by Gary Gibson
Corso stared back at him calmly, watching as McDade turned on his heel and went over to read the same terms to Jarret.
'How did it ever happen?' he asked Kenley, over the din of music and voices. 'How did they turn me into one of them?'
Kenley shrugged. 'You said yourself, the only way to beat them was at their own game. Besides, the way you're going, most of the opposition is going to wind up dead before long.'
Corso grinned at this. The copters and trucks formed dark silhouettes against the evening sky as he looked west, towards the great swell of the ocean beyond the shore, and spotted the figure of a woman standing well apart from the rest, too far outside the pools of illumination cast by the lights for him to make her out clearly.
Somebody shouted for quiet, and people began shushing each other. The music was replaced by an angry buzzing sound as it was turned off.
McDade strode to the centre of the combat circle, and began. 'This Challenge takes place regardless of the legal restrictions placed on us by the Consortium trade treaties, and is therefore not officially recognized by our Senate.' His amplified voice rolled out across the hills beyond the canopy tree. 'However, we here, every last one of us, will attest to the God-given rights of the victor as derived from the ancient precepts of our society. We came here to escape the bloodless atheism of the Consortium and the moral corruption of our fellow human beings. We came here to build a society of warriors willing to fight for their right to participate in our democracy, and who do not constantly live in fear of death. It is my firm belief – McDade was clearly happy for this opportunity to lecture Corso and his entourage – 'that justice and might will win out this evening, and that we will overcome our oppressors and those who stand against us, for together we are strong, and they are weak.'
A huge cheer went up from the crowd gathered around Senator Jarret.
'This challenge,' McDade continued, 'takes place because Senator Corso chose to commandeer our proud flagship the Mjollnir for reasons that have never been properly explained nor justified to the Senate's satisfaction. Since Senator Corso has refused to relinquish his Senate seat, and until these questions have been answered to the satisfaction of all, Senator Jarret has asked that the two of them should meet in a challenge of deadly combat. Is there anyone here with reason to believe this contest should not take place?'
There was, of course, no answer.
'All right, then,' McDade finished up. 'This is a senatorial contest, and the winner can, in turn, be challenged at any time by any citizen or non-citizen who chooses to do so.'
Corso returned his attention to Jarret and his memory flashed back to the time he had similarly faced Bull Northcutt on the shores of Fire Lake. Both men were of a piece: hair shaved close to the skull, active subdermal tattoos that recorded previous kills in graphic detail, and thickly overdeveloped muscles that hinted at steroid abuse. Jarret had stripped down to a pair of loose camouflage-style trousers and a light shirt that clung to his augmented musculature. His exposed skin glistened with thick grease that would be good for keeping the cold out for a few extra seconds. Clearly the man was gambling on an early win.
At that point, McDade stepped out of the ring and removed an antique pistol from within his own bulky winter gear. Following their cues, Jarret and Corso both stepped just inside the ring's perimeter. Two long, curved knives lay, crossed over each other, at the ring's precise centre.
McDade raised the pistol high over his head, its barrel pointing upwards. 'On my mark,' his voice boomed over the sound system.
Corso pulled off his heavy coat and threw it outside the circle. His skin wasn't greased, but he wore a tight, long-sleeved tunic made from layers of fibre that efficiently contained his body heat. Already the cold bit savagely at the exposed skin of his neck and face where it wasn't covered by the breather mask.
McDade fired a single shot high into the air, then retreated quickly back into the crowd.
Corso sprang forward, as if someone had sent an electric jolt through his body. Jarret simultaneously threw himself towards the knives and grabbed one.
It was the obvious first move for both of them to make, and Corso had been gambling on this. Instead of reaching for a knife, he aimed one booted foot at Jarret's head, connecting with a dull smack. But Jarret saw it coming at the last second, and responded by slashing out low with his newly acquired weapon, aiming for Corso's thigh and the delicate femoral arteries.
