Yet the personal price . . .
“Is something wrong, ovKhan Kalasa?” Sha finally broke the tableau, his cool features quirked into the semblance of a smile—a predator toying with its prey. “Has your cold gotten the better of you?”
Petr opened his mouth to speak, but nothing emerged; moths of despair had eaten their fill and fled.
“Well, I believe that flu has him under the weather. Perhaps he is not nearly as strong after our last encounter as he believed. Quiaff, Jesup?”
“Aff,” came a muffled, soft reply.
Petr quivered for a moment as though in a palsy, before stillness returned. He did not wish to hear that name, hear that voice. Simply to the fight and be done with it.
“A Trial of Annihilation,” Petr spit his challenge through frozen lips. “Now.” A gasp from a woman to Sha’s right caused Petr to transfer his gaze momentarily, before returning his concentration to the only opponent who mattered.
Sha’s eyebrows rose and his thin-lipped smile stretched into a ghastly grin. “Annihilation,” he said, as though tasting the word for its weight, its power. “And I thought we were simply here for grievances between friends.”
“It cannot be any other way.” His shoulder ached with a hint of the pain to come; as with all else, Petr ignored it. “There can be no other way.”
“There are always other ways, other choices. Jesup has told me often of the choices you have made. Of your prattle about choices. Quiaff? You make a choice. I make a choice. We all make a choice. There are always other ways.” Sha glanced back over his shoulder, focusing on the person Petr fought desperately to ignore, turned back and began moving toward him. “Jesup made a choice some time ago. Saw what I and so many others have known for so long. Saw you using all around you without a care for their potential beyond numbers on a balance sheet.” He stepped into the large circle quickly inscribed into the ground. “Amazing what a hand in friendship can do.”
The crushing weight of that statement slammed through all the defenses he had carefully erected. Cutting straight, a saber thrust true to the heart.
Petr slowly swiveled his head (felt like the ratchety swivel of a worn gun turret zoning in to target) toward Jesup. The other tried to avoid his eyes, then seemed to suck in a breath and stare at him across the distance. Petr tried to find something within those depths to explain what happened, but he already knew. Knew and did not want to face it, any more than he wanted to face Jesup’s betrayal and the ultimate cost of that choice.
A memory from what seemed a lifetime ago surfaced. He had finally found Jesup without words; the wallowing almost broke him.
I did this. His callous arrogance would kill a valuable asset to the Clan: a valuable asset to him, a friend.
He stepped into the circle.
“Trial of Annihilation,” Petr said again. The words carved themselves in fire in the afternoon sky, unretractable, unforgiving, unrelenting. If Sha lost this battle, all those who stood with him would die, as would any sibkos carrying their genes. Every ounce of blood, every splice of gene that carried their tainted code would be spilled, expunged from the Clan’s genetic repositories and breeding programs. A surgeon’s practiced slice to remove the malignant tumor.
Such, after all, was the way of the Clans.
Such would be the way all would perish, the way Jesup would perish.
Sha nodded once, finally; a moan from amid the onlookers was the only sound.
Petr simply walked slowly toward Sha, who dropped into a low, stable stance, hands outstretched.
“You still do not look well,” Sha said. “Should we call a break first, have some fusionnaires to deaden the pain in your arm?”
Petr hesitated, confused. This talking did not fit Sha. Several scenarios rolled around in his head, but none could find purchase to materialize. Too much cotton still left, too much numbing and distance. He shrugged slowly, moved again, uncaring of the quick darts left and right made by Sha.
Almost within arm’s reach, Sha took a quick step forward and jabbed three times in succession at different parts of Petr’s body. Hammer right, chop left, thrust straight.
Petr countered each with a smooth deflection of hand and forearm, though a hair slower than Sha. Although Sha had a slim frame, his muscles were whipcords of strength and speed.
Taking a half step back, Petr tried to better gauge Sha, but felt hampered by his mind’s continued lack of interest. Of simple curiosity. It had utterly shut down upon learning of Jesup’s betrayal, was not yet recovered. He simply didn’t care. Yes, he would do his duty; he would save the Clan. But how he got from here to there no longer held interest for him.
Whether he got there, he cared not at all.
As though sensing easy prey caught in the shallows, Sha slinked left, trying to place himself into Petr’s right quarter and the weakened arm. Petr, still slack faced and unemotional, made no move to counter the tactic. With a twist kick and spin, Sha hammered a blow in toward Petr’s midsection, which his years of training deflected with a raised inward right leg and swung right arm; the dull ache spiked alive, a dragon awaking from slumber, unsheathing claw and tooth.
The two moved smoothly back and forth, trading blow for blow, with Sha landing more often, all concentrated on the weakened right side.
