Duty, Honor or Death the Corps Sticks

by Ronald Wintrick

  Jorg's exposed back, as he ran lightly ahead of Nago, made an enticing target. It would be so simple. One quick jab of his blade and it would be over.

  Yet he was enjoying Jorg's unease. It was not a good position to be in, having to expose your back like that. Had the roles been reversed, with the parameters of the conflict out in the open as they now were, he would have declared the challenge and been done with it one way or the other.

  A treacherous blade in the back was not an option for Jorg. No new Chief would be accepted who had attempted to gain that position through treachery. The warriors would cut him down as a group and then choose a new leader from amongst themselves, but that would not hinder Nago. He was already the Chief. He could kill Jorg or anyone else he chose, in any manner he chose. That was his right.

  But he would not. He would kill Jorg in single combat. So that the message would not be lost on the rest of the men. That he was the Chief because he could not be bested.

  The trail was less than a day old. The fools were walking, as if they had all the time in the world. They did not. They had very little time.

  Such ignorance was to be expected from the inept one, but Nago expected more from the female. It was as if she taunted them. Or she thought that her own trail was hidden from them, which seemed more realistic. Who was this female warrior who wanted no one to know of her, and who had very nearly succeeded? Only the muddy ground had betrayed her, because her trail had now entirely vanished, as if it had never been.

  She was there ahead of them though. There was no doubt of that.

  Nago could admit that she worried him. This warrior woman could potentially be a very deadly adversary, and he knew nothing of her motives. Her motives were unfathomable with the little information he had to go on. He had the impression that when they did learn more, it would be too late to do them any good. He was sure of that if he was sure of nothing else.

  It was only mid-morning when they found the remains of the blasted and butchered Tarn, and the ashes of the cooking fire.

  "More of these burns." Jorg said in superstitious awe. Great burn marks without the ashes of the fire which should have created them. The same burn marks on the carcass of the Tarn itself, and within the branches of the tree above. The same burn marks as they had found earlier.

  "Fire sticks." Nago said harshly. He had forgotten the name his mother had given them, but he remembered her description of them. Sticks that threw fire!

  "What's fire sticks?" Jorg demanded sarcastically, trying to diminish Nago in front of the men.

  So now the conflict was out in the open. Jorg had somehow found the courage to challenge him. This would be a challenge because Nago would not let this go. The tone of Jorg's voice, if the content itself had not been enough, was instantly perceived by the rest of the men, who as a group turned to watch what they knew was developing. As a rule these men were not overly intelligent, but cunning and intelligence are not the same thing. They recognized what was transpiring here with the cunning borne of the lives they lived. Like a pack of wild animals did they instantly know. They were a pack of wild animals.

  "Jorg sees himself as the new Chief." Nago told them with a sneer. "He doesn't believe in fire sticks or Outsiders, yet we have all seen that they exist. He would lead you back into ignorance when the evidence that there is more is right there in front of you." He waved towards the scorched blaster marks on the ground and on the Tarn's carcass. There were mutters of agreement from among the men, but his words weren't meant for them, he cared but little what they thought, and the evidence was there for all to see. His words were meant to anger Jorg. In anger would Jorg fight poorly. Anger was the fighting man's ultimate enemy, more so than his opponent's blade could ever be.

  "You'll not anger me." Jorg said with a sneer of his own, at the same time as he drew his weapon. The time for talk had passed. His blade was light and loose in his hand. When Nago did not draw his own weapon, Jorg lunged. The parameters had been drawn. This was no treachery. Nago sidestepped the expected lunge.

  "You never deserved the little authority I gave you." Nago sneered, watching Jorg's weaving blade carefully. This exercise was as much to continue to anger Jorg as it was an abject lesson for the rest of the men. Jorg had killed many men in combat. His prowess was well known. Nago backed away as Jorg advanced.

  Jorg's blade whistled past his face, but severed only thin air as Nago stepped back. Jorg rushed, thrusting. Nago dove to his left after looking right. Rolled. Came to his feet.

