“It’s my first time living away from home, too.” The word clanged in her mind. Home. She no longer had a home.
Voices came from outside. They passed the room and went on down the hall.
“Are many other novices here yet?” Soz asked.
“More by the minute,” Jazar said. “I was one of the only ones yesterday, but they’ve been pouring in today.”
“Good.” Remembering home dimmed Soz’s mood. She felt oddly uneasy when she thought of her father. Something was wrong. It had to be an effect of the way she had left home. Except … somehow that explanation didn’t seem right.
The voices were coming back this way. They resolved into two people speaking Skolian Flag, a man and a woman.
“The number must be wrong,” the woman said. “Mine says you’re one of my roommates and this is my room.”
Jazar gave Soz a mock wide-eyed look and mouthed Invasion! Before she could reply, two people appeared in the doorway: a sturdy young man with black hair pulled into a queue at his neck, black eyes, and dark skin; and a lean young woman with a round face and a cap of red hair that wisped around her face in another nonregulation haircut. The girl carried a duffel over her shoulder.
“Heya,” Soz said.
“Heya,” Jazar said.
“Are you both assigned here?” the woman asked.
“Seems so,” Jazar said.
“Looks like it,” Soz said.
The four of them all regarded one another. Then the youth with the queue said, “I’m Obsidian.”
The woman motioned at herself. “Grell.”
Jazar grinned. “Hey! Greetings, Grelling. Obsidian. I’m Jaz.”
Soz smiled. “I’m Soz.”
“Heya, Soz, Jaz,” Obsidian said.
Grell gave Jazar an unimpressed look. “No one calls me Grelling.”
“Fair enough,” Jazar said. “You two our roommates?”
“I think so.” Obsidian lifted his mesh-card. “Someone put the wrong room on this. It already has four people.”
Soz brought up the names of her roommates on her card. “Mine lists you, Grell, Jazar, and me.”
Jazar was studying his. “Same here.”
“Mine, too.” Grell gave Jazar a wicked grin. “It says Grell, Obsidian, Sauscony, and Jazzing.”
“Jazzing?” Jazar smirked. “You know, I learned some Earth languages. In English, ‘jazzy’ means you’re ultra to the redshift.”
“Only in your dreams,” Grell said.
Soz blinked, baffled by the slang. She kept quiet about her lack of savvy; no need to give herself away as a rube.
Obsidian snapped his card. “I should go get this fixed.” He nodded to them. “Jaz, Soz, Grell. Got it.”
“See you,” Soz said.
With a wave, Obsidian took off, striding out into the corridor. Grell strolled inside and hefted her duffel on the bunk above the one where Soz was sitting. “So you two are Soz and Jaz. Sounds like twins.”
“Soz.” Jazar nodded to her with approval. “Good name.”
“Jaz.” Soz flashed a grin. “I approve.”
Grell snorted. “I’m glad you approve of each other.”
“Soz approves of you, too,” Jazar said.
“And why is that?” Grell asked.
Soz motioned at Jaz. “Because you gave him a hard time.”
Grell laughed. “I’m good at that.”
“I don’t know about this,” Jazar said. “If you’re both always this hard on me, my life is going to be rough.”
“It won’t be that bad,” Soz said. “You get to room with the two smartest novices in the entire class.”
Jazar snorted. “Modest, too.”
“The three smartest,” Soz said, smiling.
They set about moving into their room then. Her duffel had already arrived; she found it stowed in one of the lockers. Soz left her comment about smart novices as a joke, but it was actually true. She and Obsidian had the top scores in the incoming class. This morning she had grown bored waiting for the EI Clerk of the Novices to complete her formal registration, so she had wandered into a public console room and entered the academy mesh. Splitting open its security had been easy, at least compared to hacking the ISC orbital defense mesh at home.
About once a year, Colonel Corey Majda, commander of the Lyshrioli orbital defenses, would send an irate message to Soz’s parents, informing them that ISC security had caught their wayward daughter fooling with secured meshes again and would they please do something about this. For Soz, a grave session with her parents and Majda would follow, where they sternly admonished her misbehavior. Soz always tried to look contrite, but she never fooled anyone. Then they would make her go work at the starport, cleaning mechbots, which was truly vile.
