by S. L. Viehl
“That’s very generous of you,” I said. “But if I can prove my innocence, why would you want to stop me?”
His fingers curled over the gleaming metal. “I accept your account. You have no reason to ask this of Reever.”
“Xonea, he’s done it before—”
“No! It is a violation!” Xonea’s hand flexed, and greenish blood instantly streamed down his long arm. He hissed and pulled his fingers away from one of the blades. A deep gash bisected his palm.
“Oh, great,” I said, and hurried over to him. He was dripping all over the deck. I cradled his hand in mine and applied pressure to stop the flow of blood. It was going to need sutures. “Nice work. Feel better now?” I reached down and tore a strip of fabric from the hem of my robe. So much for my ceremonial outfit. “Let’s go to Medical and take care of this.”
Xonea said nothing as he walked into the gyrlift. I came in behind him. His back was as uncompromising as his silence. Once we arrived at the Bay, it took a few minutes to repair the damage to his hand. Out of curiosity, I scanned the tips of his fingers.
“These claws of yours are actually the tips of the distal phalanges,” I said, then carefully manipulated a finger and watched the thin bony blade emerged from beneath the overlying dark blue nail.
Xonea gazed around from the exam table while I finished dressing the sutures. “It is very quiet here today.”
“It is. We miss Roelm. He really knew how to liven things up.” I thought about the startling postmortem exam, then Roelm’s mysterious accusations. “Xonea, has anyone told you about how Roelm died?”
“No. Captain Pnor desired the matter be kept confidential.”
Pnor. No wonder he had tried to climb the dais and stop Tonetka from dropping Roelm’s bombshell. He must have guessed it was something bad, and how the crew would react.
“Tonetka and I performed an autopsy on Roelm.” If there was a saboteur on board, he may have done more than mess with the stardrive. “He was probably right about the sabotage. It looks like he was murdered.”
Anger over Tonetka’s Speaking subsided, but things were never the same after that. Captain Pnor made a very brief announcement that Roelm’s death and his accusations would be investigated. Most of the crew seemed restless and unnaturally quiet. Cheerful attitudes disappeared, and everyone appeared worried or withdrawn.
Some of the Jorenians occasionally gave me odd looks, or stopped talking when I walked by them in the corridor. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why. One who is not one of us.
My problem with Squilyp didn’t allow me a lot of time to brood over it. When I wasn’t on duty, I was training with Xonea. My ClanBrother continued to harass me about withdrawing the solicitation, but I was adamant. Bad enough I had to learn how to deliberately inflict pain. No way was I going to be a coward and back out of a fight.
There were other problems, too.
“Oomph!” I landed flat on my back for the ninth time that session, and opened my eyes. Over me, Xonea stood in the classic death-strike position. I sighed. “Okay, you win. Again.”
“Indeed.” I saw him tug at the warrior’s knot at his nape, then shake his head. Thick black hair, as long as my own, spilled down his back. He had removed his uniform tunic a while ago, and was now wearing only a pair of loose-fitting trousers. His respiration was accelerated, and sweat glistened over bulging blue muscles. White eyes stared down at me as he extended one big hand. “Get up.”
I was tired of getting knocked on my backside. With my hand, I grabbed his, then lashed out with my legs and knocked him off his feet. With a hard jerk I managed to yank him down on the mat beside me. He rolled over, but by that time I was straddling him, and thumped my hand against his sternum.
“Gotcha.” I grinned as he reflexively grabbed my wrist. “Too late, pal. Your path is history.”
He scowled at me. “That was not honorable.”
“So I cheated. It worked, didn’t it?” I began to climb off him.
“No.” He curled an arm around me to hold me in place. That was when I realized how intimate my position was. I was sitting right on top of his—“The Omorr’s pectoral bones render his chest invulnerable,” he said. “Show me where you would strike him.”
“Xonea.” New heat flooded my face as I tried to shift my weight. “Let me go.”
Instead of releasing me, Xonea made a quick move. A heartbeat later I was flat on my back and he was straddling me. “And if he pins you, thus?”
