by John M. Ford
Vrenn touched his weapon controls. The crystal tip pulsed green.
The Flier was struck in the left ribs, knocked off course. Vrenn spun the Lance end-for-end, smashing the Null end at the Flier’s control gauntlet. He connected. Small bones crunched, and wires. As if swept by an invisible hand, the Gold’s harness flung him into the wall of the cell, and pressed him there, outlined in blue fire. The harness spent its charge. The Gold Flier hit the floor, moved just a little, then sparkled and vanished without a sound.
A floor strip turned blue. Vrenn walked through the holo into the space beyond.
Some of the Naval officers, and even one of the Marines, were slapping their thighs in approval. “Good play! Good play!”
Admiral Kezhke said, “Who’s the Green Lancer?”
Operator Sudok pressed keys, and the closeup image was printed over with red letters.
“Vrenn,” Kezhke read, “Gensa, good House ... Rustazh?” Kezhke knocked aside the fruit one of his consorts was feeding him. There was a silence in the gallery.
General Maida had a just-lit incense stick in his fingers; he stopped halfway to the holder on his shoulder. “I thought the Rustazh line was extinct.”
“So did I,” Kezhke said. “I wonder if Kethas knows.”
“Can such things be?” Margon said amiably, and gestured to remind Maida of his smoldering incense.
Kezhke said, “Sudok—”
“The Admiral Grand Master inspected his players’ complete records some days ago.”
[38] Margon said, “You can hardly assume a Grand Master’s play would be affected by his interest in one of the pieces.”
“No,” Kezhke said levelly, “not Kethas. But it’s been ... seven years since all the Rustazh died—”
“All but one, it would seem.”
“It would seem.” Kezhke stroked his stomach, turned to the cubicle at the end of the room.
Within it, Thought Admiral Kethas again moved his Lancer.
Vrenn had reached the sixth level of the grid, four cells to an edge. There were only a few Clouds here; about half the level was visible, and several spaces on the level above. Vrenn wondered briefly if the other Gold Flier was still in play, and almost without thinking checked his Lance. The indicator read four-tenths charge. The Fliers could not carry Goals, but surely that did not matter yet; surely they were not so close to endgame.
Behind Vrenn, a player was rising from below. He turned; it was Gelly, bouncing from toe to toe as if she were weightless. There was a film of blood on her metal gloves. She was smiling, like a shining light in her face. Vrenn nodded to her, and she spun round on the ball of one foot.
The other enemy Flier shot upward, through a space two away from Vrenn’s, and was lost in the Clouds above.
Huge green-armored shoulders appeared near the far point of Vrenn’s level: Ragga was coming up. There were creases now in his heavy leather, and a few rips. Vrenn wondered if he was happier now. He stood as if nothing had ever, could ever, touch him.
The Golden Lancer stepped out of Cloud, faced Ragga directly. Vrenn leaned forward slightly, eager to see.
The enemy’s Lance flashed green. Ragga made no [39] attempt to dodge the bolt; he did not even grunt as it struck him. Then he swung.
The Lancer was at least smart enough not to bother with his shields. He reversed his weapon to the Null end. Vrenn smacked a hand on his thigh; it was a bold move. Not that it would save him, not against Ragga.
The Green Blocker’s fist smashed at the Lance butt, knocking it down, almost out of the Gold’s hands. The enemy staggered.
So did Ragga.
Vrenn stared as the best Blocker of all the Houses sank to his knees. The Lancer stepped back to recover. Ragga barely moved. The Null end struck him, and struck again, and again.
On the third stroke Vrenn heard the pop of a spark, and then he understood: the Lance butt was not Null. There was something hidden in it; a contact stunner, or an agonizer.
It must, he thought, it must be a rule he did not know—some handicap against a Grand Master, perhaps—Vrenn checked his controls, touched a finger to the Null of his own Lance; only the grip of training kept him from banging the blunt end against the floor or into one of the wall barriers. Vrenn looked up, toward the window where he had seen the players, but it was blocked now from his view.
