In Her Name: The Last War

by Michael R. Hicks

  As for the other aliens, they had two common features that were distinct from the warriors: they wore robes and they didn’t have any claws on their fingers. It was clear to him now, having seen several of them in action in the last couple of hours, that the color of the robe identified the functional caste (for lack of a better term) of the wearer. What he took to be physicians wore white; the ones who worked on weapons and personal garments and armor wore black; then there was the dark blue of the ones who recreated the Aurora’s computer systems. All of them were highly specialized, and in some cases, particularly with the physicians and the ones who recreated the computer systems, they apparently were able to interface with other “systems” (if one could consider such things as the healing goo and the black matrix in the tank of the theater as systems) without any visible intervening technology.

  Looking through the crowd, he identified at least two dozen different colors of robes being worn. On the surface that seemed like a lot of specialized castes, but on the scale of human technical specialization it was nothing: everything from fixing a toilet to designing a starship required some sort of specialized skills, and it often took years to learn them. Surely the aliens still had need of a a similar variety of skills, far more than the two dozen or so castes here represented. But perhaps their people didn’t need nearly as long to learn such skills, or maybe each caste could do many things in a given area. The physicians, for example, replaced in a single caste hundreds of different types of specialists among their human counterparts. They also did a far better job, even having known nothing about their human guinea pigs prior to a few hours ago.

  While the others were more concerned about the next few moments, Amundsen’s reflections on the nature of the aliens chilled him in more abstract terms: if what he thought was even close to being correct, the aliens would have an incalculable advantage against humanity in a conflict. With warriors like these, backed up by legions of their robed sisters who could create or do virtually anything, they would be unstoppable.

  Gripping the quarterstaff in his hands so tightly that his knuckles were bled white, Amundsen for the thousandth time cursed the fate that had brought them to this system.

  * * *

  Yao Ming stood to the right of young Sato, with Midshipman Zalenski on his own right. By tacit understanding with the captain that was made with no more than a quick look and a nod, he had positioned himself between the two young cadets, with Marisova on the other side of Zalenski, in what he knew was the vain hope of providing them some protection in the coming ordeal. No one doubted the outcome of this alien duel, but Yao was determined that the two youngsters would not be among the first to die.

  While Yao had considered one of the finely crafted alien swords, like the captain and a few of the others he had decided that his most trusty weapons were those provided by his own body. He was an outstanding swordsman, but he was even better with his bare hands and feet. And those were the weapons he would use.

  While the others stood upon the sands and tensely watched the alien crowd, wondering what would happen next, Yao was thinking of...nothing. Having assumed the standing meditation, or Wu Ji, posture, he stood with his feet shoulder width apart, toes pointed forward, and a slight bend in his knees. His hands dangled loosely at his sides, all the tension having been drained away from his shoulders and upper body. Head held suspended as if by a string, his eyes were closed, and he was perfectly relaxed. He focused on the union of his feet to the alien sand, imagining that it was the Earth, and drew power from it as he slowly inhaled its energy, then exhaled the tension from his body. He imagined the energy flowing upward from his feet, filling his entire body as he swept everything else away.

  His companions, looking at him, might have thought he was in a trance. Nothing would have been further from the truth: he was totally alert. In fact, he was far more alert than the others, for he had eliminated all distractions, all fear, all doubt.

  With a contented sigh, he continued his meditation, only opening his eyes when the alien challengers stepped into the arena.

  * * *

  Harkness gritted her teeth as a stream of warriors emerged from one of the portals on the opposite side of the arena. She counted them, noting with no surprise that there were twenty-three. One for one.

  On her right stood the captain; on her left stood Kilmer. He had muscled over one of the other ratings who had taken the spot first, insisting he be next to her.

  “Chief,” he said awkwardly as the aliens formed up into a line and began to slowly advance toward them, “it’s...it’s been an honor.”