“I haven’t a clue.” My new position made it even more difficult to act nonchalant. “You win, Xonea. Let me up.”
“Cherijo.” His hands tightened, and I felt the tips of his claws extrude and lightly scratch my skin. I’d learned that only happened when a Jorenian was really, really angry. “You are too small, too frail.”
I stared into his narrow white eyes. “For what?”
One huge blue hand moved down the side of my body, and rested on my hip. His thumb rubbed a circle around my navel. “One direct strike here, and the Omorr will divert your path.”
That wasn’t all that was diverting me. I arched my back, trying to dislodge his hand, but that only made the situation much, much worse. “Um, Xonea—”
My ClanBrother’s voice lowered to a growl. “I will gut him if he harms you.”
“Hey.” Now he was scaring me. “Let go.”
He got to his feet, and I wobbled a little as I did the same. We looked at each other for a long moment.
I cleared my throat. “That’s enough for today.” Then I simply turned and ran.
Back in my quarters, I spent a long, soothing interval in my cleansing unit while I reflected on what had happened. I could have sworn Xonea meant to do more than show me where Squilyp might punch me. No. Xonea was my ClanBrother. I was imagining things. But that rage of his—what was that all about?
After that session, I was careful to be as impersonal as possible with Xonea. It never happened again, nor did he refer to the incident; he simply treated me the same way he would a younger, exasperating sibling. Which was okay with me.
There was also the problem of keeping the fight a secret. Tonetka was the first to notice how stiffly I was moving while I was on duty.
“What ails you, Healer?”
I grimaced. “Overdid things during my recreation interval yesterday.” I rubbed an aching thigh. “I think I’ll try basket weaving next time.”
Her sharp eyes inspected me closely. “What manner of recreation did you indulge in?”
“Oh, you know”—I made a vague gesture—“stretching and that sort of thing.” That sort of thing being me getting knocked on my backside thirty or forty times per session.
The Senior Healer gave me a suspicious frown, but before she could start questioning me, a nurse interrupted.
As far as I knew, Xonea hadn’t told anyone, nor had Squilyp, Reever, or Alunthri. Apparently it was up to me to spread the news. Well, I wasn’t going to invite half the ship to watch the Omorr wipe up the deck with me. According to the cultural database, I was allowed a “second,” someone who would throw in the towel if I was too badly hurt to surrender.
How reassuring.
Under the circumstances, I couldn’t ask Xonea. So I went to Reever and requested his assistance. He didn’t say “yes” right away. He had to give me a hard time about it first. Of course.
At last the day of reckoning arrived.
Squilyp was already warming up when I entered the environome at the appointed hour. He had discarded his resident’s tunic and wore only a brief, one-legged garment. His limbs were longer than I remembered. His frame bigger. His muscles larger.
Behind me, the environome’s entrance panel parted again. Duncan Reever, Xonea, and about twenty Jorenians filed in. I knew Alunthri wouldn’t be there, I’d asked it to stay with Jenner for me. The Chakacat was far too sensitive to sit and watch two beings beat the daylights out of each other.
Xonea had already promised to keep quiet about the challeng
e. I glared at the ship’s Linguist.
“You’ve got a big mouth,” I said as Reever strode past me.
“It is minuscule compared to your temper.”
“I told you not to tell anyone!”
“You said you did not wish the Captain or the Senior Healer to learn of this debacle,” Reever said. “I did not tell them.”
He walked past me and went directly over to the Omorr, and engaged him in a terse, inaudible exchange.
Xonea programmed gallery seating for the spectators before he came to me. He eyed my opponent, too. “This is insanity, Healer.”
“Some coach you are.” I did a few stretching exercises, trying to look tough. Okay, and maybe a little taller. “If you thought this was crazy, why teach me to fight?”
My ClanBrother turned on me. He was not a happy Jorenian. “You did not tell me the Omorr was a champion on his homeworld.”
Obviously someone else had. And I didn’t need three guesses as to who: Reever, the busy little bee.
“So?”
“I should have never agreed to this madness,” Xonea said, his fists as tight as his jaw. “He will divert your path.”