Through Petr’s disconnected haze, the shocks felt distant, delivered to a body viewed at arm’s length, outside of himself. Blood ran down a face not his own from a roundhouse splitting open skin under his left eye, right hand curled in three broken fingers he did not feel, torn ligaments in the right shoulder an outcry for a different face and name.
Three times he fell and each time rose.
The look on Sha’s face waxed and waned, from confidence, to arrogance, to frustration and now verged on something Petr could not put his finger on. Regardless, the fists and feet moved with preternatural speed, continued their incessant attempts to knock him down. To keep him down.
Though Petr delivered his own set of badges in return, he fell behind the damage delivered with gusto by Sha.
A particularly savage uppercut slipped past Petr’s ineffectual right-hand guard, connecting with his jaw and lifting him clean into the air before dropping him like a ’Mech with a destroyed gyro, splayed, to the ground.
Head ringing, fireworks exploding in eyes wide with anguish, Petr responded as his mind immediately rolled its disconnected body enough to the side that it could gain a purchase and began to lever itself back up.
“Stay down, surat!” Sha panted, standing at a kick’s distance. “Admit your defeat.”
Petr slowly swiveled swollen eyes in his direction, briefly felt the sting of sweat in the corners of his eyes, the copper hint of blood from broken teeth and torn gums.
Tried to understand the look on Sha’s face. Surprise. No. Fear? (Not a hint.) Disbelief. No, more. Awe.
Slowly maneuvered himself back to his feet, stood swaying for a moment; not even his mind’s indomitable will could ignore the massive trauma to his body indefinitely. Loss of blood and pain brought blackness that threatened to sweep away his cares.
Deep within the confines of such uncaring, a spark of Petr remained. The spark that cared. The spark that knew he had already paid the ultimate price for stopping Sha, for his own arrogance. Knew the price of his body a small notation on the balance sheet in an already giant column.
Clumsily moved forward.
“Stop,” Sha said again, grunting with his own pain and effort. “Admit defeat!” he thundered; Petr stopped in stunned disbelief at the completely out-of-character outburst. Another note entered Sha’s voice, something Petr could not place right away. Through the shrouds of pain that lay across his brain like a veil, it slowly surfaced: a cork popping up from too much pressure.
Respect. Honest, true respect. A warrior acknowledging the valor of another.
Creasing split lips, spitting out blood and a tooth, he gazed at Sha. Switched the gaze momentarily to Jesup, who stood impassively watching
on the sidelines; dual epiphanies sprang into existence, grew and intertwined with verdant, desperate need. With understanding.
Nothing he could do would change the pain of Jesup’s betrayal. You could not expect someone, not even a Clansman, to serve for nothing; yet he made a choice as well.
Petr had already defeated Sha, shown him and those who followed him that whether Petr lived or died, regardless of the distances grown between the Khanates, the spirit of the Sea Fox Clan could not be broken, would never be sundered, not by forces without and certainly not by forces within. Realized that this strength flowed in him, could be tapped when all else failed.
Straightening, smiling, without anger, without pain or bitterness for the first time in long weeks, Petr responded, “I am Clan Sea Fox.”
Dragging in a deep breath to lungs starved of life, he launched one final assault.
Epilogue
Clan Sea Fox CargoShip Voidswimmer
Nadir Jump Point, Castor
Prefecture VII, The Republic
1 November 3134
The data cube fit in the palm of his hand.
Petr arrived at his command cabin from Delta Community—assessing the ongoing repairs, pleased with the speed of recovery—where the passage of Fox Clansmen still flowed around him, but the distance no longer ensured he would never be touched; nor, if jostled, would there be abject horror and obsequiousness.
Nor did he take such as his due, now truly conscious of those around him. Of their moods, their desires, likes and dislikes. Of how he might make a difference. Wanted to reach out to grasp a shoulder here, an arm there, shake a hand or two. To ask how they fared. How their lives progressed. Were they acclimatizing to the changes?
But too much, too soon. They might retreat into past attitudes and customs. No, he must take it slowly, as he must take the recovery of his body, having pushed it to the brink.
Sitting in the familiar chair with its quirks and creaks, he clenched his fist, felt the cube bite. Yes, times for speed and times for sedateness. All just a matter of degrees. And right now, all aspects could use a little slowing down.
He peeled his fingers from the cube one at a time, a fruit revealing its luscious pulp. A heavy sense of déjà vu swept him and he expected the door to open to reveal a smiling and sarcastic Jesup informing him of the repairs to the Starmoth.
Petr felt an ache. Knew neither those smiling eyes nor even a genetic legacy would ever lighten someone’s countenance again. Knew that, unlike the pain in the muscles and ligaments of his ruptured shoulder, that ache would never truly heal. That scar he would carry a lifetime, a reminder of his own failings.
To keep him from making the same mistakes again.
