Markram Battles: Omens of Doom (Part II)

by Muhlenkamp, M. C.

  I nod. “Senator. I trust you are enjoying the opportunity to meet the leaders?”

  “Most remarkably so. I believe my daughter is quite taken with one of the leaders of your unit,” he says, pointing to the young woman next to Seven. My gaze travels down her shockingly exposed body, following the gray lace running along the side of her legs, hips, and torso. “Though, I am afraid she will be heartbroken by the night’s end. Surely more than one woman with substantial means will request his company for the evening.”

  “Unit leaders are free to accept invitations from whomever they wish,” the other Senator says. I can feel my forehead creasing in confusion as I study the familiar features of his face. I have no memory of him, none whatsoever, and yet, something about the curve of his nose and eyes seems familiar. “It is one of the benefits of winning battles. Women do love conquering heroes,” he adds.

  “How do you find the results of this year’s battles so far, Commander?” Senator Thirty-Two asks.

  I interrupt my inspection to address him. “They are the best we’ve seen in years.”

  The Senator smiles, satisfied. “I have to agree. After the fighters’ rebellion during the rule of the Emperors, many were afraid the battles would never be the same again.”

  Senator Thirty-Two’s consort lets out a sigh of disapproval, wrapping her arm around the Senator’s arm. “It was to be expected. The fighters’ rebellion was a catastrophe. Many Markram lives were lost in the uprising.” She rolls her free wrist in the air, using her extrasensory telekinesis to wave her long hair away from the elevated collar of her long black dress.

  I nod in approval as my mind retrieves the encoded memories from my brain. “Our race was fighting a war against the Kîvera planet at the time, which allowed imprisoned fighters the opportunity to overtake our defenses. However, we conquered, yet again.”

  “Wasn’t the recruitment of female fighters instituted as a consequence?” the Senator’s consort asks.

  “It was the perfect solution, really,” Senator Thirty-Two answers. “Female fighters provide the perfect combination of aggression and brutality in the battles, while maintaining compliant attitudes outside the arena. A second rebellion would never happen.”

  I consider his statement and make a conscious effort to hold back a reply. Fighters rebelling again might not happen in the same manner, since we have taken precautions to avoid it. However, new and different rebellions may occur due to the new regulations. An image of Seven and Thirteen flashes through my mind and I shake it away immediately. Surely they would never go that far. “The recruitment of female fighters also gave us an added opportunity to control population growth among Kîvera,” I say in an attempt to keep my brain occupied on other matters. “The Kîvera’s male dominant society, where males must compete to earn mating rights over a group of females and the gestation period of a female Kîvera is half the time of a female Markram, presented a serious concern, especially after the uprising.”

  Senator Thirty-Two nods in agreement. I return my attention to the other Senator, retrieving every bit of information from my brain, no matter how trivial, that might help me solve the puzzle of his familiarity. Unsuccessful, I decide to approach the matter differently. “Senator,” I say. “I don’t believe we have been properly introduced.”

  The Senator looks at me, the edges of his mouth barely curving into what I cannot interpret as anything else but a suppressed smile. “I am the new Senator of Sector 6.” My mind begins to race through the memories regarding Sector 6. The planet had a massive sandstorm five moon cycles ago, which disrupted the normal functioning of its facilities. Not only that, but several of the buildings caved in after a series of seismic activities, resulting in the deaths of hundreds of civilians, army officials, and the ruling senator in charge. “I am quite fortunate to have been in a position to attend. My consort, however, had to remain in Sector 6 to oversee several reconstruction projects. She was very disappointed to have missed the Opening Ceremony.”

  “She is matron of one of the units, is she not?” Senator Thirty-Two asks.

