Tales from the Edge: Escalation: A Maelstrom's Edge Collection

by Stephen Gaskell

  'Someone? Like who?'

  She's wary. Fair enough, given the lack of communication between groups of Broken. It's also a good sign. I give a slight lift of the mouth, then say, 'Someone who's teaching combat skills, taking on worthy students, training them. I heard this rumour… ' I let my expression tighten, like I know how unlikely what I'm about to say is. '… some people are saying this combat trainer is Artarian.'

  I've watched her all through, so I don't miss the way her eyes widen, just a little. She knows what I'm talking about all right. But she says, 'That's a wild rumour.'

  I shrug. 'I know. I mean why would someone from the Remnant Fleet,' bother with hopeless cases like you lot, 'leave all that behind? I guess it must have been politics. You know what Artarian politics are like. '

  She nods, although she doesn't; she really doesn't. And she's watching me back. I need to divert her with some plausible lies. 'Anyway,' I say, 'never mind where this person who's doing the training came from, do you know where I can find them? It's a man, isn't it? That was what I heard.'

  'What's his name?'

  She means my fictitious brother. 'Jeorg. But I know him: he'll have taken another name. He's about five years younger than me, got the same colouring.' The same carefully applied colouring.

  She nods, suspicions receding. 'That's not much to go on, but I think I can help. There is someone, an outsider, who runs a combat school. No idea if any other outsiders are taking his training.'

  'Great. Where can I find him? Uh, and what was this combat trainer called?'

  'All your questions can be answered if you'll wait a few minutes.' She looks at her watch: an actual mechanical watch. Probably an heirloom.

  A name and directions were what I was hoping for. 'All right.' I look around, like I'm expecting comfortable seating to materialise.

  'Shouldn't be long now.' She smiles. 'Perhaps you'd like some milk while you wait?'

  I wouldn't, but I let her sell me a cup. It's still warm, and makes me want to gag. I drink slowly, back to the wall, keeping watch. A few people pass by, murmuring greetings to the goat-woman, eyeing me up with various degrees of suspicion and interest.

  I don't like this.

  A boy comes up to the woman, hugging a cylindrical container to his chest. She greets him by name, takes the container – there's some faded writing on it – and slips through the barricade to her animals. The boy stares at me with naked curiosity. I ignore him. There are at least fifteen thousand people on this ship alone; seventy or eighty thousand in the 'Liberty' gang/collective. I do not stand out. The woman returns and gives the boy his container of milk. He staggers off with it.

  I finish my milk and return the cup. I'm wondering if I should make small talk about goats or families when another customer arrives, a woman this time, heavily pregnant and carrying a pair of containers on a yoke across her back.

  The goat-keeper greets the woman, fussing that she's doing such heavy work in her current state.

  'So Zefim keeps saying.'

  Zefim. I tense.

  'And how is the bump? You know I'm happy to dowse for gender.'

  Dowse for gender? Ancestor's sakes: how unbelievably primitive.

  'Oh, boy or girl, I don't mind, as long as they're healthy.' She speaks with false casualness, and I look at her directly. She returns my gaze with a distant smile. Her face is pale beneath the dirt. Turning back to the goat-keeper she adds, 'Zefim says any child of his will be a fighter, and he's right.'

  You liked the name Zefim, from that old story about the Weapons Master from a Broken ship who came over to us. It's one of the names I thought you might take when you hid out amongst them.

  I've found you. Or rather, I've found the mother of your child.

  My carefully rehearsed lies flee my head. I push myself away from the wall and stride away, not looking back.

  *

  At least I have a name now. I've wasted weeks on false leads already, but I'm getting close.

  I slow, get my expression under control, and show a vague interest in some of the other wares. But as soon as I can get clear of the market corridor, I do.

  Each Broken ship is unique, but they're constrained by the layout of the vessel their forebears begged, borrowed or stole when the Maelstrom hit. This one has a military feel, lots of identical corridors – made easier to navigate by graffiti – and a few larger rooms which must have been mess-rooms or drill-halls.