Corso jumped back out of reach, the blade missing him by millimetres. Jarret came up fast and they faced each other warily, both now oblivious to the baying of the audience.
Jarret was undoubtedly daring and vicious. For all his accustomed bluster and swagger on the Senate floor, he was now thinking strategically, his movements considered and economical, despite the intense violence of the moment.
Breisch had taught Corso that it was not always necessary to go straight for a weapon; the overwhelming desire of one's opponent to get hold of one was another weakness to be exploited. From personal experience, Corso knew that it was a move that could end challenges in seconds rather than minutes. However, instead of disabling his opponent, Corso's opening ploy had left him on the defensive, and lacking a weapon of his own.
Jarret came towards him fast, moving his knife in swift patterns through the air to make it harder to block. Corso feinted to one side, then managed to grab Jarret's knife-hand before flopping on to his back.
Jarret was pulled along with him, and as Corso hit the ground he shoved both feet into his opponent's stomach, so that the momentum of the fall carried Jarret over the top of his head. Corso meanwhile kept a tight grip on Jarret's hand and wrist, twisting hard.
Sharp grit dug into Corso's back even as he caught sight of Jarret's pained, tight-clenched expression as he rolled past him. The man's knife-hand was seriously injured now, placing him at a serious disadvantage.
A soft murmur arose from the watching crowd, and Corso estimated they were already almost a minute into the challenge.
He got himself back upright, surreptitiously scooping a small handful of dust and grit into his left hand. He found he was now close to the centre of the combat arena, the remaining knife within easy reach. He took it, and found Jarret ready facing him once more, his own blade now grasped in his weaker left hand. By now the cold would be seeping in past the dense grease coating his skin, sapping his strength. Corso could feel it too: an icy numbness spreading through his arms, while slowly and inexorably weakening him.
Corso caught sight once more of that same lone figure standing well back from the howling mob of onlookers. It seemed impossible, but in that moment he felt certain it was Dakota.
He went on the attack, moving in fast, and gratified to see Jarret take a defensive step backwards in response. Corso swung his knife towards his opponent's head, but Jarret ducked easily, and attempted to parry left-handed. Corso dodged the blade and threw the handful of grit straight into Jarret's eyes.
As Jarret backed off, something slithered across his eyes. Corso realized that he had artificial nictitating membranes – secondary eyelids. He had hoped to blind his opponent, but the ploy had not worked.
Corso covered his brief disappointment by going on the attack once more. Jarret stood his ground, blocking Corso's stabbing thrust and taking the opportunity to punch him hard in the throat. Corso jerked back, ignoring the pain, and moved in close to his rival once again.
When he had the chance, he grabbed hold of Jarret's injured hand once again, and twisted it as hard as possible.
Jarret's teeth clenched in agony, then Corso felt something slice through the flesh over his ribcage. He twisted away, but did not dare spare a glance down in case Jarret took advantage of his distraction.
At least two minutes had passed, and the fight became more desperate, Jarret feinting towards Corso, then kicking out hard once he was close enough. Corso neatly avoided the kick and threw himself forward, trying for a chance at Jarret's jugular. Instead Jarret managed a successful
slash at Corso's back, scoring a deep flesh wound.
They hit the ground together, Corso on top. Jarret lost his grip on his knife once again and it spun out of reach. Corso tried to get in close with his own blade, but Jarret fought furiously, pressing the heel of one hand against Corso's face while maintaining a grip on his knife-hand with the other.
A deep thrumming began to fill Corso's ears at the same moment he realized most of the blood staining the ground immediately around them was his own. He had to finish it right now, or he was going to die.
He let go of his knife and used his feet to propel himself in an arc over the top of Jarret's head that landed him on his back, head to head with his opponent on the frozen soil. Then he quickly reached up and wrapped both arms around Jarret's neck before the other had a chance to twist out of the way. Corso sat up quickly, digging the heels of his boots into the hard soil and pulling Jarret after him, twisting his neck backwards.
