by Allan Cole
Alex snorted. “Soonds loch a pack ay bludy Campbells.”
“Yeah, but they make perfect pit-fighters,” Sten said. “The blood-lust crowds love them. And they bet like crazy. Hell, my father spent all our savings on one of those horrible things. Bet his future and ours on it.”
“What happened?” Alex asked.
Sten grabbed a mostly clean mug and scooped up narcobeer from the fountain. Drank half of it.
“He won, just like he thought,” Sten said. “But ended up losing because he beat the wrong man.”
He was drawing in a deep breath, trying to restore his good mood, when a strange group of beings caught his eye.
It was an obvious security detail—guarding some VIP, Sten supposed. There were seven of them. Six formed a wedge, with the seventh in the center. They were coming around the Blackjim tables and were headed toward the Xypaca tent.
He couldn’t make out the VIP, but the six were large, heavily muscled beings. Humanoid. Female. Albino-white, with silver hair. They were nearly naked, with black armor modesty swatches guarding the most vulnerable parts.
Sten liked how they handled themselves. Liked how they constantly scanned the crowd for danger. Very professional.
The probing gaze of one of them fell upon Sten. Measured him with glowing pink eyes. No apparent danger. The eyes moved on.
“They’re Himmenops,” Alex said. “Saw their likes once when ah was a wee lad.”
Sten nodded, recalling the odd (to him) beings from one of his Mantis socio-species courses.
Warlike. Restless. Lived in fortressed colonies. An Appian-like all female hive society. All powerful queen. Guarded by a special enhanced breed of Himmenops, called the Zabanya.
“Ah’m surprised tae see them,” Kilgour said. “They’re usually such loners.”
And adventurers too, Sten thought. The minute the Himmenops became technically advanced enough, they’d scattered across the empire. Staking out most the inhospitable but defendable systems, where they took up residence and made their living through interstellar trade, sharp practices, and plain old fashioned piracy.
As if reading his mind, Alex said, “Mus’ be some ay th’ local Possnet pirates.”
“If we weren’t on I&I,” Sten said, referring to what was popularly known among their fellow troopies as Intercourse & Intoxication, “I’d feel it was our duty to investigate. That’s what Mahoney would want.”
“An’ th’ wee General could take a flyin’ humph,” Alex said. “We’re on vacation. As FIGMO as FIGMO can be.”
Sten was about to ask Alex what the clot “FIGMO” was when he finally got a clear look at the being the six were guarding.
She was the most stunningly beautiful woman Sten had ever seen.
And she was entirely human.
She was tall, slender, her skin a gleaming ebony, her hair, long sable tresses that spilled over one bare shoulder, her breasts round and firm and high, her hips and thighs a beckoning paradise.
Then in a moment she was gone, disappearing into the tent with her coterie.
Sten stood there a moment. Frozen. Mouth dry. Heart racing. Then he started toward the tent.
“Where ye be goin, laddie?” Alex asked, following him.
“To investigate,” Sten shot back.
CHAPTER SIX
THE SCARLET XYPACA
The supercharged blood-sport atmosphere nearly bowled Sten over when he and Alex entered the tent. The air reeked of anger and fear and adrenaline, with that underlying musk of sexual excitement.
In the center of the tent a boisterous crowd was gathered around a regulation Xypaca fighting cage, shouting and cheering as the two occupants went at it fang and claw.
From helping his dad back on Vulcan, Sten knew the exact measurements of the cage: 8.6 meters long, 6.4 meters wide and 3.2 meters height. For a creature only twenty centimeters high, this had seemed excessive to Sten.
His father explained: “Little bustards not only move like lightning, but they can side jump ten meters, no sweat. As far as how high—well, I’ve seen them hop four meters easy as pork fat through a gray Anser.”
“Gray Anser?” Sten had asked, puzzled.
“A goose boy, a goose.”
He hadn’t bothered asking what pork fat was. Sounded disgusting.