An edge of Gelly’s space went from yellow to blue. Vrenn turned, saw the path of blue lines leading to the Gold Lancer. Ragga was gone. Vrenn opened his mouth, to warn her. His jaw was tense enough to hurt, and before he could strain out any words Gelly Swift was across the spaces at warp speed.
The Gold brought up his weapon. Gelly danced around it, kicked the Lancer. He stumbled, started to turn. She kicked him again, punched him in the lower back. He seemed about to fall; she tumbled, did a handstand and struck his helmet with her bootheel.
The Lancer fell.
[40] Gelly cartwheeled upright.
The Lancer stood and sent a bolt into her body.
Gelly doubled over. The Lancer hit her with the blunt non-Null steel, hit her twice. There was blood. Gelly’s blood was a very dark color.
A snarl came up in Vrenn’s throat; he swallowed it back.
Vrenn was Elevated again. When he reached the seventh level, the Goal disk was just being transported into his space; he caught it as it fell. The metal Goal was indeed quite heavy.
The space was opaque on two sides, above, and below; the clear side showed nothing. Where, Vrenn wanted to know, was Zharn? Moving the Fencer away from the Goal was the most dangerous gambit in klin zha.
He wanted to know as well if the Gold players were cheating, and if so how they expected to succeed; and if Ragga and Gelly had been transported alive; and he wanted a Gold player, to kill for his own.
“About those odds ...” Manager Atro said.
Akten, without looking away from the windows, said, “Wagers cancelled, of course. No fault.”
Atro waved a hand.
Kezhke had retrieved the fruit from his consort and was chewing furiously. “I don’t know about that Lancer,” he said, juice running down his chin.
“The Thought Admiral might then be distracted?” General Margon said calmly, reaching for a glass of brandy.
“Not the Green Lancer, the Gold,” Kezhke said at once, then turned to face Margon. “I am not a Thought Admiral, and I do not pretend to understand fleet strategy; but even you, General, know epetai-Khemara’s record.”
“Oh, yes,” Margon said lightly, and made a gesture with fingertips to forehead, indicating mild insanity. The Marine officers laughed. So did some of the [41] Navals. “Does anyone know what sort of fusion that Green Swift was? She was rather interesting, in a skinny sort of way.” Margon’s consort threw a grape at him.
“The Green Goal’s unprotected,” General Maida said. “He’s sent his Fencer off ...”
“Operator,” Kezhke said slowly, “replay of the last kill by Gold Fencer.”
Sudok touched a key, and a small holo was thrown on the glass.
“Lancer Elevated to Seven, covering Goal,” one of the Managers said. “Gold Lancer to Seven.”
Kezhke said “Operator, stop replay, and enlarge. ... General Margon, will you look at this?”
“When I mentioned the Swift, I only had the epetai-Khemara in mind ... he likes skinny. And green.”
“Green Lancer, carrying Goal, up to Eight.”
As Vrenn set the Goal disc down, the enemy Lancer rose into view. Now, Vrenn thought, and waited for the yellow space barrier to change. Instead, the floor began rising again. Vrenn put a foot up on the Goal, fingers tight on his Lance; the ache in his jaw was radiating to the side of his head.
From the Eighth level, only two spaces on an edge, he could see downward, see Zharn on the Seventh; now he thought he understood. Zharn would move from Cloud, on the Lancer.
Zharn did. He swung his thin staff in the widest possible arc; the tip struck the Gold Lancer’s right arm and wrapped a
round it. Zharn twisted the polarizing grip and the metal went rigid. Vrenn had seen Zharn execute this kill a hundred times: as the enemy was pulled around, he would be carried directly into Zharn’s knifing left hand, and the Gold’s own body energy would help to drop him.
Then, impossibly, Zharn stumbled. The Fencer’s hand twitched, depolarizing his staff; the Lancer spun in the wrong direction, and shoved the Active [42] Lance-point into Zharn’s throat. Green light flashed on green armor.
Zharn’s head went back, far back, too far back. His eyes, very wide, looked up into Vrenn’s, and his lips moved, spasming—
No, not just a spasm. Vrenn read them, very clearly.
Get this one, Zharn said, and flickered silently out of existence.