  Harkness turned to stare at him. He had always been a monumental pain in the ass and she’d always put up with him only because he was so damn good at his job. When it came right down to it, pain in the ass aside, he’d been a good sailor and a good shipmate. She smiled at him, brushing away a tear that threatened to race down her cheek. She never in a million years would have expected him to say something so sentimental. “Fuck you, you big ape,” she said hoarsely.

  He gave her a huge smile in return, and quipped, “You know chief, I’d love to take you up on that offer, but your timing really sucks.”

  She made a very unladylike snort as she suppressed a laugh. Then, seriously, she told him, “Good luck, sailor boy.”

  He nodded, his roughly chiseled face grinning eagerly as he casually slammed a fist into his open palm. “You, too, chief,” he told her. “Let’s kick some fucking alien ass.”

  As she turned her attention back to the approaching aliens, she saw that they had removed their armor and were now dressed identically to the humans, wearing only the black garment and sandals, plus their collars. Evening the odds a bit for us, she thought. They bore weapons similar to what each of Aurora’s crew members had chosen, with each warrior squaring off opposite her human counterpart.

  Harkness studied the woman, the enemy, who came to stand in front of her, looking at how she carried the weapons Harkness herself had chosen: two sticks made of something that was like wood (but probably wasn’t, Harkness thought), each a bit less than a meter in length and maybe as big around as her thumb. A practitioner of Eskrima, a Filipino martial art, would have been quite comfortable using them, but Harkness had never heard of Eskrima. She knew nothing about martial arts except the hopped-up sequences she’d seen in the holo-vids, and figured she’d probably only last two seconds with a bladed weapon in her hands. But the two sticks were at least easy for her to hold and swing, and having one in each hand gave her a small illusion of being able to defend herself. She might even be able to give her opponent a whack or two.

  She spared a glance at Kilmer’s opposite number: a husky warrior who held no weapons. Kilmer had fondled just about every sword and other killing contraption they’d had to choose from, but in the end had decided, like the captain and Yao, that he was most comfortable fighting with his fists. He was a brawler, and a good one: Harkness could attest to that from the times she’d seen him wallop landlubbers in planetside bars, just before she’d had to drag him and any others out before the modern day shore police arrived.

  She looked toward the captain, wondering what was supposed to happen next. He only shook his head and shrugged.

  The tall warrior chose that moment to enter the arena, and the babble of the thousands of aliens gathered in the stands of the arena stilled.

  * * *

  Tesh-Dar strode through the portal the other warriors had used to enter the arena. Unlike them, her sandals made no imprint upon the sand as her long and powerful legs carried her to the stone dais set at one end of the arena. Last of the great warrior priestesses of the Desh-Ka, the oldest order that had ever served the Empress since a time before legend, Tesh-Dar was as much spirit as she was flesh. Her powers were beyond the understanding of most of her own race, let alone the wide-eyed strangers who now watched her with a mixture of awe and fear. She no longer wore her short sword, an ancient weapon many generations-old, or her cloak, but was armed for comba
t: she wore a wicked longsword in a scabbard sheathed at her back; another sword, not unlike the one brought by one of the young aliens, hung from her left waist; and her favorite weapon, the grakh’ta, a seven-stranded barbed whip, was coiled at her right waist. Three of the lethal throwing weapons, known as the shrekka, were clipped to the armor of her left shoulder in the traditional position.

  As she entered, the gathered peers stood and saluted, left fists over their right breasts and heads bowed, the crash of the warriors’ armored gauntlets against their breastplates echoing as though from a single giant hammer. This was the way of things throughout the Empire wherever Tesh-Dar went, for she had no living equals: she stood upon the first step below the Throne itself, upon the great pyramid of steps that defined the status of each and every one of Her Children. Even the few remaining great warrior priestesses of the other orders climbed no higher than the third step from the Empress. Only the Empress held a higher place in the hierarchy of their people. Had Tesh-Dar not been who and what she was, no doubt the Empress would have come Herself to oversee this Challenge, such was the importance of what was to take place here. But She was closely linked to Her blood sister, and instinctively trusted Tesh-Dar’s judgement and feelings. For with Tesh-Dar here, the Empress could concentrate fully on the changes even now sweeping many parts of the Empire to prepare for war with the strangers. Such trust was a singular privilege and honor for the great priestess, but her towering status among the peers made for a lonely aerie, even for one whose soul was bound to countless billions of others.