  I've done a few retrievals from ex-military ships. The last one was a lowborn engineer who tried to play off two Houses to further his career. When his stupidity came back to bite him he downloaded blueprints for an algal eco-unit and stole a scout ship. His plan was to find a gang or small fleet who'd welcome his expertise and the associated blueprints, although few Broken have the resources to build systems like that. Still, we don't let our tech leave the Fleet. He was tried in absentia and found guilty so it wasn't a retrieval as such, just the dispensing of justice.

  This is different: my orders are to bring you back alive. I'm still not sure how I feel about that, but my feelings don't come into it. I'm the logical choice for this mission. This is what I do, now: find the lost. I'm good at it. And I know how to put duty above emotion.

  One of the downsides of military ships is the lack of ducting. Converted liners have accessible ducts and hidden walkways everywhere but ex-military ships were designed with paranoia. So, no lurking in the ducts.

  Instead, I find a hotel. At least it says 'Hotel' on the wall outside the double-height doors. I suspect it was once cargo-space, but judicious use of racking and partitions has converted it to stacks of private alcoves with no sound-proofing and queasily springy floors. It smells of fried food and damp laundry. This isn't a secure base, but it's the best I'll get. I ditch the backpack under the lumpy pallet that serves as a bed; on arrival it pays to look like a trader, but it can be a distraction. That leaves me with limited resources, but at this stage I'm still doing recon, so I shouldn't need the netgun, my darts or any serious chemicals. I set my defences as usual, on the door, and on all my gear. Enough of a shock to stun, but not kill, anyone without my genetic code who tries for access or thievery.

  The rest of the day is all about questions. If people spot I'm not local, I use the same cover I did with the goat-woman. If they assume I'm from another Liberty ship I say I've heard about this combat trainer, I think he's called Zefim, and I'm interested in some training for myself.

  Splash a firm truth or two about and people assume you're okay; they open up, trust you. By the end of the day I have a location, the set-up of your little enterprise – I'm too old to sign up, apparently – and most importantly, a way to find out more. The Fight School – that's how everyone who's heard of it refers to it, and about half those I ask admit to having heard of it – holds regular demonstrations. The next one is tomorrow. Tickets are expensive though not hard to come by. I also hear a few unsubstantiated rumours, one of which I know to be true, and another of which I hope is.

  *

  This is another cargo-space, only instead of racking, there are tiered seats all around the edge, enough for perhaps three hundred people. The floor is marked out into an arena space, coloured zones with weapon racks off to one side. Low-tech weapons only: staves and spears and knives. The place is about two thirds full. I sit near the back, next to an aisle.

  The show starts with a parade, of sorts. A few dozen youths in coloured sashes march round the perimeter of the 'arena', watched by a couple of hundred people who are probably a mix of relatives and the (relatively) rich. How the mighty are fallen. Still, I guess you only know how to do one thing. I turned out to be a bit more adaptable when the infighting of our betters derailed our future. Despite wanting to put on a show, you don't lead your pupils out, like we would have back in the day. You stand at the back, with your woman – whose name is Emala, people have told me – watching with what I imagine to be pride. It's too far away to see your expression, and I'm not going to stare.


  The combat demonstration is interesting. You've had to amend the training we received, given the limited range of weaponry. There's the expected katas and lunge/riposte combinations but also lots of throws and locks. There're some moves I don't recognise at all, presumably from combat forms the Broken themselves have picked up.

  The massed demo thins out, and we're onto show fights, one on one. Except these are not for show: these are real competitions, fought in public. Old habits die hard, even if this is mere parody to what we once were: the combatants wear padded cloth armour, and the weapons are tipped with dye to show strikes.

  You, Emala and a pair of older men discuss the fighters' performances, while a woman with no arm below the left elbow prowls round the edge of the combat circle, providing a commentary for the audience. She actually refers to 'known Artarian close fighting techniques' when discussing the duels. It's called tak-bey, lady. You weren't as careful as you were told to be; I'd never have picked up your trail after all these years if your ego hadn't compelled you to teach tak-bey to outsiders.