She always behaved herself after such a session. All would be quiet for many octets of days. But the bug of curiosity would keep nibbling at her, and soon she would start poking the ISC systems again. In her childhood, it had all been a game, but more recently she had begun to see why it troubled Colonel Majda, as she better learned the significance of the ISC “toys.” They were part of a system that protected an interstellar empire, and her ability to compromise them posed a threat to security. She made a suggestion to Majda then: let her infiltrate the system so they could patch the holes she found. To her surprise, both her parents and Majda considered it a good idea. Once they started using her as a consultant, everyone had been a lot happier.
Soz intended to behave at DMA, follow orders, walk a straight path. She wanted to do this right. In addition to her insatiable curiosity and constant urge to push boundaries, she also had a pronounced sense of right and wrong. She appreciated better now that splitting open mesh systems wasn’t a game. Besides, she had heard the rumors; for all that DMA cadets were notorious for hacking academy webs, rumor also claimed the brass always caught and disciplined the offenders.
She really did intend to behave. But she hadn’t been able to resist splitting open the academy mesh with statistics for the incoming class. She learned a great deal, including that she and Obsidian had the highest scores on exams designed to measure eight types of intelligence: memory, pattern recognition, visual perception, mathematical, emotion, artistic, verbal, and creative. Most DMA cadets scored high in emotional intelligence: empaths generally did and every cadet had to be a strong empath. Soz had high scores in every category except artistic, which didn’t surprise her. Obsidian easily topped her there, and to a lesser extent on the verbal. Words had never been her strong point, either. Grell and Jazar were top-notch as well. DMA had put four of its best novices together. She hoped it was done for compatibility and not to set them competing against each other.
Soz also discovered she wasn’t the only novice with notations in her record for challenging authority. Many of the novices had individualist tendencies. Some might think it an odd trait to select for at a military academy, but it made sense to her. Jagernauts were the rebels of ISC, the pilots who faced the enemy solo, part of the unique Jag-pilot brain that neither machine nor human alone could match. Together, they formed a weapon unlike any other used in human warfare, one that relied on more independence, more sheer cussedness, than any other unit in ISC.
It was the only way they could survive.
Eldrinson tested the heft of his sword. He hinged his hand, folding it lengthwise so his four fingers could grip the hilt, two from either side. It felt the same as always; if Vitarex or his men had tampered with the weapon, he detected no hint of that. His sword arm felt stiff, but the gash hampered his movements less than he expected, at least so far.
He was grateful he hadn’t brought his best weapon on this ride. Roca’s people had constructed a sword for him, designing it from a nano-doped alloy according to his specifications. Vitarex would recognize it as forged from a technology far more advanced than anything available to a typical Lyshrioli native. It also had diamonds, sapphires, and amethysts in its hilt, a wealth no farmer would carry on his belt. Fortuna
tely, he hadn’t expected to need a sword. He had brought one more out of habit than anything else. This was a practice weapon, well forged by the blacksmith but obviously a product of this land and culture, with no adornment other than the spicedragon’s head molded into the hilt.
Vitarex didn’t seem to notice his prisoner’s clothes were of a finer cut than most farmers wore. Eldrinson suspected his rustic garments were so much rougher than the elegant apparel Vitarex associated with aristocracy, the Aristo couldn’t distinguish the subtle differences between them and the clothes of a less well-appointed farmer.
Four men guarded Eldrinson, the surviving half the octet that had captured him two days ago. They brought him to a clearing in the endless forest that covered the wild lands northwest of Rillia. This camp had about fifty men, their tents scattered through the trees. Some wandered over as Eldrinson warmed up, and he kept discreet watch on them while he practiced. If he was lucky, he might see someone he trusted enough to signal for help; if he was unlucky, someone would recognize him and tell Vitarex.
He caught vague impressions from the men, though only if they were close to him. No one seemed to suspect Vitarex. From what he overheard, he gathered that they believed the Aristo was a Bard from a province distant enough that they didn’t recognize its name, Hollina. Pah. An absurd name. It convinced these people, though. Some followed Vitarex because he paid well; some because he intrigued them; and some because they expected he would become a power in Rillia.