“Do you see that flare?” Kezhke said. “Between the Lance and the Swift’s body?”
“That’s just a lens flare,” someone said, without force.
“Assuming that it isn’t,” Margon said, interested, “what is it?”
Kezhke said, “You know more of personal weapons than I, General. You are an authority on them.”
Margon sniffed his brandy. His other hand rested, relaxed, on the grip of his dress weapon. “Are you proposing, oh, anything, Admiral?”
A few of the others stepped quietly aside.
Kezhke waved both his consorts away. He had no weapon visible, but of course no Klingon of rank would be unarmed in public. “Perhaps that you should examine this image, General, and a few others.”
“Operator Sudok,” Margon said, “did you examine the equipment for this game?”
“I did, General,” the Vulcan said.
“And there were no irregularities?”
“None.”
Kezhke said nothing. No one would appear so foolish as to doubt a Vulcan’s word.
Margon took his hand away from his sidearm, gestured toward Thought Admiral Kethas’s cubicle. “If the Naval champion wishes to stop the game, we will naturally accept a draw.”
“Kethas,” one of the Administrators said, distracted and puzzled, “has never been drawn in tournament.”
“There is that.” Margon went back to the viewing [43] window. “And certainly never by a Marine Force Leader. All that, and the son of the Thought Admiral’s good dead friend playing, and the invincible Gold opposing him ... I do so enjoy klin zha; nothing short of living war is so stimulating.”
“Gold Lancer Elevated, to Eight.”
“There is always,” Manager Akten said, “the komerex zha.”
“I do not acknowledge the existence of the Perpetual Game,” Margon said without turning. “Society is society, war war. If they are games at all, surely they are not all the same game. I deny it.”
“That is a favored tactic,” Akten said.
“Green Lancer to Level Nine.”
There was no Cloud at the highest level. Vrenn stood in a four-sided pyramid of clear, shimmering panels edged in black steel, and waited for the last move of the Game.
There could only be one move now. Vrenn had carried the Goal to the Ninth Level: the enemy had his next move only to capture the disc. And only the Lancer could reach this space in one. The other Gold Flier might, of course, if she were on an edge space and still alive ... but Vrenn knew it would not be the Flier. The move would be too easy, not bold enough for a game between Masters.
He was right. A spindle of light, dazzling, soundless, appeared in a point of the space, and the Golden Lancer materialized.
Vrenn smashed his Lance against the Gold’s almost before the transport was complete; he felt the displacement field push him back as it did the air. Then the effect died, and Vrenn shoved the enemy back, so that both the Gold’s shoulders struck wall panels. Vrenn cursed; he had been expecting shock fields, but here there was only plain matter.
The Gold pushed back, and tried to turn his Lance crosswise to Vrenn’s, get freedom to use the Active or [44] false-Null tips. The two Lancers struggled for a dozen heartbeats; then Vrenn was pushed back, by incredible strength. Lances cracked against each other, and against yellow energy shields. Vrenn read his charge counter: one-fourth. He dropped the shield and used the Lance as if it were a plain metal fighting stick, striking sparks, connecting with blows to the enemy’s limbs that seemed to have no effect at all. He would have howled, but there was no breath to spare.
He looked into the enemy’s face. Their eyes met. The Gold was clearly full-Klingon, as much Imperial Race as was Vrenn; the broad dark face was scarred heavily, and there was a strange high tension in the look, like electricity in the yellow eyes.
Vrenn knew that it was desperation that he saw, and thought the Gold must see the same. They were images in a mirror, only the colors of their clothing different.
No, not only. The Gold had his dishonest Lance. And with his desperation, Vrenn Gensa Green had his rage.
Vrenn struck downward to disengage, then spun full circle on the ball of his foot, extending his Lance as Zharn had swung his slender staff. The startled enemy had blocked high, and the crystal tip of Vrenn’s Lance caught him just below the right armpit.
Vrenn fingered his controls, and the whole remaining charge in his weapon went into a single green bolt.
The Gold player dropped his Lance. Vrenn kicked it aside, then threw away his own. And then he stopped still, and stared.
He had been wrong. There had been no hidden weapon in the Gold player’s Lance. Not in his Lance, at all.