  Standing upon the dais, the stone of which had been quarried from the Homeworld thousands of human years before, she gestured to the gathered peers, the crews of the squadron of ships that still hung in space around the alien vessel, and they silently took their seats. She looked upon the two lines of warriors: one of her own kin, whose blood sang clearly with want of battle; and the strangers of pale flesh who were silent, soulless creatures to her spiritual ears. She knew that they would not understand any of what was to come, or why it was so important to Tesh-Dar’s people. Few even among Her Children truly understood the importance of these rare encounters with other civilizations. For they did not realize that their own race had been slowly dying for over a hundred thousand years as marked in the time of the orbit of the aliens’ homeworld around its parent star. With every encounter with another race that Tesh-Dar’s people had experienced in past millennia, the Empress and those who knew the heart-wrenching truth behind some of their ancient legends built up their hopes that they would find among the strangers that which they had sought for tens of thousands of great cycles: one not of Her Own kind whose blood would sing, one who could save Tesh-Dar’s people from eventual extinction.

  But their hopes had thus far been in vain. The dozen spacefaring species encountered in past ages had been given every chance for the blood of even a single one among them to sing, but none had. Truly, they had served in glorifying the Empress through battle, but in the end the defeat of the strangers of old had left nothing but more pages in the Books of Time. And Tesh-Dar knew as well as the Empress that there were few enough pages left before Her Children would be no more. Centuries, perhaps, but no longer.

  Such were Tesh-Dar’s thoughts when she began to speak. “Long has it been, my sisters, since we have encountered strangers among the stars,” she told the gathered thousands in the New Tongue, her powerful contralto voice echoing across the arena. While her words carried no farther than the stone walls around her, her Bloodsong cast her emotions and sensations in a wave that swept through the Empire. As she spoke, the toil and labor of the billions of Her Children across ten thousand star systems came to a halt as they rode the emotional tide experienced by Tesh-Dar and the peers gathered here as witness. “Coming to us of their own purpose, of their own accord, they do not know the Way of Her Children, for their blood does not sing. Soulless they may be, but as in ages past, in the time since the First Empress left us, they will be given the right of Challenge, to give them every chance for their blood to sing.

  “For as the warriors of Her Blood well know, the Bloodsong echoes in our veins the strongest when in battle, just as it sings most clearly from the hearts of the clawless mistresses when achieving perfection in form. For this is our Way. So has it been-”

  “-so shall it forever be,” the crowd replied as one.

  “The warriors chosen to fight this day I have carefully matched to the strangers,” Tesh-Dar went on. “For while it is a battle to the death, we seek no advantage, for that brings Her no glory, no honor. For the Way of Her Children is not a path easily traveled, and honor is not given, but must be earned.” She paused to look closely at the strangers who stared at her, uncomprehending. “None of the strangers may leave, save the Messenger, whom I shall choose.” Looking at each of the warriors arrayed against the aliens, she added, “Should all of our sisters fall at the hands of the strangers, I shall complete what they began with my own hand.” She raised her staff a hand’s breadth and then hammered it down onto the dais, the sound reverberating like a gunshot. “In Her name,” she called to the warriors standing ready in the arena, “let it begin.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Captain McClaren listened to the speech made by the commanding warrior, although of course he couldn’t understand her. It infuriated him, because his crew had been murdered. The few of them here were walking dead now, he knew, and he couldn’t even ask her why.

  When she rapped her staff on the stone dais, he knew it must be time for the fun to begin. For with the last few words she spoke, the warriors facing his crew went from simply being wary and alert while they listened to their leader to being as tense as spring steel under a heavy load.