At least no one else here was a Trader. ESComm had succeeded in planting Vitarex on Lyshriol, but he was probably on his own. He had to remain hidden and draw no attention. The moment ISC became aware of his presence, his mission failed. He would go after his quarries, the Ruby Dynasty, by stealth. Should he discover he had the Bard in his possession, his job became that much easier. He could extract a great deal of information from his prisoner, learning every secret and nuance of Dalvador. Eldrinson gritted his teeth. Given what he had seen of Vitarex’s sadism, the prospect of an interrogation by the Aristo terrified him. Whatever the cost, he had to remain silent and anonymous.
Patches of sky showed through the glasswood trees, but the clearing was too small to have much open space above it. Unless the flyer went directly overhead, it wouldn’t get a visual sighting of him. He had no idea about the range of Vitarex’s shrouds, but the Aristo had succeeded in keeping him prisoner for two days. It implied he had a disturbingly effective system. Eldrinson had begun to fear Vitarex might succeed in taking him offworld as a Trader slave.
He warmed up and tried to work through the aches in his arms, legs, and back. At least he had slept several hours and had eaten a soup of sour bubbles brought by the young woman. He felt stronger now, better capable of moving, still far from his best, but at least able to fight. The wound in his arm had begun to heal, aided by his nanomeds. In that, he was fortunate Vitarex hadn’t given him more treatment; so far the Aristo hadn’t done scans that would detect the meds in Eldrinson’s body. It was certainly possible a farmer here could carry them; the ISC doctors made health care available to everyone on Lyshriol. But it could make Vitarex suspicious enough to investigate further.
The men across the clearing stood in a cluster, talking and chewing jaco-spheres. A large warrior with yellow hair pushed his way through them and strode into the clearing. He stood a head taller than Eldrinson. It made Eldrinson glad for all the times he had trained with his sons, learning to deal with their great reach and strength. This man wore full disk mail, the metal glinting in the sunlight that sifted through the trees. A massive sword hung at his hip, metal guards circled his wrists and forearms, and studded boots protected his legs. Eldrinson felt exposed, wearing only his shirt, trousers, and riding boots. However, the fellow looked like he was carrying half the metal in Rillia. It would give Eldrinson the advantage of speed.
The warrior surveyed him with a critical eye. He made no secret that what he saw didn’t impress him. Eldrinson doubted he had any idea his opponent had spent the last two days bound to a pole, kneeling or lying in a contorted position.
The forest rustled behind Eldrinson, its stained-glass disks crinkling. Puzzled, he glanced back over his shoulder—and saw Vitarex leaning against a ruby glasswood tree. Sunlight slanted through its inflated disks, casting red light across the Aristo’s face. Breathing deeply to steady himself, Eldrinson turned away. He felt Vitarex’s anger spark; providers never turned their back on the Aristo without permission.
Eldrinson’s challenger walked around the edge of the clearing, his gaze intent. Curious at the man’s approach, Eldrinson paced away from him, also along the perimeter. After several moments, the man stopped and reached across to the sword at his right hip. He slowly drew the blade, letting Eldrinson see its full heft and length. Eldrinson supposed the oaf was trying to intimidate him. Yes, it was a big sword. So what? The thing had to weigh more than a pregnant lyrine.
Holding his sword in his left hand, Eldrinson moved toward the center of the clearing. He and his challenger halted a few paces apart, facing each other.
Then the man lunged.
Eldrinson easily evaded his drive. Their blades rang against each other, the clang vibrating in the air. The fellow was slow. Yes, he had strength; within moments Eldrinson’s already sore arms burned with the effort of deflecting his blows. His opponent had probably vanquished many men through sheer power. But brute force could only take a fighter so far; anyone with a reasonable amount of skill could best this leviathan.
Within moments, Eldrinson sent the man’s blade flying out of his hand. Then he lunged forward, his sword tip at the man’s neck. “Give,” he said.