  "If I'd had my blade in my hand, it would already be over!" Nago said. Still he did not draw his weapon.

  "Any coward can run."

  Jorg pressed him. Nago put a tree between them, and when Jorg rushed to attack him, dove and rolled again, and when he came up had a branch in his hand, which he thrust into Jorg's face as Jorg charged. Jorg was stopped in his tracks by the longer branch, then knocked back a step as Nago thrust it into his face again. The branch had split Jorg's lip and now blood ran down his chin. Nago had drawn first blood. With a tree branch.

  Laughter erupted from the men. Despite his best efforts, Jorg felt the blood rush to his face, felt himself angered. He knew he could not allow that to happen. He knew that anger was his worst enemy. He stepped back, calming himself.

  "Draw your weapon, coward."

  "This will be too easy." Nago said. His blade whistled from its sheath and stood poised in his hand. His physical poise spoke of readiness, but his eyes . . . his eyes were cold and dead. There was no remorse to be found within their black emptiness. As if any humanity Nago had once possessed no longer existed within him. Like looking into the eyes of a rabid dog. There just wasn't anything there.

  When Jorg came at him slashing, Nago smashed away the blade, the contact ringing in that eerie way, a strange high-pitched whine, then stepped in to kick Jorg under his kneecap. Jorg sidestepped and brought an elbow around for Nago's jaw.

  Nago slipped the elbow but barely got his sword up to deflect the slashing blade that followed, all part of the same fluid movement.

  Jorg was momentarily off-balance. Only an instant. Nago kicked out again, landing at the base of the kneecap, and landing solidly. Jorg staggered away, expecting the sword thrust that should've followed, but Nago held it back. He grinned as Jorg staggered away, trying to put distance between them.

  "A telling injury." Nago said confidently. "Do you not agree?" It was not the end, but it was the beginning of the end. Jorg stood on one leg, favoring the now injured knee and grimacing in pain, but determination creasing his craggy features. He would be even more dangerous now, willing to risk injury to strike, Nago knew. He would also be less injured that he pretended. Deception was but one of many weapons a fighting man could utilize.

  Jorg did not reply. To delay was to his advantage, but the knee would not so quickly recover. His mobility had been severely limited. He resolved to kill even as his own life bled away, were it possible. It would be at least a kind of victory. Nago advanced.

  A weird concussion erupted outside the ring of men encircling them, a sizzle that rushed at them, then a tremendous explosion in the line of men, a massive yellow ball of flame that engulfed several.

  Their bodies flew apart. The men nearest those blown apart were flung away like boneless sacks of meat, twisting horribly and unnaturally. A wash of wet red blood and gore slapped Nago's face and clothing, the force of the explosion knocking him back a step.

  Jorg was nearly knocked from his feet, his attention no longer on Nago, but staring over his shoulder in the direction of which the attack had originated. Men writhed in agony upon the ground, shrieking in pain, having forgotten they were fighting men of the Dunaj in the extremity of their injuries.

  Nago stepped forward and sheathed his sword in Jorg's belly while Jorg's attention was still directed elsewhere. One quick, sure movement. Jorg's eyes, when they turned to Nago, held the accusation of betrayal, but Nago felt no guilt. It was Jorg who had betrayed him, his lifelong friend. He
pushed his blade through and out Jorg's back, then twisted it violently. Jorg shuddered, every cell in his body screaming in protest. His own blade slipped from nerveless fingers.

  "There are no such things as fire sticks? No such thing as Outsiders?" Nago said as he ripped the blade free. "My mother was an Outsider! She was no liar!" He hissed.

  The next explosion erupted even as he spoke, drowning his words, cutting down more of his men, who had been momentarily frozen in astonishment. This time Nago saw exactly from where it came and watched it carefully. As his men scattered, it struck again. How quickly his men had come to understand its nature, Nago mused as he found his own concealment, behind the bole of the same tree he had just used against Jorg.

  Blus, Trag, Sark and Parl joined him as the attack continued, lining up behind the tree where they were out of line of sight of the attacker.