  Senator Six doesn’t look his way. Instead, his gaze intensifies even more, as if he wished he could tell me through this minor change of expression something of the upmost importance. “That is correct.” The tone he uses unsteadies me, making me wonder if I should know the unit he is referring to. Not that I have any way of finding out; private patronage of fighting units is a confidential matter. Only board members would have such information and even then, specific details are given the highest levels of confidentiality. Still, I cannot shake the alarming feeling that he knows something I don’t.

  I turn my attention to the Major General, who hasn’t spoken a single word since the representatives approached us, and find her scrutinizing something in the distance. Her black eyes are locked onto what seems to be a passive dispute between Seven and Eleven, another unit leader in my squadron. The two leaders stare at each other with loathsome expressions. Something I have grown accustomed to, since they have always seemed to find quarrel with each other.

  Seven’s arms tense, squeezing his fists tight, and for a second, I believe he will punch Eleven on the spot. He turns toward me, locking his eyes with mine. I take a deep breath and nod toward the representatives. “Excuse me.”

  “Don’t go too far, Commander,” Senator Thirty-Two’s consort says. “The main entertainment for the evening will commence at any moment.”

  I smile in acknowledgment before making my way toward Seven, desperation oozing out of his rigid façade in spite of his efforts to keep it concealed.

  “Commander,” Eleven acknowledges me.

  “Eleven,” I reply, inspecting his perfectly poised posture. Nothing in his stance or expression tells me there is something I should be concerned about, except for the fact that he seems too pleased with himself. I let my eyes scrutinize every detail about him, from his short, impeccably cut hair, all the way down to his polished black boots. “I don’t need to remind either of you that physical confrontations between unit leaders are completely forbidden.”

  “There is no need to worry, Commander. Seven and I have had enough confrontations to know we are equally matched in many respects.” He eyes Seven and the features of his face tense as if he were attempting to suppress a smile. “Besides, there are other ways to confront rivals without the use of our own fists.”

  Eleven bows, clearly requesting permission to be dismissed, and though I wish to inquire further, I nod. He walks away to join a group of representatives and I return my attention to Seven, whose tightly clenched fists only make his rigid posture all the more noticeable.

  “Seven.” He doesn’t acknowledge me. “Seven,” I repeat.

  His eyes find me, but his expression remains unchanged. The revulsion emanating from him takes me by surprise. I open my mouth to command an explanation when Senator Thirty-Two’s voice echoes through the Hall.

  “My dear guests, it is my pleasure to present tonight’s entertainment. Two of the most admired fighters in our Arena will show us the true caliber of their training. As is customary, the match will be to the death. Please, let’s welcome from Squadron Twenty-Eight, Unit Eleven, Fighter Six.”

  A tall woman with long black hair enters the Grand Hall. The ceremonial gown enveloping her body in a delicate combination of embroidered silks generates hushed whispers from the crowd. She wears a strapless red suit, nothing like the black or white uniform she is used to wearing. The glossy fabric embraces her skin, emphasizing her svelte, yet toned figure. The outfit is only partially concealed underneath the waves of delicately embroidered silk. The ceremonial gown drapes all the way to the floor from a sash wrapped around her waist. A giant bow, crafted from the same type of fabric, is firmly secured at the low of her back, where two moon daggers peek out of a hidden belt. She has somewhat of a fragile appearance in spite of the curved knives tucked behind her. A thick white base covers every inch of her face with the exception of her bright red lips and black
eyeliner.

  Senator Thirty-Two exhales at the sight of the woman. “And, from Squadron Twenty-Eight, Unit Seven, Fighter Thirteen.”

  Seven lets out a low groan at the mention of Thirteen, followed by the softest exhale as she appears at the opposite end of the Hall. Thirteen steps forward. Long, rippling waves of braided hair swirl around her forehead, twisting and curling in tangled harmony all the way down to her shoulders. Her eyelids have been coated with a sparkly green powder and her eyelashes and eyebrows are outlined with green, shimmering feathers. Loose threads of hair graze her exposed collarbones, veiling the crisscrossed straps of the brown leather corset tightly secured around her torso. Thirteen begins to walk toward the center of the hall, revealing a pair of brown leather pants and strapped boots under the emerald sheer skirt swathing from the belt at her hips. The slow, delicate movement of the fabric caresses the air as she moves, demanding the undivided attention of everyone in the room. Two double-sided knives can be seen tucked inside the pockets on her belt.

