the same with the third level. There are too many of us.”
We joined the others around the quad, where Dursano and other inductors were walking around handing
out new bands—wide white bands with silver or brown triangles on them. Some trainees were handed
one or the other; others were offered a choice.
When Dursano reached us, he said, “Do you side with the Faction”—he held the silver triangle
band—“or the League?”
“Neither.” Kol frowned, studying the bands. “As our homeworld has chosen, we remain neutral.”
“Nevertheless.” The inductor held out the bands. “For this practice you will select a side or one will be
chosen for you.”
With the exception of ‘Gill, I had no fondness for the League, but I’d be damned if I’d end up siding with
the lizards. “I’ll take the brown.”
“Wait.” Kol took the band from me, reversed it to its plain white side, and wrapped it around his upper
arm. “There is always neutrality in war, Dursano. It is its own side. You cannot deny us.”
“You should take the brown.” The inductor nodded toward a large group of trainees wearing silver
bands. “They will force you to it.”
Among the silvers were Fayne and a number of insectile, furry, and reptilian beings. As she tied her band
around her throat, she looked up and gave Kol a beautiful leer as she waggled her fingers.
“Your girlfriend’s siding with all the slaver species,” I murmured. “Maybe he’s right.”
He shook his head. “Joren does not stand with the League. Neither shall we side with those who
dishonor life.”
As soon as everyone had been banded, the Blade Master mounted the platform and climbed with eerie
grace into the quad, taking position in the center. Silence fell over the crowd as he was surrounded on
either side by dimensional images of uniformed soldiers—a League colonel in dress brown, and a
Hsktskt OverLord in thermal silver.
“The conflict between these two coalitions has entered a new stage. With each quadrant they invade, they
either impress or recruit new species, and add to their already considerable forces. No neutral territory
has survived an invasion.” He turned full circle, zeroing in particularly on our little group. “You who do not
ally yourselves may not have another opportunity to do so.”
Despite that rather pointed warning, none of us took our bands off. Dursano and the other trainers began
to separate the trainees, leaving us off to the side. Uel didn’t let it go there, however. He left the quad and
came directly to us.
“If you seek to avoid this exercise by choosing the white, reconsider. All of you will be pitted against both
teams.”
Sparky’s hair bristled. “We are not cowards, Blade Master.”
“Very well.” He indicated the quad. “Prepare for engagement as a neutral force.”
We entered the quad, followed by teams of silver and brown bands who outnumbered us two to one.
“This isn’t fair,” I said to Dursano, who indicated our positions from the floor. “It should be an even
match, not fourteen on seven.”
His thin lips quirked. “War is seldom fair, Saj, particularly to those who seek to escape it.”
Everyone surrounding the quad began talking and laughing as they saw how we were positioned in the
center of the opposing teams. Some threw out ribald suggestions on how we should fight.
“Give them your backs; make it quick!”
“Jump over them!”
“Kneel and beg; the browns will be merciful!”
Kol positioned us so that we faced out to both sides, with Ren and Danea in flank positions.
“Do not wait; do not give them the advantage,” he said in a low voice. “Use the no-blade attack.”
“The what?” I muttered back, and he put his mouth next to my ear and told me. At first it didn’t process;
then I realized what he was doing and laughed. “You’re absolutely insane.”
“It will work.” He lifted his face to check the position of the hoverdrone. “On three—one, two, three.”
Before the drone could finish opening the match, all seven of us attacked. Kol, Osrea, and I lunged at the
silvers, while Nalek and Galena went after the browns. Danea and Renor went immediately to the sides,
waiting on flank.
I yelled as I slashed out with my raen-tån, but I didn’t bother hitting either of the two silvers in front of
me. Instead, I followed Kol’s instructions and cut the ryata cords behind them. The three elastic cords,
which normally kept fighters in the quad, collapsed, leaving that side of the platform completely open.
Using my arms and momentum, I shoved them both over the edge. They fell off the platform and hit the
floor as the watching trainees scattered. Then I wheeled around and did the same to another silver.
The others also cut the cords and shoved their opponents out of the quad. In less than five seconds, ten
challengers had been thrown to the floor.