  The warrior opposite him was just a bit shorter than he was and probably weighed less by a good ten or more kilos, but he had no intention of underestimating her. It was abundantly clear that her people trained their entire lives for whatever skill they would have as adults. That was okay by him, because many humans did, too.

  He assumed the classic boxer’s stance, hands raised up to guard his face with his arms protecting his upper body, with one leg forward, knees bent. He felt light on his feet as he began to move toward his opponent to test her skills and see what he was really up against. Adrenaline surged through his arteries, now that the fight was upon them. He almost hated to admit it to himself, but he felt oddly ready for this. He felt good.

  As captain, he wanted to be the one to land the first blow (or take the first hit); this was part of the “first in, last out” philosophy that had been one of the guiding principles of his style of leadership. But he refused to let himself rush in like a fool: he was too experienced for that, and while he knew he would die on these sands, he wanted to take out at least one of the enemy, one of Harkness’s “fucking alien bitches”, with him.

  But the first blow wasn’t to be his: he suddenly saw Ichiro Sato rush toward his opponent, his bellow echoing across the arena as their swords crashed together.

  * * *

  Ichiro had stood silently, eyeing his opponent as the big warrior spoke. Unlike the other alien warriors, who were roughly similar in size (and presumably age, although that was impossible to tell) to their human counterparts, Ichiro’s was clearly smaller than himself. If he had to guess, had she been a human girl she might have been twelve or thirteen, if that. She held a sword similar to his (it seemed that the katana’s form was a universal constant in bladed weapons) and he had no doubt she knew how to use it far better than he did.

  Nonetheless, it was a maddening insult. He had reconciled himself to dying, but had imagined he would be cut down by a warrior like the one who had handed back his grandfather’s sword: he clearly would have been no match for someone like her, and he would have been content with that.

  But this was simply too much. In the brief moment of uncertainty that took hold in the arena after the big warrior had spoken her final words, Ichiro’s indignity overrode any pretense of log
ic or sense.

  Whipping the gleaming katana above his head, holding it high with both hands, he charged his opponent, roaring his undiluted rage.

  * * *

  Tesh-Dar watched intently with both her physical and spiritual senses as the battle was joined. The rash young alien was the first to strike. Tesh-Dar noted with satisfaction that Li’an-Kumer, the young warrior chosen to face the human, did not kill him right away, as she easily could. Instead, she parried his spirited but foolish attack, then twirled in closer to deliver a cut that left only a minor flesh wound. The alien animal howled, more in indignation than in pain, Tesh-Dar thought, and slashed ineffectively at Li’an-Kumer with his sword.

  Content that the young warrior had this creature well in hand, she swept her gaze over the other combats that were developing. Some of the combatants had not yet actually closed with their opponents in these first few seconds, but were still sizing up their opposition.

  And then, as if a secret signal had been given, they all crashed together in a mass of snarling fury.

  Tesh-Dar focused her attention on the one about whom she was most curious, one of the older animals whose inner strength radiated like a beacon...

  * * *

  For a fleeting instant as Sato charged forward, Yao Ming prepared to save the young man from his impetuosity. But there was something about the stance of the alien girl opposite him that told Yao that he need not intervene. Yet. As Yao stood, no longer in the Wu Ji posture, but simply standing calmly, he watched Sato’s attack in slow motion, and was content with the young alien’s reaction. She seemed happy to play with Sato for now, and that would allow Yao some time to deal with his own opponent.

  The warrior facing him wore many more of the pendants around her collar than the other aliens, which Yao assumed meant she was far more accomplished. She also had silver claws, which perhaps a third of the others had, as well; the remainder had black claws. He had no idea if this was an adornment of some sort, or if it was physiological. He had also recognized her fluid grace in step and posture as she had strode forward into the arena. All of the warriors possessed a sort of feline grace, but this one was different, more like the great warrior who now stood watching the proceedings. For in her he had seen a grace and power, quite apart from her size, like he had never seen before.