  Thirteen stops abruptly at the sight of her opponent, her obvious surprise turning into unrestrained anger. Six smiles back in recognition, making me frown. They know each other. I retrieve every memory I possess about the respective fighters, only to find that there is no possible way they met after conscription. Fighters are forbidden to interact outside their respective units and I am certain neither unit has crossed paths during training. Thirteen reaches for one of the daggers stored inside the golden clasp of her corset belt and Six responds by retrieving both of her moon blades. The thin knives fit perfectly around her knuckles, as if she had reached out into the starry sky and pulled down two half-moons from the dark vastness beyond.

  Thirteen throws first, aiming one of her daggers directly toward Six’s chest. Six rotates left, avoiding the dagger and throwing one of her knives in Thirteen’s direction. The blade scrapes Thirteen’s hip, tearing the delicate fabric over her skin. Before Six can even register the movement, Thirteen lunges forward and kicks her in the stomach. I can’t hold back my surprise at her aggressive approach. The blow throws Six off balance, making her wobble back a few steps, but she recovers quickly, retaliating with kicks of her own. Before long, both fighters are caught between blows, well-aimed strikes, punches, and kicks. No one dares to look away. Their swift movements flux through the air like the strokes of a painter, sketching patterns of color against the pale surroundings.

  Thirteen manages to grasp Six’s shoulder, digging her nails deep into her rival’s skin. Six swings her blade toward Thirteen, but she catches her wrist and rotates her body, clutching Six’s arm behind her own back. Thirteen locks her other arm around Six’s neck and tightens her grip as she struggles for breath. Six digs her chin into Thirteen’s elbow and pushes her hips backwards, grasping her opponent’s arms in the process and pulling her over her body and onto the floor. Thirteen hits the floor and Six pivots over her, aiming a strike directly to her face. Thirteen crosses her arms in front of her, stopping the two sharp edges of the half-moon dagger only inches away from her face.

  “I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Thirteen spits.

  I freeze in place. “Yes, you should have.” Six’s laugh echoes through the room as their arms struggle against each other.

  Six and Thirteen do have a history. I examine every possibility based on the information from their recruiting. Both fighters were conscripted from adjacent zones, but the distance was significant, a week’s travel on foot, maybe longer. I turn toward Seven, only to find his eyes already locked on me, the confusion in his expression borderlines on anxiety.

  Thirteen finally manages to squeeze her knee into Six's chest and begins to push against her until she loosens her grip. The dagger, still pointed at her face, moves slightly, and Thirteen releases her lock. The sudden movement tosses Six forward. The dagger stabs the floor next to Thirteen’s face, nicking her cheek. Thirteen shoves Six away with her heel and jumps up, aiming her other knife at Six. The blade pierces Six’s thigh and she groans in pain. She pulls the dagger out without delay and throws it on the floor, looking at it with disdain. Blood begins to gush out of her wound, bathing her pants in a darker shade of red.

  Six limps forward, pain contorting her features with every step. I turn my attention to Thirteen, feeling my eyebrows pinching together as I realize she is weaponless. Six starts to circle around her, while Thirteen remains still, her eyes following the black-haired assassin without blinking. Six walks around, but Thirteen doesn’t even rotate her body to look at her anymore.

  Still, something about her stance, the deliberate nature of her pose and conscious effort to remain motionless, tells me she is not only highly aware of Six’s position, but she is also preparing to make her next move. Six swings her arm over her shoulder in preparation to throw her half-moon dagger and the blade leaves her hand just as Thirteen catapults forward, rolling over the bloody knife laying on the floor. She picks it up, leaps to her feet, and aims. The blade soars straight ahead, cutting through the air in Six’s direction. Six lunges to the right in an attempt to escape the dagger heading her way, but a grunt escapes her lips just as the blade enters her stomach.