  After one of the matches you and your lover argue, and she stalks off. Looks like that particular rumour might be correct after all. All is not well between you two.

  As the awards – charmingly primitive discs of metal on ribbons – are being presented I strike up a conversation with the couple sitting next to me. They were cheering hard for one of the contestants, though the girl didn't place, and I peg them as her parents. I say I'm from the Katra's Liberty, and I've come over to find out whether I can sign my younger sister up for the Fight School. Who'd be the best person to talk to, I ask?

  They point out one of the men who's been keeping score. I loiter, keeping half an eye on you; you head off as soon as the winning students have completed their victory lap of the room to loud applause, following them out the back entrance. As the clapping dies down and people start to get up, I hustle across to the man the couple pointed out, arriving breathless and flushed, giving him the spiel about wanting to find out more for my sister and how I'd love to meet Zefim, given I've heard so much about him.

  He looks me up and down. Considering. Might be some interpersonal stuff here, him and 'Zefim' and Emala. The pheromone mix I applied before coming here should be having an impact too; no sniffers in this environment, and I'll take any advantage I can get.

  Finally he says, 'He might be happy to see a pretty young lady like yourself in person.' He shows me to a back-office-turned-waiting-room, and leaves me there a little apologetically.

  I wait.

  The waiting stretches. Paranoia begins to nibble.

  Finally I hear voices outside, then the door opens, and you come in. You look flushed, like maybe you've been arguing with your possibly-ex girlfriend. Ten years have put some lines on your face but they suit you.

  I haven't changed much, though my hair's not the colour you remember, and I'm wearing the patched robes over leggings that are all the rage amongst the Broken. You're more used to seeing me in a Combat Suit, or training coveralls, or nothing at all. For a moment you don't recognise me. Then you frown. I save you the effort and say, 'Hello Anshal.'

  The frown deepens. 'Hanori?'

  I smile. It's hard not to enjoy this. 'Yes, it's me. I've come to take you home.'

  'Home?'

  'To the Fleet.'

  'Oh. It's been so long, I'd assumed …' you shrug.

  I expected more enthusiasm. Your family, your birthright, your position: you lost all of that when your House fell from grace. You only avoided losing your life thanks to friends in high places. I only avoided losing mine by making myself useful in other ways. 'It's been longer than it should have been, yes.'

  'So, why now?'

  'Senator Klish passed away, quietly, in his sleep.' And far be it from anyone to say it wasn't natural causes. 'House Colrain is in the ascendant again.'

  'But the landing debacle on Miramon—'

  'Ancient history.'

  'A lot of innocent people died.'

  'Yes. Yes they did. I'm not proud of that. But we were doing what our leaders told us to do, like soldiers must. We had no way of knowing we were acting on faulty intel. And those people would have died anyway, when the Maelstrom reached their world. They had no chance. You do. You were made a scapegoat, paying the price for our leaders' mistakes. But you've got a second chance. It's time for you to come back from the dead, Anshal.'

  You say nothing. I remember the last thing you said to me before you sealed yourself in the cargo pod: you made a joke about how, when our House recovered from the setback of the botched resource-and-power grab, and you came back, you'd find me married with half a dozen kids. That had hurt so much, at the time, the reminder that we were over. Later, once I'd laid low long enough for the chaos to subside, then carved out a new career doing important if never broadcast work, it hurt in a different way; I resented your assumption that I would go from Champion to brood-mare now I no longer had a highborn lover.

  But this isn't about me. It's about duty and honour. Through a tight jaw I say, 'Everyone wants you back.'

  I know that look, the set mouth and distant eyes. 'Everyone?'

  'Yes. Everyone. Including your mother, since you ask.'

  'Does she know?'

  'That you're still alive? She does now.' I laugh, making light of it. 'I take back all that stuff I said before about her being cold. She's mellowed. She wants you back, and not just because you're her firstborn.'