I was sick and tired of everyone telling me how wonderful Squid Lips was. “Maybe not.” I bent and placed both my palms on the floor before I straightened. Only a week ago, I couldn’t have done that. “If I win, do you think I’ll get his title?”
Xonea hauled me close to him by grabbing the back of my neck and flexing half a muscle. “Do not do this, Cherijo.”
I knocked his hand away. “What’s the matter with you? This is what you’ve been training me for.”
“I am your ClanBrother.” Now he grabbed my upper arm. “I cannot permit harm to come to you.”
“This is my fight, big brother.” I clenched my teeth to keep from grinding them. “And just for the record, I don’t need your permission.”
“If he harms you, I—”
I pried his hand off. “Will do absolutely nothing, pal.” He had that never-touch-my-kin-or-you-die look on his face. I jabbed my finger against his chest to emphasize my next words. “Not . . . a . . . thing.”
Xonea swore, then stalked off to the gallery. Reever had a word with him. They both glanced back at me, and appeared ready to challenge me themselves. Nice to know my friends were worried. Everyone settled into their seats. Reever took his position a few feet away from me.
I waited while Squilyp completed the final programming sequence for the challenge. The dimensional imagers hummed, and the environome’s simulators shifted around us.
This had to be a chunk of the Omorr homeworld. Hills of cobalt rock rose around us. Clear, feathery plant life sprang up in thin bunches. Overhead, birdlike creatures circled, their pink-feathered wings sweeping through the cold air. The scavengers had beady black eyes, and large, sharp beaks fringed with short gildrells.
Family members, maybe?
Another Omorr hopped between us, startling me for a moment. This one was draped in ceremonial vestments. Very realistic for a programed simulation. Right down to the Omorr sneer I got as the rules were decreed.
“A solicitation has been made,” the computer-generated Omorr said. “To Squilyp of Maftuda, by the Terran Cherijo Grey Veil. Our beloved son has accepted. All Maftuda praises Squilyp, who has never been defeated, who has—”
“Enough ego to fill a cargo hold,” I said. “Can we get on with it?”
The simulated Omorr’s gildrells stiffened in simulated outrage. “No weapons are to be used. No outside aid is to be enlisted. Failure to adhere to the restrictions will result in automatic forfeit. The challenge is met when one of the combatants capitulates, becomes incapacitated, or dies.”
Squilyp rubbed his membranes together as he stared at me. No doubt he was savoring the thought of my Terran blood all over his nice program.
“Does the solicitor wish to withdraw?” the Omorr simulation asked. I shook my head. He turned to Squilyp. “Does the solicited wish to withdraw?” My opponent made a quick, negative gesture. The Omorr simulation bowed to both of us. “Take your places. At my signal, you may begin.”
I moved to my mark. Squilyp hopped to his a few yards away. That put me directly in front of the gallery. I saw that Reever had his arms crossed over his chest, and looked a little pale. My big brother Xonea was poised on the edge of his seat.
All this confidence in me was overwhelming.
On a whim, I faced the gallery and held up a clenched fist. “Morituri te salutamus.” We who are about to die salute you.
Reever now looked pale and faintly disgusted.
“What does that mean?” Squilyp called out. His vocollar wouldn’t translate—antediluvian Terran Latin wasn’t in the ship’s linguistic database.
“It means I’m going to enjoy this,” I yelled back.
A high, fluted sound vibrated through the air. I stepped forward. Squilyp began hopping toward me.
We met in the center, faster than I’d expected. I ducked as one of his long limbs swung over my head, and spun around to find him almost on top of me. I crouched and drove my right elbow into his thorax. Too high. I caught the bottom half of his pectoral bone, which was like hitting a plasteel wall.
I felt a breeze as another limb barely missed my face, then lashed back and caught me with a solid blow. My right cheekbone exploded with pain. I fell, rolled with the impact, and came up on the balls of my feet.
That hurt. My right eye began to tear. A bad sign. If it swelled shut, it was going to cut my range of peripheral vision in half. Not to mention ruin my pretty face for a few days. Maybe I should have gotten some of that jaspforran herb after all.