  Thirteen's aim is perfectly synchronized with Six's movement. Had Six stood still, the knife would have missed her completely. Her legs begin to shake, as if the weight of her body has suddenly become too heavy. She falls to her knees, grunting painfully and dropping her gaze to the floor. Thirteen walks forward, crouches down in front of Six, and pulls the knife out, her eyes glossy with unshed tears. Something tugs at my chest as I recognize the regret in Thirteen’s expression. Her chin quivers and after a moment in torturing stillness, someone completely unexpected speaks.

  “It is the Markram way,” Senator Six says. I turn toward him unable to hide my surprise both at his perfect pronunciation of the human language and his empathetic tone. He almost sounds understanding of Thirteen's pain. "Weakness doesn’t deserve mercy."

  Thirteen clenches her jaw. "Surely anyone can see that there is no weakness in the warrior standing before of me. We are equally skilled. It was merely luck that gave me an advantage over her. It could have easily gone the other way."

  “But it didn't,” he replies. “Luck is merely the universe conspiring in your favor.”

  My body freezes on the spot at the sound of those words. They pierce the air around me, unlocking a memory long forgotten in the most secluded corner of my mind. Krana. The woman who left me for another despite her feelings for me. The woman who nearly drove me to insanity. The woman who prompted my desire to join the army, in an attempt to flee from the memory of her betrayal. The image of the Senator comes with perfect clarity now. The same cheekbones, the same nose, the same honey-colored eyes. Her brother. I had never met him before. My background and recessive status then prevented me from approaching her family in a formal way. “Weakness has many faces,” he continues. “If the forces of the universe gather against you, perhaps they are simply exposing a weakness unseen by others. There should be no resentment, no sadness, no regret, only acceptance of your circumstances. That is the Markram way.”

  Thirteen's attention returns to Six just in time to see her falling sideways, dead. Thirteen’s breathing quickens and she lifts her eyes to scan the crowd. She stops at the sight of Seven, looking at her as if he understood with perfect clarity what she feels. Seven conceals his expression almost immediately though, returning to the unresponsive soldier, and makes his way forward. As tradition dictates, only the unit leader over the winning fighter can recognize her victory. Seven reaches Thirteen and takes her hand, lifting her up and raising her arm as acknowledgment of her triumph.

  Senator Thirty-Two steps forward. His white dress uniform completely devoid of black piping, signifying his authority as a ruling Senator, glistens amid the black sea of unit leaders around him. He nods in approval. "Honor to the dead. Honor to the victor."

  The voices of every Markram in the room resound with pride and admiration at
their unequivocal victory. "Honor to the dead. Honor to the victor."

  I cannot help my stomach from contracting painfully as I watch Senator Six make his way to greet the two warriors standing in the middle of the Grand Hall, their fingers still interlaced and raised in triumph. My legs move forward, covering the distance in only a few strides, and when I reach him I have to bite down the bitter resentment threatening to escape from deep within me.

  “You must be very pleased with the performance of the soldiers under your charge, Commander. Seven, and now Thirteen, have proven themselves rather skilled in the art of combat.”

  I don’t answer. I don’t even nod in acknowledgment. The Senator eyes me curiously, and out of the corner of my eye I see Seven and Thirteen bowing, petitioning for dismissal. I tilt my head toward Seven without taking my eyes off the Senator, and sense him walking away with Thirteen.

  “I trust your sister is well.” My voice comes out sharp and unfriendly.

  The Senator’s lips curve slightly in delighted surprise. “Yes, she is rather well.” He averts his eyes, focusing them on the group of attendants clearing the bloody aftermath of the match. “She has taken a post as a patronage representative.”