His father had gone on to explain that the wire cage was made of super-hardened plas. “Anything else,” his father had said, “and they’ll bite right through the cage and maybe take some poor scrote’s face off.”
Sten could almost hear his mother protest: “Amos! Language!”
His father had laughed and given her a kiss. “The boy’s heard worse,” he’d said. “Plus he’s got a pair himself.”
Sten smiled wistfully at the memory of the parental dispute. His mother, father, brother and sister—long dead now, victims of Baron Thoresen’s conspiracy.
The crowd’s roar brought him back. In the cage, the two Xypacas were locked together, teeth razoring, claws ripping. Blood spatter everywhere. Drawing the crowd closer, despite the shower of blood.
Then came the final moment when one Xypaca saw its chance and, in a barely perceptible strike, tore out its enemy’s throat.
Alex was clearly not a newly won over fan of the Xypaca game. He tugged at Sten’s sleeve, saying, “Let’s get the clot out a here, laddie. This is nae mah idea ay entertainment. Let’s find a couple ay bonny lassies, me mucker.
“Make love, nae war, that’s th’ Kilgour family motto.”
Sten shook his head. “In a minute,” he said, his mouth going suddenly dry when he spotted his quarry.
The fabulously beautiful woman and her Zabanya guards were in a corner near the Xypaca cages.
Then the ugly little man he’d noticed earlier joined them—carrying a covered cage. A discussion ensued. The woman listened, then waved an imperious hand—her lips forming the words “Show me.”
The little man whipped off the cover. And out of the cage came a shriek so blood-curdling that it silenced the crowd.
Everyone turned to see a ball of scarlet fury ripping at the cage with a primeval ferocity that made the woman’s burly guards instinctively step back.
But the woman seemed fascinated, rather than frightened—leaning in for a closer look.
It was significantly larger than the other Xypacas and red instead of green. Obviously, the little man was a Xypaca breeder and Sten was witnessing a sale.
His guess was confirmed when he saw the woman motion for one of her guards to pay the man. It must have been a handsome sum, because he practically skipped away.
Then she caught the attention of one of the green vested officials, who hurried over to confer. It was the Oddsmaster. A fight was being arranged.
Sten spotted the probable contender in a nearby cage.
It was nearly as big as the scarlet beast raging in its cage. By now it had been infected by the scent of the red newcomer and was tearing at the bars, trying to get at it.
In a moment, the owner hurried over, followed by the Fightmaster—a meter-and-a-half high Brachy, complete with claws and multiple eyestalks.
The Fightmaster quietly conferred with her colleague, the Oddsmaster, then turned back to the woman and the owner of the green Xypaca.
The haggling commenced, accompanied by much arm and claw waving. The woman clearly wanted a feature match, with no limit stakes. The owner was wary. Sure his Xypaca was good. On most days, the best. But that red Xypaca clearly had him worried.
Finally, odds were settled. Credits banked. The fight scheduled for the feature slot.
Satisfied, the woman turned to watch the death match in progress and was immediately caught up in the action.
Sten thought she evinced the signs of what his dad called a Xypaca junky. He smiled to himself. But in her case, it was in the nicest sense of
the word.
A germ of an idea surfaced: how he could meet the woman and get a little intelligence for Mahoney.
“Alex,” he said, “what we need now is a nice juicy soy steak. Thin sliced.”
“What’re you up to, laddie?” Alex asked.
“I’m gonna fix a fight,” Sten said. “What else?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE PIRATE QUEEN
By the time Alex returned, dripping soy steak juice from the wad of napkins he’d wrapped the bits in, Sten had big-eared enough conversations to gather a little intel about the woman.
Her name was Venatora and she was the boss lady of the most formidable colony of pirates in the Possnet Sector.
The fact that the Himmenops had a human queen, rather than one of their own, only added to her mystery. She was also a keen gambler and would bet on just about anything, up to and including wagering on which head would hit the floor first in a double execution.
It didn’t seem to matter that she was wanted everywhere for her crimes—which were legion. Venatora had bribed or intimidated every cop in the region and was obsessively protected by her fanatic followers.