Renor and Danea closed in on the four left, and made short work of them. Sparky used her field to force
them over the side, and Ren didn’t even have to touch them; he just looked and out they flew.
The seven of us resumed our positions in the center of the quad as Kol lifted his blade over his head.
“White neutral prevails,” he said, in the stunned silence.
I made a point of catching Fayne’s eye, and waggled my fingers at her. Now who’s laughing, Blondie?
A moment later dozens of voices began shouting out in protest, and a couple of the embarrassed
challengers tried to’ climb back into the quad. Dursano and the other inductors pulled them away as the
Blade Master mounted the platform.
“The rule stands: Any challenger forced out of the quad loses the bout.” His statement made the trainees
fall silent again. “The Clanjoren has prevailed.”
Clanjoren? Mom had been called that. It was a title, an award. They gave it to someone who sacrificed
a great deal or did something important for the planet. It was also a way to make someone an honorary
member of every HouseClan. Either Uel didn’t know that, or he was being majorly sarcastic.
“We are not Clanjoren,” Danea said.
Kol lowered his blade. “Perhaps here, we will be.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“The traveler and the path are alone until they journey together.”
—Tarek Varena, ClanJoren
From that point on, quad group exercises were integrated into our daily training schedule, and a new
mood settled over the third level. Before, there had been plenty of rivalry and competition, but on an
individual basis. Now it didn’t matter what rank someone wore; everyone had become either a brown or
a silver, League or Hsktskt, colonizer or slaver. Most of the trainers picked sides as well.
We heard wild rumors about the war, and the possibility that Reytalon might be evacuated. Someone
said the staff had shut down the now-empty first level completely. More second-level trainees were
advanced to third every day. We began seeing more reds and even a few orange bands among the ranks.
So many challenges were made by opposing members of both sides that the quad was never empty, and
the bouts went beyond vicious. Sometimes as many as ten trainees died as a result of implant kills each
day.
The entire Tåna had gone to war and, as we had in the very first bout, the seven of us landed right in the
middle of it.
“I can deal with the jeers and the shoves and the challenges thrown in my face every five seconds,” I told
Kol one night in our quarters. “But I have a real problem when it’s the trainers who are doing it.”
“They are no more immune to this conflict than the others.” He checked his blades and cleaned some sim
blood off the blade guards before sheathing them. “We cannot abandon our neutral status now; some of
the others are beginning to see the wisdom of it.”
Nalek flopped down on his mat. “Several browns spoke to me about joining us.”
“Some of the silvers are interested, too.” Osrea pulled off his tunic and flexed his pinned arms with a grunt
of relief, making his blue-plated hide crack at the seams. He caught my look and made a rude gesture.
“Not all reptilians are interested in slave trading, ClanSister.”
“I do not like it.” Danea paced around the room with restless energy. “They have already cut our rations
in half. When I spoke to the server drone, it claimed it had been programmed to withhold food from us.
That neutrals must suffer deprivation during war.”
“It is another tactic to force us to choose sides,” Kol told her. “I will speak to Bek; he seems sympathetic
to us. Perhaps he can intervene for us with the Blade Master.”
“I doubt it,” I said. “Uel is probably the one who gave the order to starve us.”
Galena tugged me off to one side. “Is that why you gave me your meal tonight, Jory?”
I shrugged, embarrassed and ready to clock the snake-haired harpy for opening her big mouth about
rations. “I really wasn’t hungry.”
She pressed a thin hand to my cheek. “Never have I had such a ClanSister.”
Os, who had drifted over by us on the pretext of getting a clean tunic, gave me a very strange look—as if
he wanted to hug me and punch me at the same time.
I checked the chronometer. “Kol, if you want to take that extra session with me tonight, we’d better go.”
Since my injuries from the Akkabarran simulation had healed, Kol and I had by unspoken agreement put
aside our personal problems to spend an additional hour after regular training to fine-tune our moves.
Bek had instructed us to use an empty storage chamber just off the main bladework room, where we
could secure the door panel and practice in peace.
We walked down the corridor, passing a few stragglers from the evening meal interval. A few of them
had removed their obek-las and unfastened their tunics.