Jarret struggled and let out a gargling scream, then there was a terrible, sickening crunch as his neck snapped. He twitched spasmodically for a few moments and then fell still. Corso released him and struggled back to his feet, before retrieving one of the knives and stabbing it into the ground to signal the end of the challenge.
Kenley and some of Corso's staff darted forward, grabbing hold of him before he crumpled to his knees. His entire body now felt like it was on fire. As if from a great distance, he heard McDade call out the duration of the fight: three minutes and twelve seconds, Corso's longest-lasting challenge yet.
The air was filled with shouting and booing from Jarret's angry supporters – as well as from those who had bet on the wrong man.
'Close,' Corso mumbled, half aware of Kenley's face near to his own. 'Too close.'
'You'll be fine. The doctor's ready to stitch you up now.'
As they carried him out of the combat ring, he looked around again to see if he could spot Dakota – but she had vanished, if she had ever been there at all.
Corso was gently heaved on to a stretcher, and realized Breisch was holding one end of it. He was then lifted into the back of an aid-copter originally used for ferrying injured soldiers out of the battlefield.
'Put him down now. The rest of you, outside,' he heard Breisch order. 'Everyone but the doctors.'
Someone pushed a needle into his arm and Corso tasted peppermint on his tongue. Two faces hovered within view, as he saw scissors cutting away his shirt, revealing a wound in his side which was much deeper than he had realized.
For a little while, everything seemed to get increasingly far away.
'Second wound's on his other side,' he heard a doctor say. 'We'll have to turn him. Ready… now.'
Everything got dark.
Chapter Thirteen
When Corso next opened his eyes, he found himself in a private room inside a hospital. The curtains were open, and the only light in the room came from the twinkling skyline of Unity beyond. The Senate building was visible towards the centre of town, a dome wreathed in artfully tangled girders and lit from beneath by floodlights.
An ambient video loop of a shoreline under a vault of grey clouds cycled across an expanse of wall next to the door. He mumbled a series of commands until he found one that caused the loop to switch off, then let his head fall back against the pillow, enjoying the sudden silence.
'You're back, I see.'
Corso lurched up in surprise. Breisch had been sitting the whole time in a chair to one side of the bed, nearly invisible in the shadows.
'How long?' Corso managed to ask, before letting his head sink back. His throat and mouth felt raw and ragged.
Breisch lifted himself out of the chair and stepped over to stand beside the bed. 'You've been out cold for two days. The med boys patched you up good, though. That was a hell of a fight.'
'I thought I was a dead man.'
'You very nearly were. You kept your head, though, when Jarret didn't. He thought he had you figured out.'
It was coming back now, yet it all felt like it had happened a million years ago. 'I remember now. Listen, I'm sorry I-'
'It's all right,' Breisch cut him off. 'I think we'd gone about as far as we could with your training anyway. I just wanted to be here when you woke up. There's somebody else here who's been waiting to see you since they choppered you in.'
Corso watched as Breisch stepped towards the door, pulling it open.
'Wait.. ' began Corso.
'Good luck, son,' said Breisch. 'I've enjoyed working with you.' He stepped through and was gone.
Corso stared at the closed door, then tried to lever himself into an upright position. The right side of his chest still felt like it was on fire, so he moved with extreme care. Something shifted against his ribcage under the bed sheet, but before he had a chance to investigate, the door opened again and Dakota walked in.
'I don't think they'll like it if you move around too much,' she declared, looking him up and down.
Corso froze where he was, then slid back down with infinite care. 'Until I saw you back there, I was sure you were dead,' he grunted.
Dakota headed past his bed and perched on the edge of the windowsill. The lights of the city now illuminated her from behind, colouring her skin a pale bronze.
'In a funny kind of way, I was,' she replied. 'And I can't make up my mind whether I still am.'