The Gold’s right arm lay on the floor, twitching, its fingers spasming one-two-three-four. Above it stood its former owner, wobbling on his feet. From his right shoulder, wires dangled and sparked, and coolant and fluidic oil dripped from broken tubes.
Vrenn drove a fist into the enemy’s body, then [45] another. He felt tissue give beneath: only part-robot, then. Good. Very good. The enemy fell back, against a wall panel.
“Kai!” Vrenn shouted, only half-meaning it as mockery, leaped and drove both feet into the Gold-thing’s midsection.
Plastic splintered outward, and the cyborg Lancer went out and down, down fifty meters, and hit with a sound neither fleshly or mechanical. Blood and oil ran together.
“Gensa, the victory!” Vrenn shouted from the apex of the grid, out the open panel. He looked at the officers watching from their gallery, across space and a little below him now. “Gensa, a thousand times, undefeated!”
He wondered if any of them were listening.
“What an extraordinary endgame,” Manager Akten said. General Maida coughed and snuffed out his incense. One of Admiral Kezhke’s consorts turned and was sick; a servitor caught it in the hem of its robe. Kezhke said “I should call it more than—”
“Yes,” Margon said, and his pistol was out. Consorts and officers went for cover.
“Tokhe straav’!” Margon shouted: Willing slave, the vilest name Klingon could call Klingon, an insult only death could redeem. Then Margon fired, a bolt of actinic blue light that starred the glass door of Force Leader Mabli’s cubicle. Mabli had just turned when the second shot blasted the panel apart, showering the player with fragments of crystal. The third shot tore apart his chest. Margon’s pistol was holstered before the last shard of glass had struck the floor. The mist overhead swirled, and there was the sharp smell of ozone. Kezhke’s left hand was tense on his leveled right forearm; slowly, he relaxed.
Margon raised the brandy glass he still held. “Kai, Thought Admiral. Another victory with your many.”
Kethas stood in the open door of his cubicle. “Yes.” [46] He looked past Margon. Servitors were already sweeping up the fragments. “And for every victory, a loss, Margon?”
“There was nothing else for him,” Margon said plainly. “Certainly not life. What could be accepted as truth from one who would commit fraud at klin zha? I would suspect that, when the plodders of Security finish with this straav’s record, it will be found full of lies as well.”
“I would not doubt that,” Kezhke said, without sarcasm.
“But the corru
ption ends here,” said General Maida.
Kethas was looking out the window, at the figure on the top of the pyramid. The Green Lancer had arms upraised, and was shouting something the glass filtered out. It was barely possible that Mabli had heard Margon’s challenge, before his glass was broken; but it hardly mattered.
Kethas said, “There is a last thing, sutai-Demma. ...”
Margon said, “Epetai-Khemara?”
“A pleasing game. My compliments to a worthy opponent.”
Margon nodded. Kethas turned away. “Manager Akten,” he said, “I should like to discuss a matter with you. An adoption from one of the Houses of Lineless Youth.”
Akten gestured to his tharavul. “I took that to be the context of your message, and Sovin has a set of—” Akten stopped short. “You said an adoption? Not just a transfer of residence?”
Kethas gave the faintest of smiles. “You are a good player, Akten ... but even I did not know in advance how the game would end.”
Chapter 2
Strategies
Vrenn was in his sleeping room of the House Twenty-Four, alone. The six beds were all neat; the other occupants were at a morning instruction. Vrenn had a sudden, deep flash of wishing he were with them. But he was no longer Gensa, but Khemara. Shortly a transport would be here, to take him away to his destiny.
Vrenn crouched on the edge of the bed that he had slept in all his life, leaned forward, slipped his fingers beneath it, feeling out of sight of the room monitors for the slot between metal frames.
He found nothing.
His jaw tensed, and his lips curled back from his teeth. So the one thing he would have kept was gone as well. He thought that it was not right for the Proctors to take it; it did not really belong to the House. If he found Khidri, Vrenn wondered, could he convince him [48] to give Vrenn that one thing? Or if he could not take it away, at least give it to a Housemate. ...