His opponent raised his hands palm outward, the traditional acknowledgment of defeat. With an exhale, Eldrinson lowered his sword. He inclined his head to the man, honoring his efforts, and his former challenger did the same for him.
A dry voice came from behind him. “Well, that was boring.”
Eldrinson turned around. Vitarex stood a few paces away, his arms crossed. He spoke shortly. “You win the first round.”
Eldrinson held back his smile. “It seems so.” Vitarex might know far more about interstellar intrigue than his captive, but when it came to swordsmanship, the Aristo had no clue. He had obviously expected his stronger champion to win.
Vitarex narrowed his gaze at Eldrinson. Then he looked past him, across the clearing, and motioned to someone. Eldrinson turned around as another man stepped into the clearing, also large, but less heavily armored than the previous. Nor did his sword look as heavy. Eldrinson studied his moves, noting his agility.
They met in the center of the clearing. Eldrinson parried his thrusts with caution, assessing the fellow’s style. This challenger had more innate talent than the last and better speed, but his level of skill wasn’t much higher. Eldrinson took advantage of his many weaknesses, the way his sword drooped when he swung to the left, the awkward way he parried blows from above, his inexperienced footwork. It didn’t take long to send his sword flying.
After his opponent acknowledged the win, Eldrinson glanced at Vitarex. The Aristo was leaning against the tree at the edge of the clearing again. Eldrinson couldn’t sense much from him, especially now that he had moved farther away, but he had the impression it both annoyed and intrigued Vitarex that his prisoner so easily defeated two of his supposedly best swordsmen.
Eldrinson’s third opponent wielded his sword with his right rather than left hand. He otherwise had little more skill than the previous two, but the man’s unusual style, coming in at unexpected directions, probably made him successful as a fighter. Eldrinson didn’t really care. Many of his sons were right-handed. For some reason this was a common trait among offworlders. He had plenty of experience with such opponents and easily defeated this one.
Vitarex was growing more annoyed and less intrigued. Eldrinson couldn’t untangle the unpleasant maze of the Aristo’s mind, but for some reason Vitarex found it offensive that an empath exhibited prow
ess with a sword. Eldrinson couldn’t see what being an empath had to do with anything. True, it helped if he could judge his opponent’s mood. But empathy in combat was a weakness more than anything else. Experiencing the fear or hatred of his enemy disturbed him; feeling them die was devastating.
His fourth opponent actually knew how to fight. They parried back and forth across the clearing, Eldrinson driving hard, wearing down his endurance. His aching muscles slowed him down and sapped his strength, but when he went into combat, he tended to blank out pain. Roca said it happened because of his adrenaline. Well, perhaps. He had never really understood adrenaline, but he did know that all his concentration focused on the fight.
It took longer this time. Eldrinson’s injured arm felt heavy and slow. He finally managed to trip his opponent. The fellow went sprawling, losing his sword, and Eldrinson stood over him, his weapon ready to pierce his heart. His flustered opponent quickly acknowledged him as the victor.
Vitarex was not pleased.
Eldrinson stiffened as his fifth challenger entered the clearing. The boy was hardly more than sixteen, just a slender youth with pale yellow hair. He reminded Eldrinson of Shannon, who might be wandering in the mountains, lost and in trouble because his father had failed him, first leading him to believe he was unwanted and then becoming a prisoner instead of finding him.
Suddenly the boy lunged. Eldrinson almost didn’t parry in time. The youth could have cut off his arm. Vitarex had finally figured out he wasn’t going to succeed in humiliating his captive with hulking warriors who were as slow as molasses; this one moved like liquid silver. And Eldrinson had no doubt now that Vitarex wanted to humiliate him. The Aristo didn’t just feed on physical pain, he hungered for the emotional as well.
As they engaged each other, lunging back and forth across the clearing, Eldrinson found himself pulling his blows. Their match lasted longer than his previous fights. It drained what remained of his strength. Exhaustion slowed him down and seemed to make his sword weigh more. In the end, he bested the youth on sheer skill, but it was close. Had the boy been more experienced, Eldrinson would have lost.
Schism: Part One of Triad (Saga of the Skolian Empire) Page 16