Alex thrust the sopping package at Sten. “Here, ye be, my old mucker,” he said. “Tak’ th’ mingin mess.”
Chuckling, Sten refused the package. “Got a job for you sergeant,” he said. “A job that will require all your stealthy Mantis skills.”
Alex frowned. “What manner a loony business is goin’ on in thae wee noggin?” he asked.
“I want you to slip over to the cages,” Sten replied, “and while everyone is busy watching the fights, feed the soy strips to the red Xypaca. I want it fat and happy by time the fight is called.”
Alex was aghast. “Guid clottin’ day, hae ye seenth’ size ay those burds?” he said, indicating Venatora’s guardswomen. “They’ll rip mah heed aff an’ drakh in mah neck.”
“That was my thinking as well,” Sten said. “As a trained and certified professional, my advice to you is…don’t get caught.”
Grumbling, Alex headed for the cages. Meanwhile, Sten slipped out of the tent to reclaim the semi-quiet spot near the narcobeer fountain.
He got on the horn with Ida.
“Sten, you clottin’ clot,” she grumbled, “why are you bothering me? I’m on vacation, remember? Drakh, we’re all on vacation! Go get laid or something. Leave me the clot alone.”
“You making money?” Sten asked.
Ida snorted. “What a stupid question. Of course, I’m making money. What’s it to you?”
“I need borrow some of it,” Sten said.
“Borrow? How much?”
“A hundred grand ought to do it.”
Ida exploded. “A hundred clottin’ grand? Are you nuts? Stoned? Kidnapped? What?”
“I have a vital need to lay a bet on a Xypaca fight,” Sten said.
Ida was scornful. “Riiiigggghhhhtttt!” she said. Then: “What the clot do you know about Xypacas?” she demanded.
“You’d be surprised,” Sten said.
“Give me a clottin’ break,” Ida said. “They’re like chicken fights on steroids. Nobody, but nobody, can figure the odds on those little scrotes. They’re too skitzy.”
“Nevertheless,” Sten said. “I need to make this bet.”
“What if you’re wrong?” Ida asked. “What if you lose? How are you going to pay me back?”
“It’s for a mission,” Sten said. “A legitimate Mantis expense. They’ll be obligated to cover our losses.”
“So, you have Mahoney’s approval, do you?” Ida said.
“Not exactly,” Sten said. “But he’s going to love us when he finds out. Maybe even let us off these interminable babysitting tours.”
Silence. Ida was as frustrated and bored as the rest of them. Maybe even more so. For a Rom to be cut out of the main action for all these months was beyond maddening.
Finally, she said. “Okay. I’ll transfer the credits to your account. But it’s against my better judgment.”
“I understand,” Sten said.
But before he could key off, she asked, “Say, Sten? There wouldn’t be a woman involved in this, would there?”
“That’s a clotting insult,” Sten said. “How dare you suggest that I’m ruled by my gonads?”
“I knew it,” Ida chortled. And then she was gone.
* * * *
While Alex went about his dirty work, Sten moved through the fight crowd until he was close enough to Venatora to draw the attention of her Zabanya guardswomen.
As he grew nearer, the guardswomen nudged one another. Fierce glares and muscle flexing followed as they blew themselves up like so many two-legged puff fish to present a fortress of flesh and bone.
He ignored the women. Instead he studied the two Xypacas being presented to the crowd by the Fightmaster. She held a cage gripped in each claw, two pairs of eyestalks wiggling excitedly as she showed off her fierce charges.
Sten couldn’t hear the Fightmaster’s pitch over the roar of the crowd and the blood-curdling shrieks of the Xypacas, who were mad to fight. But she was obviously pointing out each beast’s fighting credentials and breeding
The creatures were nearly identical in size and ferocity, so there was no apparent advantage of one over the other.
Drawing on his father’s impromptu cage lessons, Sten carefully studied them, looking for weaknesses and strengths.