“You dance like hypoglycemic child,” Squilyp said as he hopped after me. “Hold still and fight.”
“You mean, give up and let you stomp on me?” I replied, circling to the left. “That how you win all your fights?”
“I win”—he grunted as he lashed out with two limbs, and I narrowly avoided the whiplike membranes—“because I am the best!”
“Better work on that insecurity complex of yours, Squid Lips,” I said. Then I dropped. Somersaulted out of his reach. Landed on my feet.
Squilyp was right there, in my face. I danced backward.
The Omorr grabbed a membraneful of my tunic, and ripped part of my sleeve before I wrenched away. He stared at the ragged swatch of fabric he held, and that was when I turned and kicked him in the jointed midsection of his single leg. He began to lose his balance, then righted himself.
“Is that the best you can do?” he said, pretending it didn’t hurt as he started after me.
My face felt gigantic, and profoundly ached. I whirled away and came around him, eyeing a section on his back. Had to be there. Swiftly I moved in, lifted my leg and drove my knee into his spine. Two of his limbs smashed into me before I could avoid them. I was tossed through the air to land painfully on my side some three feet away.
“Joey!”
That had to be Duncan. No one else called me that.
He’d knocked the wind out of me. I heard the Omorr’s hopping step and rolled away. Voices were starting to rise. I looked over at the gallery. Reever still stood on the sidelines. So did Xonea. They were arguing while Reever held Xonea’s upper arms. Holding him back.
Men. They made a lousy cheering section.
“Stop . . . and I will . . . spare you,” Squilyp wheezed, drawing my attention back to the fight.
Spare me? Oh, sure, and then he’d give me a big kiss and say all was forgiven. Had to get up and get moving.
My arms shook as I pushed myself off the floor. I squinted at the Omorr as my vision doubled for a moment. Two muscular frames glistened with sweat. A whole roomful of gildrells quivered with labored breath. One more shot, I thought as I stood. If my knees would hold.
“Spare me?” I said as I backed away. “Mercy from . . . the grand champion . . . of Omorr?”
“Terran fool.” He gasped for air as he pursued me. “You have lost!”
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If he hit me one more time, I agreed silently. I’d struck two of the few places he was vulnerable. I’d have to risk a final attempt. I watched him, saw how he was tiring. The Omorr don’t usually move much when they fight. They just stood together and pounded on each other until one of them fell or died. Like two statues—
That was it!
I stopped, assuming an aggressive, stationary stance the way one of his people would. He looked startled, then eagerly hopped closer. This was his style of fighting. He’d demolish me in no time. Just another meter, then—
It was a suicidal leap, but it worked. I collided with the Omorr in mid-hop, knocking him off-balance. At the same time, my right fist plowed into his gildrells. I put all the force I could muster behind that punch. He waved his limbs wildly, but it was too late. He fell with me on top of him. The back of his head slammed into the simulated stone beneath us. I rolled off and out of reach. He half rose, then collapsed and went still.
My right hand was lacerated, and numb from the jolt. I couldn’t see clearly out of my right eye. Still, I bent down over him and put my hand on the pulse point in his upper thorax. Rapid but steady Omorr rhythms beat in the organ that served as his heart and liver. Some of his gildrells had ruptured and were oozing white-pink streaked blood.
Suddenly I was yanked back by a powerful arm. Xonea’s big hands reached for Squilyp. His extended claws indicated he was ready to find each and every soft spot the Omorr possessed. And remove them.
I grabbed the closest wrist. “No, Xonea!”
“You are bleeding,” the Jorenian said with a hiss. “Bleeding!”
“So is he!”
“I will divert his path!”
“If I wanted it diverted,” I said as I lunged in front of my ClanBrother, protecting the Omorr with my own body,
“I’d have done it myself. Now back off. Back off!”
Reever was suddenly there, putting himself between us, murmuring something low and musical. I sat back and watched as he somehow calmly convinced the big pilot not to disembowel my unconscious opponent. Xonea stalked off. The ship’s Linguist turned to me. “Are you all right?”