Petr moved the data reader in front of him and placed it atop the report he received yesterday from the ilKhanate. A summons to the Khan’s presence. Whether for good or ill, he simply did not care. He did his duty for the Clan and he wished for no reward or special treatment. In fact, he almost hoped for a punishment. For the lives he squandered, the resources lost to the Clan.
The lost friends.
With a weary sigh, growing more nostalgic and less bitter every day, he slotted the cube into the reader, the warm hum setting the hairs on his right hand on end; ozone sat heavily on his tongue momentarily as the machine buzzed and sparked before the image clarified, springing into view.
Maintenance lying down on the job? He smiled before the familiar ache of his rage could even echo. Or did I forget to submit a service work chit?
Smoky eyes swallowed him, while a throaty voice carried him away.
“Hey, sweetness, you sure do give mixed signals. One day we’re talking wedding and dreaming about the night after and the next you leave me at the altar? Now what’s a girl to think?”
Petr chuckled, gently (lest the recently unwrapped ribs protest too much), realized the view centered only on her face, showing nothing below her neck. Different from her previous communiqués.
“Now I think you just got cold feet, sweetness, and deep down you just can’t live without me.” She actually brought up her right-hand index finger—the chewed nail exquisitely detailed at this scale—and tapped her pursed lips. “As such, I guess I’m willing to forgive you. There’s more than a ghost of a chance we’ll meet again, sweetness. And don’t forget the flowers and chocolates. I love chocolate.”
She winked and his smile grew wider.
“Now let’s stop beating around the bush and get down to some serious stuff.” Though she tried to rearrange her features to be serious, Petr could see the amusement of the whole affair sparkling in her eyes like distant nebulas viewed from the observation deck. “It would seem you managed to stop the Marik invasion cold, though to be honest, it seemed they really didn’t put their heart into it. Makes you wonder if this was a litmus test.”
He’d thought the exact same thing.
“ ’Course, your Khanate paid the price for stopping it. Then again, I guess you stopped ol’ Sha from taking your Clan apart from the inside out. So you did yourself a favor more than you did The Republic one.”
The thoughtful look, as though she actually contemplated going back on her word, might have worked for someone else. Though their time together had been short, he knew her. Knew her in a way he never thought to know a spheroid. She simply liked to play; it was her way.
She smiled brilliantly, and once more the striking gray eyes glowed, outshining the holoprojector itself. “No, I suppose I’ll keep my word to you. If you need aid from The Republic—if you need me—just put a call out to Snow through your contacts . . . and you’ll find a data cube waiting for you when you least expect it.” She turned her head away slightly, then back, glanced down momentarily as though truly trying to decide if she would speak again. Finally, looked back up at the camera and slowly licked her lips before continuing.
“You know, sweetness, you sure were hot to trot to know who I worked for, but then you simply let it drop. I don’t know about your Clanner girls, but us spheroid females, we like to keep our secrets . . . but we like you to keep asking, regardless of how many times we tell you no.” She paused, smiled that wicked grin that never failed to raise his hackles. “And I just might be naked. Right now. Just thought I’d give you something to dream about until the wedding night. Bye, sweetness.” Her smile grew to fill his world and suddenly the message ended, her face dematerializing, dropping away into his past as surely as Jesup, Sha and the events of the last months.
His jaw dropped open momentarily; just when he thought he’d taken her measure and knew what to expect, she could take his breath away that easy. Petr slowly lowered his head to the desk. Slipped both hands back across his bald pate; the one side filled with scars, the other surgically altered so no hair would grow. Visible scars for the ones underneath, prices paid for his choices.
On the verge of sighing, he suddenly laughed out loud, the good-natured sound bouncing and echoing in the small room, the first such sound from him in too long; his world filled with smoky eyes.
Somehow, Petr knew she did not belong just in his past. After all, she made her choices as well. Made them boldly and clearly for those with eyes to see.
About the Author
Randall N. Bills began his writing career in the adventure gaming industry, where he has worked full-time for the last eight years. His hobbies include music, gaming (from electronic to RPGs to miniatures to all those wonderful German board games), reading (of course) and, when he can, traveling; he has visited numerous locations both for leisure and for his job, including moving from Phoenix to Chicago to Seattle, numerous trips to Europe, as well as an LDS mission to Guatemala.
He currently lives in the Pacific Northwest, where he continues to work full-time (and then some) in the adventure gaming industry while pursuing his writing career. Randall has published four novels and two Star Trek novellas; this is his fifth novel.
He lives with his best friend and wife, Tara Suzanne; their precocious son, Bryn Kevin; their ut
terly adorable daughter, Ryana Nikol; their wonderful new son, Kenyon Aleksandr; and an eight-foot red-tailed boa called Jak o’ the Shadows; not to mention George the Sneaky, the mouse that didn’t get eaten.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
1
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3
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11
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13
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Epilogue
About the Author
Hunters of the Deep Page 22