It was then that he spotted what looked like a deformed talon in the back claw of one of the Xypacas—a half white, half black talon, as though some old injury had cut off its blood supply. Oddsmakers would mark the talon as a slight handicap. He’d heard something about that kind of claw from his father, though.…
He turned his attention to the other Xypaca. A piece of its tail had been chomped off in a previous fight. Not an obvious problem, although it might affect balance in the lightning-fast match.
Sten made his choice, then very casually…very deliberately…turned to see what Venatora had in mind.
The Zabanya guards didn’t appreciate his attention and went back to muscle displays, while loudly cracking their necks and knuckles.
That irritated Venatora and she snapped at them. They ducked their heads and grumbled, but kept their eyes fixed on Sten.
Meanwhile, with an imperious gesture, their boss caught the attention of the Oddsmaster. She pointed at the Xypaca with the chomped on tail and raised a questioning hand.
The Oddsmaster signaled: It was the favorite—barely. Venatora nodded, no doubt thinking several others had spotted the blackened talon deformity on the other beast.
She signaled her wager: two thousand credits, then turned away. As she did so Sten caught her eye, held it, then shook his head, as if disappointed in her decision.
Then he signaled his wager to the Oddsmaster: two thousand credits on the Xypaca with the black talon. He turned back to Venatora, who had watched his every move.
Sten shrugged, smiled and gifted her with another sad shake of the head.
Venatora’s lips tightened. Her eyes glittered. Was she angry? Or challenged?
Sten pointed at her, then tapped his chest. Raised a questioning hand. Side bet?
Venatora looked interested. She signaled, back: Five thousand credits?
Sten nodded and mouthed the words, “You’re on.”
They signaled their intent to the Oddsmaster, who banked their credits and escrowed their bets.
Then the Xypacas were freed from their cages. With ear-piercing shrieks, they closed on one another so fast that even Sten—who knew what to expect—experienced the Xypaca rush: breath suddenly sticking in his throat, heart jumping, and for a split second he felt like he was in that fight.
His father had warned him about the effect. It was the reason, he said, that Xypaca bouts were so addictive. All the whi
te hot fight-or-flight juices spurted through your body, and you felt like you was in the middle of that ripping, biting, clawing fighting ring.
Sten pulled back from the excitement. Calmed himself until he could coolly judge the action. As expected, Chomp Tail was off balance. A claw strike missed at a crucial moment, almost ending the fight there. But, also as expected, Black Talon favored his rear claw, holding back, instead of taking immediate advantage of his enemy’s clumsiness.
Chomp Tail, however, did not lack carnivore cunning. She’d spotted the defect early on, and whenever she got the chance, she went after that side, attacking again and again and again. Knowing that in less than a minute the claw would be useless and she’d sink her fangs into her enemy’s throat, while all four of her claws raked its chest and belly. Death would soon follow.
One look at Venatora and Sten could see that her eyes were ablaze with Xypaca madness. Muscles in her arms and hands and taut abdomen reflexively jumping in sympathy as her Xypaca pressed the attack—going for that claw, going for that claw.
If she had looked closer at her enemy she might have seen what was coming. Because that black talon was only half black: rear section black, and apparently dead, front section a healthy white.
But even if she had spotted it, she’d have to know about the rare Xypacas with half-black talons.
Years before Sten’s father had told him about this rare mutation.
He’d said, “Son, if you should ever see a Xypaca with a half-black talon, you get your hands on every credit you can beg, borrow or thump somebody out of, and you bet it all on that Xypaca.” He shook his head, marveling at that imagined bet. “Why, you’d win so much money—I mean take-this-contract-and-shove-it money, boy, if you get my meaning.” A sigh. “Never seen one myself, but if I ever do…if I ever do…”
“But Dad,” Sten said, “you didn’t say how come.”
“How come what, son?”
“How come a Half-Black can’t lose?”
“Why, the poison, son, the poison.”
“What poison.”
“That black part isn’t dead, son. It’s a poison sac. And it’s not just any old poison. It hits like a lighting strike… Boom! You’re a dead ’un.”