  You nod to yourself. You're not convinced. 'Who sent you?'

  'What? Senator Askion, of course. The Fleet, your family, our people, they all want you back.' I nearly add I want you back. Because it turns out that part of me, stupidly, still does. I went from love to fear to hate to putting you out of my mind. But now you're right back in there.

  'So she never found out that you and I weren't still the golden couple, that we had—'

  'Broken up. No. Of course not.' House Champions from the two ends of Artarian society, brought together by love and duty: everyone loved that. Except you, at the end. It might have been easier if there had been someone else, a focus for the failure, but there wasn't. Just you and your stubborn guilt and pride. Now, things are even more complicated. 'Is this about Emala?'

  'What?'

  'Are you staying for her, because you love her?' You look at me sharply, like I've caught you in a lie. 'Or because she's having your child?'

  'What if I said I'd come back, but only if she came too?' You keep your voice even, like you're trying out the proposition.

  'You know the answer to that. Leaving aside how your family would react there's a purely practical problem. No room.'

  'How did you get here then?'

  'Stealthily.'

  You frown again: I'm being glib. More importantly, I'm not trusting you. I always hated that particular frown, so I add, 'A scout ship on autopilot and a pair of Combat Suits to get us to it.' And to get us out of trouble, if it comes to it. There is a risk, should any Broken have the tech and inclination to venture out onto the hull of their ship, that they'll come across the dormant Suits clamped there. If so, it will end badly for them, but unless they have the means to send a message before my Suit's automated defences cut in, it won't blow my cover.

  'No effort spared then.'

  'No. And nor should there be!'

  You half close your eyes. 'I'm sorry, Hanori. This is just a surprise. After so long I'd assumed … well, I've got used to living here.'

  I resist the temptation to say amongst these low-lifes? And instead I say, 'That's only natural. But it's time to remember who you were. What you were. A Champion of your House. The Suit I brought for you, it's your old one.' The one you fought so hard to earn: the one that should still, should always, be an extension of yourself.

  'Oh.' I can see it sinking in, see you reconnecting with the past, readjusting your view of how the future might be. I make myself stay silent. Giving you space. Finally you say, 'I need to think about this. Where can I find you?' />
  'The place a few corridors aft of here calling itself a hotel.' I don't hesitate; besides the need to show trust, it won't take a great mind to work out where I'm staying.

  'Okay,' you say. I realise it's a dismissal, and for a moment that makes my chest tight. But it shouldn't, so I nod and leave.

  *

  Okay, I admit it: I've been so engaged by the hunt that I've not been thinking much about what would happen when I found you. Normally there's no need: retrieve or destroy, and in either case the subject's rarely willing. But it was also because I didn't know how I'd react to seeing you. There have been other boys – men – since, of course, but they've just been fun, or comradeship, or stress relief. Seeing you again was always going to stir things up.

  I know we can never go back to what we were. We're both older now, and new Champions have come up through the ranks. Even so, Senator Askion did offer me the chance to return to the arena, become a Champion again. I know she's assuming you'll want to. Your mother would like you to go into politics; the great scion of her house; wronged, apparently dead, now returned. Quite a coup. Given what I saw today I suspect you'll chose neither of the above, and become a teacher. And I'll be happy enforcing our law amongst outsiders for the rest of my life. But knowing I brought you home means the world is put to rights, even if my heart never will be.

  You still haven't got in contact by the evening. Mind you, it's not like you can call me. I spend another uncomfortable night listening to the muffled snores, farts and grunts coming from beyond the thin walls.

  Next morning I go out. I need distraction. The longer you make me wait, the more I worry. For a small financial inducement, the skinny youth who takes guests' money says he'll take any messages. I spend a few hours exploring off the beaten track; a ship like this will have plenty of secret nooks and crannies, dark corridors and derelict cabins near the outer hull where the lights or heating failed and were never fixed. I also get some food; it's surprising how tasty rat can be, with the right spices.