by S. N. Lewitt
"Let me guess," said Haakogard. "It isn't honorable." He wanted to tell everyone how comical the whole contest was, but the words would not come; he could read determination in all the faces around him, including, he suspected, in many of his own Petit Harriers. He tried to remain calm, to appear collected, as if he did this every day. Now that it was too late, he chided himself for neglecting his drill with the Shimbue bola and all the other hand weapons on the Yngmoto.
The Mromrosi came into the loading hatch and hunkered down, waiting. He said nothing, but he was intent on the poMoend officers. He said nothing to Haakogard or any of the other Petit Harriers.
The officers of poMoend—nine of them—were gathered around the Comes Riton, who all-but-visibly seethed with indignation. Tsambar Foethwis stood at the Comes Riton's side, a small, weighted net hanging from one hand, and a two-pronged pike in the other. He had on a light body armor, all flexible but the breastplate; it was very good protection for hand-to-hand combat. As Tenre and Zim approached, Haakogard behind them, the officers offered him half a bow, and the Comes Riton swore under his breath.
"My champion is Line Commander Goren Haakogard of the Petit Harriers," Tenre said formally, his words ringing with heroic purpose. "Whatever fate decrees for him I will endorse and embrace."
"I am champion for the Comes Riton," said Tsambar Foethwis, looking once at the Comes Riton, apprehension in his eyes as if he expected the Comes Riton to deny it. "My fate is his fate."
"As honor demands," said one of the poMoend officers, which did not surprise Haakogard at all.
"The fight," said Tydbar Grabt, "will be until one or the other is incapable of fighting any longer." He saw this acknowledged by those waiting for the contest. "All of us must observe and attest to what happens here, and bear accurate witness to the event. We will ensure absolute fairness and the true disposition of the case being decided here," he went on, warming to his subject. "Therefore we now ask the champions to trade weapons."
Haakogard stared at Tydbar Grabt. "What? Trade weapons?" he repeated, thinking he could not possibly have heard correctly. They could not actually require something so senseless as that. The contest was ridiculous to start with, and if it was expected that they would battle with unfamiliar weapons, it was worse than a joke. "Are you serious?"
"Trade weapons, the both of you," ordered Tydbar Grabt without a trace of humor. "Tsambar, present yours to me." He held out his hands and took the double pike and net. He inspected both and put them aside, turning to Haakogard for his.
Reluctantly Haakogard took his Shimbue bola from its scabbard. "Here you are," he said to Tydbar Grabt. "It is just what it appears to be. There are no tricks to it."
Tydbar Grabt gave the bola a cursory inspection. "Most interesting. I don't believe we have seen anything like it." He gave this to Tsambar Foethwis before presenting Haakogard with Foethwis' weapons. "Each of you may have a short time to familiarize yourselves with your new weapons."
"Good of you," said Haakogard sarcastically as he hefted the net. The weights gave it quite a satisfactory swing, and he thought that perhaps he would be able to use it without having to resort to the double-pronged pike, which was top-heavy, making it slow on the return. He shifted his grip on the net a little, finding a more secure hold. As he swung the net again, he flicked his wrist and was rewarded as the net spread wide. What in the name of the Fifty-Six was the purpose of all this? he demanded of himself. He brought the pike up and tried to use it for thrusting. It handled rather better that way than as a slicing blade. He took a shorter hold on the staff and tried once more. He was aware that Tsambar Foethwis was making a number of passes with the Shimbue bola.
"We have marked out your field," Tydbar Grabt went on. "You will see it there. It is flat and we have rid it of all pebbles and loose dust so that you will not have those disadvantages to consider. It is twenty strides long and twelve strides wide." He was clearly pleased with the effort that had gone into this preparation, and he waited to hear some approval of what he had accomplished.
"Very conscientious," said Tenre.
"Much appreciated," said the Comes Riton through tight teeth.