  Nago sheathed his bloody sword without bothering to clean it off, removed his bow and notched an arrow. The rest were similarly occupied. The attack had ceased and there was no sign of the woman, as Nago glanced around the trunk of their cover.

  Though he had not seen her, it was clear that it was the woman. Who else? Obviously.

  "Surround her." Nago hissed, and as the men moved, Nago stepped out into the open, the drawstring pulled to its limit, the shaft pulled to his ear, and his eyes scanning.

  The Outsider bitch might have a powerful weapon, but Nago had yet to see the human who could not be pierced by cold steel.

  Boldly he walked towards the location from whence she had attacked, but there was no sign of her in the heavy brush.

  Gone also was any desire he had had of taking her alive. Now he had a new desire, one that transcended the pleasures of the flesh. Now he wanted the weapon. The fire weapon. There was nothing he had ever wanted more.

  Chapter 20

  Lan's right-hand sword careened off the hard exoskeleton armor of Gylastak's left pincer. He stabbed with his left hand sword for the softer belly, but Gylastak's right pincer snapped closed upon it, immobilizing it in mid thrust, as if it had suddenly been caught in a vise, arresting completely its forward momentum, and nearly jarring the blades grip from his grasp.

  Lan yanked back with all his strength while swinging the right-hand blade in an overhand chop that, had it connected on a normal man, would have cut him through from skull to asshole, cleanly separating him, but Gylastak released his hold on Lan's left hand sword just as Lan yanked, and Lan went staggering backwards, swords flailing only empty air.

  Gylastak was on him before he could recover, but he rolled out from under a slashing pincer, stabbing backwards at the belly again, but the sword met only empty air where Gylastak had been.

  Lan kept rolling as a clawed foot raked the deck where he had been only a moment before. He came to his feet just out of Gylastak's reach, his swords weaving a defensive pattern in front of his body.

  They both stepped forward.

  "That's enough!" An authoritative voice commanded.

  They both halted and turned to see who had spoken. Becla stood in the gym's open hatchway, her mouth open in astonishment, but it was Major General Sanchez who had spoken.

  "I'm going to be really pissed off if one of you is in the Auto-Doc and can't participate in this mission!" Sanchez said, every bit the Commanding Officer at that moment. "I hope I make myself clear!"

  "Yes, Sir." Lan said. Gylastak bowed, a slight movement at the hips, a sign of respect he did not give to everyone. The Major General approached, and with a smile, asked;

  "Did he have any chance at all?" He was speaking to Gylastak.

  "No. No chance. Was amusing self." Gylastak said.

  "We'll finish this later, then." Lan said. "When we return."

  "Gylastak never eat human before. Am curious."

  "Don't bite off more than you can chew." Lan retorted, sliding his blades home in their sheaths, both at the same time, one fluid motion, and gave Gylastak a wicked grin.

  "I take small bites. No worry." Gylastak said with no smile whatsoever. Molog were not capable of smiling.

  He was joking of course, but what if he really were starving? What would he put first; his friendship, or his hunger? Luckily, the chance the Molog might ever be hungry was a slim one. Molog were very capable hunters. There were few creatures anywhere in the Universe more adept. Gylastak would never go hungry, no matter what the circumstance.

  "I came down here to tell you that some of your other Team members have arrived." Sanchez said. "And to apologize to you," he spoke the Gylastak, "for the regrettable incident that occurred when you arrived."

  "Not necessary." Gylastak said. "Fault not you."

  "Good." Lan said, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "But it doesn't do us any good until we arrive at Bali."

  "Tomorrow." Sanchez said.

  "Tomorrow?" Lan asked, surprised.

  "We've our fastest ships coordinating these deliveries. Maximus is actually our fastest Capital Class ship in the Fleet." Sanchez said. "It Jumps from one Wormhole to another without having to phase in and out of Real Space. Our newest technology. We were only lucky she was near, as far out on the Frontier as we were."

  "That's real good news, but how long is it going to take to cut through that Satellite Defensive System, once we do arrive?" Lan asked.