He tugged the bed sheet down with his left hand and saw, to his horror, that something not unlike an enormous caterpillar with semi-translucent flesh lay across the gash in his chest. He could see blood – his blood – pulsing through its body, while its dozen legs impaled his severed flesh, holding it in place.
'The wonders of modern biotechnology,' Dakota said. 'But don't worry. One of the doctors said it'd die and fall off in a couple of days once you've healed up.'
Corso let the sheet fall back into place, thoroughly disturbed by the sight.
'You simply disappeared,' he said. 'We got your final warning about the swarm heading our way… then nothing. What the hell happened to you, Dakota?'
'The swarm turned on me the instant I let my guard down.'
She shrugged. 'I thought I was studying it, while the whole time it was siphoning off the same data you sent to me. When it attacked, I was trapped. I had to use the last of my ship's energy reserves to send that final communication.'
'But you got away. You escaped, and now you're here.'
'It's not as simple as that.'
Corso groaned and tried to sit up again. His head was pounding. 'I need to get up.'
She hopped down from the windowsill and stepped over to the bed, gently pushing him back down. 'There's nothing needs taking care of so badly that you have to go anywhere right this instant.'
'Tell me exactly what happened. What did you mean, It's not as simple as that?
She forced a faltering smile. 'You'll recall how the swarm had gathered close by a red giant. Well, it blew – turned nova. At first I thought it was just the natural end of the star's life, but I can't help wondering if the swarm helped it along.'
'But you jumped to safety before the star turned nova?'
She shook her head. 'No.'
'Then… I don't understand.'
'The next thing I knew, I was most of my way back home. The ship had reduced me to information just before it was destroyed, and used the very last of its power reserves to transmit all of that to another Magi ship, located not much more than a few days out from here.' She gave him a ghost of a smile. 'They'd rebuilt me, except it seems something was lost during the transmission.'
Corso stared at her in mute shock, as she continued. 'I can feel there's a lot missing. Sometimes I try to remember something, and there's only a little fragment, a picture or a face or something I can't even make out properly, and that's all.' Her expression became hopeless. 'It's like there's now this yawning hole where a lot of my life used to be.'
Corso struggled to find an adequate response. 'But you're here, you're alive, aren't you? At least-'
'No,' she cut him off abruptly. 'I remember dying, Lucas. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel about that.'
'Dakota, if one of those Magi ships did what you say it did, then that's… that's incredible. That makes you just about one of the luckiest people alive.'
She shook her head. 'But I'm not me. The real me died.'
'You know, some people would say that's just semantics.'
She looked at him sharply. 'So if someone made an exact copy of you and it tried to murder you, that would be okay because it's got all your thoughts and emotions and memories, even your sense of self-identity? Would you – the real you, that is – be any less dead?'
Corso opened his mouth, then hesitated. 'No,' he said, a little reluctantly. 'No, I guess I wouldn't be. But if I knew I was going to die, I think I'd feel a lot better knowing I'd still be carrying on in some way.'
Dakota's voice took on a harder edge. 'But you'd still be dead, either way. And the copy would still only be a copy… I've been thinking about this a lot.'
I can tell, thought Corso, but kept silent.
'There's a part of me,' Dakota continued, 'that thought it meant I was free of my former responsibilities. That I could just fly away and not give a damn about the Long War or the Emissaries or anything like that. This version of me wasn't in Nova Arctis or Night's End, no matter what my memories may say. So I don't have to care about any of this.'
'All right,' he replied. 'So why even bother coming here?'
'I wasn't given a choice.'
He took a moment to process this statement. 'I don't understand.'
'The Magi ships are all hardwired to stop the Maker. Even if I wanted to disappear, the one that brought me back from the dead would never let me.'
'But you're its navigator, of course you can-'
'No, I can't,' she interrupted. 'Not any more.'
'Why?'
She sighed. 'Let's just say there's been a fundamental change in my relationship with the Magi ships, since I was brought back. I'd tell you more, but this really isn't the right time.'