Haakogard wanted to add his opinion but knew it would not be welcome. He lowered his head, looking away from the place that had been prepared for the fight. He wondered if Perzda had got an answer to the most recent zap, the one explaining about this duel. They had waited for a reply but none had come, and Perzda had warned him that the Grands might be the reason. She had insisted that the Grands wanted to trap this mission, just so that their Marshal-in-Chief would not be revealed as the criminal he was. Haakogard was not sure he believed that, but he had to admit it was very tempting to blame the Grands for the mess he was in. It was typical of the Grands to shift attention this way. His uneasiness about their arrival grew more intense. How could this minor skirmish on this out-of-the-way planet save the Grands' Marshal-in-Chief from scandal? He realized that a question had been addressed to him. "I beg your pardon?"
"Are you ready to begin?" repeated Tydbar Grabt.
"Why not?" Haakogard answered. He looked at his opponent, deciding that they were a fairly even match: Tsambar Foethwis was not quite as tall as Haakogard but had a slightly longer reach.
They appeared to be about the same age. What neither man knew of the other was the kind of fighters they were. Haakogard gave the net a last practice swing. He might be able to throw it, but if he did, Tsambar Foethwis was likely to be able to turn that to advantage.
"Tell me," said the Comes Riton, addressing Haakogard directly, "do you truly think your honor is being preserved by doing this?"
"I don't know," said Haakogard honestly.
The Comes Riton frowned. "You have no excuse for what you do, Harrier. You are serving as an agent of disruption sent by the Magnicate Alliance to throw our planet into confusion and war as the means of gaining control over it. A despicable act."
Haakogard thought that there might be a grain of truth in the accusation, but it belonged to the Grands, not the Petits. "If that is what we Petit Harriers are doing, we have chosen a strange place to do it." He made a small, polite bow to the Comes Riton. "I am profoundly sorry it has come to this." Which was as candid as he dared to be.
Tydbar Grabt strolled to the edge of the cleared field. "You must confine your battle to this place, within these markers. If either of you leaves the boundaries except by accident, it will count against you. If either of you surrenders while he can still fight, it will count against you. The honor of the Comes Riton is in the balance, whichever clone of the Comes prevails." He stepped to the side and found a place to sit on the ground not far from the edge of the delineated field. The other poMoend officers joined him.
"They're watching from the ships," said Zim as she selected a patch of ground for herself. "If anything goes—"
"We have to play this all the way out, and fairly," said Haakogard, no longer caring how foolish it all was. "Make sure everyone remembers that." He gave her a lopsided smile. "Time to get to work, I guess."
"Good luck." Zim waited for Tenre to say something, but when he did not, she rose and kissed Haakogard's cheek, then settled down to watch.
His Bunter had insisted that Haakogard wear uneven terrain boots, and now Haakogard was grateful for them. He felt the grip and stability of the soles, and thought this might give him an edge. He brought the pike around and used it to protect his chest, for though his uniform would stop anything short of high-impact projectiles, he knew that a blow to the chest could be dangerous.
Tsambar Foethwis made the first move, rushing in suddenly, bending low, the Shimbue bola hissing as it lashed at Haakogard's legs.
Haakogard jumped back and swung the net overhead before trying to snag Foethwis' arm in the mesh. He called on three or four of the least friendly spirits of his home planet as he prepared to rush Foethwis with the pike.
Foethwis turned out to be very light on his feet, dancing back out of the way of the net, though i
t swiped a colored tag off his arm.
"They fight well," said Tydbar Grabt. He folded his arms and watched with a curious detachment, paying no heed to the Comes Riton, who paced behind him, doing his best to ignore the fight.
The third time Haakogard used the net, he swung it incorrectly and nearly pulled himself off his feet with the force and weight of it. He used the pike to steady himself enough to stay on his feet, and came very close to having the Shimbue bola claim some skin from his knuckles. He almost dropped the pike.
"Don't fail too quickly," Foethwis taunted, though he was beginning to pant.
"Don't be overconfident," Haakogard replied, changing his hold on the net so that he could drift it open rather than sling it like a clumsy lasso. There was a trick to keeping it spread; it was that flip of the wrist. If only he had had some time to study the weapon before now . . .
One of the three lashes of the bola cut at his shoulder; only the tough fibers of his uniform kept him from being hurt.