“Have you noticed the change in temperature?” I asked Kol.
“It seems warmer each day.” He turned the corner, and stepped to one side to avoid a pair of disgruntled
furred beings arguing in low growls. “You think it is intentional?”
“I think the silvers are mostly coldblooded and are enjoying the hell out of it.” I went to the chamber
panel and entered the code Bek had given us. “You know they do better in hot climes.”
“While tempers do not.” He thought it over. “Why would the Blade Master seek to deliberately aggravate
the trainee population?”
“The same reason he started these war games, though what it is beats me.” Lately Uel had been present
at every session I attended, too, although I hadn’t mentioned that to anyone. I still wasn’t sure he was
there to watch me, and none of the trainers would comment on his presence. “Where did we leave off
last night?” I asked as we entered the room. “The running attack?”
He scanned the room, then drew out his tåns. “We should concentrate on your remise. You need to trim
more reaction time from your parry to counterattack.”
I pulled my blades and rolled my shoulders, trying to loosen up. Already sweat was beading above my
brows and upper lip. “I can do that.”
We faced each other, tapped right blades, and began to spar. Advancing until there was no more room
to occupy, we avoided each other’s initial feints and parried the simultaneous, genuine thrusts.
“You are aggressive tonight,” Kol murmured, probably in an attempt to distract me.
“Yeah, I do feel like kicking your ass again.”
Our tåns collided, parted, met again as we began circling each other. I fell into the rhythm and lost sense
of myself, knowing only to where to move and when to counter Kol’s blades. The heat was a problem,
though. It felt like someone had sucked all the air out of the room, and sweat was making it hard to
focus.
“Time.” I stepped back and held out both hands, blades up. As he lowered his blades, I saw he was
dripping wet, too. “It’s getting too hot for this.”
He pulled off his tunic, revealing his wide, sweaty chest. “I will see if I can adjust the envirocontrols.”
While he worked on the console, I stripped out of my tunic and trousers. The one-piece undergarment I
wore was soaked through, but I felt better.
“I can’t override the shutoff program,” Kol said as he came back over to me. “We must continue
tomorrow.”
“Why?” I dried my face and hair with my tunic, then saw how politely he was averting his gaze. “Oh,
Christ, Kol, you’ve seen me naked a couple times. Take off those pants and let’s go.”
“It is not proper to fight unclothed.”
“I hope you never get attacked while you’re cleansing.” I grinned. He was such a Jorenian for formality.
“Come on, it doesn’t matter. Let’s spar another round; then we’ll call it quits.”
With visible reluctance, he stepped out of his trousers and kicked them aside, then faced me and held out
his right blade. “Engage.”
I tapped, then forced his blade to one side, stepping in fast to meet his left blade, coming up toward my
abdomen. “You’re going to have to be faster than that, pal.”
He pushed me away and circled to my left. “I am.”
I hooked his right blade and clashed mine with his left, crossing our arms until I disengaged one and he
the other. “Nice. Try again.”
We sparred with renewed speed, and I enjoyed the immediate benefit of shedding my garments as I
glided around him unimpeded by fabric. The sweat on our skins made us both slippery, which led to us
both nicking each other a few times until we compensated for that.
Slipping into the no-mind rhythm seemed more difficult now, though. With our bodies exposed, I was
acutely aware of him, of the slickness of his ski
n as we locked arms and blades.
His scent blended with my own, and became something darker, more intense. The play of his muscles
distracted me, too—he had toughened up even more over the last months, and his long limbs extended
and bunched with sheer animal grace.
My damp feet slid on the floor, and one of his blades nicked my shoulder. I rolled around most of the
thrust and tried to return it, only to lock blades with him again.
An inch from my face, he asked, panting, “Enough?”
“No.” I applied pressure to his wrist, knowing I had the better angle. “What, are you tired, ClanBoy?”
He wrenched out of the lock and slashed at my hip, but I spun away before he could cut me. When I
looked down, I saw the shoulder hit had caused half of my top to peel down, and thin rivulets of blood
trickled over my exposed breast.
“I ought to make you mend this,” I said, spinning my blades and stepping to his right, egging him on. “I
hate to sew.”