  "We won't have to. Apparently the malfunction was on Benefactor. She failed to broadcast her identity."

  "An Identification Beacon failure caused this?" Becla asked incredulously.

  "I'm afraid so. The satellites have very little internal memory capacity, but enough for us to determine the cause of this incident." Sanchez explained regretfully.

  "That's ridiculous!" Becla said. "I know a bit about computer technology. There is no reason something as dangerous as that shouldn't have plenty of capacity. That doesn't make any sense."

  "No one wants to spend Credits unnecessarily to house these criminals." Sanchez explained.

  "You mean on Prison Colonies!" Lan said. Sanchez gave him a pained look. Of course he knew of Lan's origins.

  "Humans have strange priorities." Gylastak interjected.

  "Some humans." Lan corrected.

  "How many Credits did your lack of an adequate AI cost you here?" Becla asked. "How could something that dangerous operate autonomously!"

  "I just work here, like everyone else." Sanchez said, just a bit touchy. "I have no say in such matters."

  "And yes it cost us plenty." Sanchez added. "Um . . . the Team."

  "We'd better go up and meet them," Lan said, "before there are any more incidents."

  "That's been handled." Major General Sanchez said. "Very thoroughly."

  The scene was different this time even though there was a different Squad on duty, but in this case there should have been a negative reaction by the Lieutenant on duty, but he had obviously heard about the handling the previous Lieutenant had received, because the seven men were completely out of military discipline, horse playing and laughing it up beside the Transport which had brought them here.

  The Transport had a large scorch down its side. This one had seen battle, but not, obviously, while on its way here. Even if it had not traveled the distance inside a larger ship's dock, the shipping lanes inside human held territory were well policed. Safe. The Corps dealt ruthlessly with any who attempted to upset the status quo. Average citizens were quite safe no matter where they might go within the Federation's holdings.

  "Military misfits, one and all." Sanchez said disgustedly, as the four walked across the dock towards the group.

  "Competent ones, though." Lan replied.

  "Not a stripe amongst the group." Major General Sanchez said as they came to a halt before the group who all now belatedly came to POA. "There's no point in acting like you care about military discipline now. I saw how you were all acting when I came in. At ease."

  They relaxed and smirks came to several faces. Lan could only shake his head. The idiots hadn't changed a bit. With his one
stripe, he outranked the lot of them. It was rather pitiful. Lan stepped up and began shaking hands, getting squeezed in bear hugs, and truly happy to see his friends. That these, at least, were still alive.

  "Since when did you start toeing the line?" Nat Bergen asked, nodding to the single stripes on Lan's shoulders. Nat was a small, dark, mean son-of-a-bitch who had almost no friends, present company excluded, and not many among them, either.

  "Computer glitch." Lan said. "It was supposed to go to someone named Ian Carter."

  "That I can believe." Tiny Richmond said. His mother had named him Tiny because he had been a very small baby, but all he had done since was grow. He was huge, literally towering over the rest of the group, but he could move like a cat, all sinuous grace. Of the men here so far, Lan considered him to be the most dangerous. He was not however, what you would call a genius.

  "He got that stripe as a field promotion!" Becla exclaimed. "He earned it!"

  Silence followed Becla's irate pronouncement.

  "Do you have a girlfriend?" Briar Murdoch asked, a wolfish grin on his wolfish face. Becla suddenly turned beet red, despite her dark skin.

  "Poor deluded girl." Andrew Timmins said consolingly, which put an end to Becla's embarrassment. The irate look was back.

  "Sheep should not run with wolves." Lamar Johnson said.

  "I'd be careful who you go around calling sheep," Lan told Lamar, "this lamb has teeth."

  "She can bite me anytime she wants!" Mike Dobrune said. He fancied himself a lady's man, but could never be satisfied with just one. In between having too many, he'd have none, when they found out about one another.

  Lan introduced them around, including Mario Lopez, who stood a bit off to one side and hadn't spoken yet. He never spoke much, and had a way of making people nervous.