Foethwis seized the advantage, starting to drive Haakogard toward the edge of the field. His face glistened with sweat and his eyes were bright with anticipation of victory. The lashes fell again, their little metal stars pulling rents in Haakogard's tunic. One of the rents beaded with blood.
It was all so preposterous, thought Haakogard as he fended Foethwis off with the pike. He wanted to laugh, to throw the weapons in the air and walk away from the insanity. But he was bleeding at the shoulder, and the next blow from the Shimbue bola scraped his arms, hurting him more. He shook his head as if trying to awaken from a dream that was becoming a nightmare.
"Champion!" shouted the Comes Riton—at least Haakogard thought it was the Comes Riton; it was hard to tell—for encouragement. "Avenge the insult that has been given me."
The Comes Riton, Haakogard was sure of it. He jumped aside as Foethwis charged him, and brought the net around to slam into the back of the man's knees, knocking him forward, but not quite off his feet. "Well done, Line Commander!" shouted Tenre, springing to his feet and coming nearer to the combat field.
"Sit down," Tydbar Grabt ordered. "Dignity and honor will be deserved."
Tenre took a couple steps back. "Continue! Continue!"
Was it better or worse, being encouraged, Haakogard asked himself in a remote part of his mind as he ducked under Foethwis' aggressive attack and moved to the center of the combat area. He skibbered backward, preparing for the new rush from Foethwis, his pike dragging on the earth. He had to get rid of it; it was more trouble than it was worth.
Foethwis swung twice with the bola, the second pulling at Haakogard's mask and leaving a track like a cat's claw behind. He shouted "Most Excellent Comes!" and drove his assault more vigorously.
Haakogard was driven backward. In disgust he took the pike and flung it away, far outside of their fighting area. Even as he dodged another furious blow from the Shimbue bola, he felt freer and more capable. He brought up the net and swung it, and succeeded in snagging the lashes of the bola in the tough fibers of his net.
"Goren!" shouted Nola Zim.
He tugged just once, very hard, and felt Tsambar Foethwis come off his feet. As Foethwis lost precious seconds wallowing in the embrace of the net, Haakogard moved quickly. This time it was simple to get behind him and push him forward, into the dust. As Foethwis struggled to get free of the net, Haakogard gave him a good push so that he was more thoroughly enmeshed in it.
"I will die!" screamed Foethwis as he tried—unsuccessfully—to rise. "I will reclaim my honor!"
"Stop it." Haakogard was breathing heavily, and under his uniform he could feel patches of sweat. He gave Foethwis another shove so that he would not be able to reach a weapon for suicide. Then he looked over at the officers of poMoend. "Well? What else do I have to do?"
Tenre came up to him beaming. "You won. You don't have to do anything else. It's over."
"Not yet," said Haakogard, because it did not feel over to him. "There's unanswered questions yet."
"You have prevailed," said Tydbar Grabt seriously. "And the Comes Riton is established for this phase." He motioned to some of the officers near him. "We will proceed with the devivification."
"Oh, leave it alone," said Haakogard, walking out of the combat area and approaching the poMoend officers. "There's been enough craziness about who's going to die. This has got to end." He did not realize until he said it how important it was to him, that the death for honor come to an end. "No one ought to die defending someone else's genetic code, and that's what killing a clone amounts to."
"It is right that I die," said the Comes Riton quietly, paying little attention to Haakogard. "I have been shown to be unworthy. I have not the right. It must be as you said: I am the alternate and he"—he pointed at Tenre—"he is the authentic phase of the Comes Riton. I must expiate my error."
The officers gave their endorsement to his intentions, a few of them shouting for the Comes Riton's death. "Yes," said a very young Pangbar who was completely in awe of his august company, "it is fitting that the Comes Riton be restored to honor."
"It's asinine," said Haakogard bluntly. "It's a waste of good men, it's a waste of resources and training." He was not panting any more, but his chest felt hot. "If you want to make the most of these clones, get them to cooperate. You don't seem to realize that each of them has something to teach the other, because they were not raised together. That's probably the best thing that's ever happened to any phase of the Comes Riton." He looked back at Tsambar Foethwis. "It goes for him, too."
"How do you mean?" demanded the Comes Riton.
"There's no reason for him to die because of this fight. He did his work and he did it well, and that ought to be honorable enough for anyone."
"And what will you do if we do not obey you?" asked Tydbar Grabt. "Will you enforce your edict with arms?"
Haakogard glared at him. "Of course we won't. It isn't our job to coerce you. This is your home, and your problem. You'll work it out. I mean it about Tsambar Foethwis. I don't want to find out he was allowed to slit his own throat, or whatever you usually do. I expect him to continue as an officer and an advisor to the Comes Ritons—both of them." He stood very straight. "And now, if all this is over, I want a shower."
Tenre clapped him on the shoulder, inadvertently squeezing one of the scratches left by the bola. "You must be acknowledged as my champion and given the respect your act deserves."
"It deserves a shower," said Haakogard, resigning himself to not getting it for some little while.
As the four Petit Harrier Katanas set down in the main landing port of Bilau, the Comes Riton stared at the surveills, fascinated by what was there. "So huge. And I have always thought that poMoend was enormous."
"PoMoend is rather small," said Zim, her tone neutral but her eyes sharp with her own brand of wit.
"You'll get used to it," said Haakogard. "You're better at cities than Tenre is, and you've got more practice at being the Comes Riton. You know how to behave, and what's due you." He started toward the main entryway where the Katanas had been directed to unload. "Tenre will manage poMoend very well so long as you make sure that you are no longer in isolation. You'll make a good partnership, if you work it right." He glanced at Perzda. "What about the Grands? Any of them around?"
"One Bombard-class still here," she said, "according to the most recent zap. But the Grands are doing demonstration maneuvers today, so we probably won't see them." Her smile was wicked with delight. "And they're supposed to lift off by sunrise tomorrow."
Near the largest surveill screen, the Mromrosi bounced contentedly and gave off a high, squeaky sound the crew had decided was the Mromrosi version of humming.
"Let's hear it for our Older Brothers," said Jarrick Riven, using the nickname for the Grands that was not wholly complimentary. There were low chuckles and a whistle or two in the control room; from the bridge, Executive Officer Mawson Tallis began to sing retreat.
"Anything about the Marshal-in-Chief of the Grands
?" asked Haakogard, with a trace of satisfaction.
Communications Leader Alrou Malise answered. "There's been a bulletin sent around saying that he's retiring to Hathaway because of health. No mention of any scandal."
"So they found a way to cover it up without dragging us into it," said Tallis, his tone not entirely satisfied.
"Give thanks for small favors," said Malise.
The crew gave a ragged, unenthusiastic cheer.
"Ah," said Haakogard. "Don't be so cynical. We don't want to tempt the Grands to try again, do we?"
"Only if we get to choose the time and the place," said Tallis.
There were murmurs of satisfaction all around.
"But," said Malise, "we're ordered out to Mere Philomene to slow down a revolution. You know the kind of colonists they have on Mere Philomene. It's going to be nasty."
"It sounds like the Commodore felt that our return home right now might prove needlessly embarrassing to the retiring Marshal-in-Chief of the Grands, considering the situation at the time of his retirement." Tallis made a single, aggressive gesture with his right hand indicating what the Commodore could do about his decision.
Another, more genuine, cheer went up.
From his place by the surveills, the Mromrosi turned a brilliant shade of puce; it was all the comment he was prepared to make.
Into the Hot and Moist
Steve Perry
1
Newly-commissioned Petit Harrier Light Unit Commander Stelo Gain was still unpacking his gear when the space station's General Alert hooters began screaming.
Gain was absolutely fresh. He still wore his academy haircut, and he had the untested graduate's desire for battle. He had a room, though he hadn't been on Oasis II long enough to be assigned a station, or even to have met the SC; still, he certainly wanted to be a part of whatever was going on.
"Computer!"
The voice that answered was slow, lazy, and unlike any military voiceax Gain had ever heard: