“I think I’m done,” Frank finally said. “Do you want to see it?”
“Yes, I’m ready,” Tamara said, suddenly unsure of herself.
Frank stepped down on the chair’s control, raising the seat to a sitting position. He’d murked the mirror, and Tamara stood looking at the blank surface, waiting for her reflection to appear.
“Bam!” he said, flipping the switch to turn on the reflection.
“Oh, wow!” Tamara said as a lion-maned woman faced her, her hair subtle but stunning. “I’m beautiful!”
HALCON 4
Chapter 24
The shuttle’s pilot had a soft hand; the craft landed with barely a perceptible bump.
Finally! Tamara thought.
The last couple of days had been hectic. She’d have rather prepared in her own way with light workouts and practice bouts, but things got out-of-hand quickly. The CHCSS campus was serene and low-key. The world outside the gates, though, were a different story, and Tamara could not shut it out. With Lester, her UAM handler almost constantly at her side, she had interviews, meetings, and briefs seemingly around the clock. With 12 challenges so far this year alone, she’d have thought the public interest would be dying out, especially as Halcon 4 was uninhabited, but interest seemed as high as ever. At least on the ship she’d had some time to herself and to get in some light sparring.
“You ready, Iron Shot?” Jonna asked, unhooking her belt and standing up.
Tamara rolled her eyes. The newsies had previously researched her past, and they’d been lying in wait with her gladiator nickname. It didn’t matter that Tamara had only put machined steel or brass shots; “Iron” evidently had a stronger image.
“Right. Just wait until they name you, Reindeer Girl.”
“Ah, I’m thinking Louhi, the goddess of the underworld,” Jonna said, striking a theatrical pose.
“Ladies, if you’re ready,” Lester said, poking his head into the passenger compartment.
“Coming, Lester,” Jonna said in a little girl voice, which caused Tamara to break out into laughter.
Tamara checked her PA. She had about 20 hours before the fight, which was enough time to gather herself, mentally and physically. The interviews were over. Her calls home were over. Now, it was her, Jonna, and of course Lester until the bout. She could have invited more people. Some gladiators liked to have posses with them. But Tamara wanted to keep it simple and quiet.
Her witnesses, which by coincidence included Beth and by invite Elei and Grammarcy, would arrive six hours before the fight, but Tamara wouldn’t see them until she walked into the ring.
Halcon 4 had very little in the way of facilities. There were about 2,000 terraforming team staffers scattered around the planet, with about 800 in the main camp. The staffers had to double up in their quarters to make room for the 200 or so people who were there for the challenge. No one had to move for Tamara and Jonna, though. The camp’s quarters were just too small for them. A temporary shelter had been erected with a small set of quarters and a workout area. Tamara was eager to get into the quarters. She wanted to get in a mid-level workout, then get in some sparring with Jonna before going to sleep. In the morning, she’d scheduled a light massage, and if she felt it necessary, she’d have another few bouts with Jonna. It depended on her mood.
And Tamara just wasn’t sure what her mood was. She thought it should be serious, concentrating on the fight. There would be serious repercussions from it, after all. But in reality, she felt more excited than anything else. She couldn’t even detect a wisp of fear within her, which really wasn’t that healthy. Fear can be paralyzing, true, but it also served to heighten awareness and mental acuity. Maybe as she got closer, things would change, but for now, she was eager to get past the next 20 hours.
The camp was small, so the shuttleport was only minutes from the dome erected for her. Tamara was ready for that workout, but first, a team of two doctors not only ran a scanner over her, they extracted a vial of blood. She’d already gone through a battery of tests not once, but twice after being assigned the fight, and this made it a third time. She wasn’t sure what they expected had cropped up over the last three days.
To her surprise, Colonel Covington showed up as well. She’d met with him a few times since arriving at Malibu when he did his command visits, but no one had told her he would be there. He was the Marine Corps liaison to the CHCSS, but he spent most of his time recruiting volunteers or at the UAM headquarters at Station 1.
“The commandant wants me to pass his best wishes to you, and he’s confident that you will prevail,” the colonel told her as the medical staff left, evidently unable to find anything that would keep her from fighting.
“Thank you, sir, but he told me that on the phone just as I was leaving Malibu.”
“He did? OK, then, I guess you get his wishes twice,” the colonel said with a laugh.
“Sir, this is Johanna Sirén. Johanna, this is Colonel Covington.”
“Ah, yes, Miss Sirén. I’ve heard great things about you. I look forward to your first bout.”
“So do I,” Jonna said, leaving it off at that.
“Um, well, I guess I’ll leave you to your preparation. I’m here, though, if you need me. Just give me a shout.”
With the doctors and Colonel Covington gone, Tamara had a chance to look around her home for the next 20 hours. It was Spartan, without a doubt. The two racks had obviously just been fabricated. A chiller and a heater were on a large table, as were packages of food provided by the UAM. Ever since one of the early gladiators had chosen to glut on forbidden food prior to his fight—and get himself killed as cramps wracked his body, making him easy pickings for his opponent—that UAM provided all food. Tamara knew the food would provide sustenance, but not much more than that.
“Even a condemned prisoner gets a last meal,” was a common phrase used back on Malibu.
At least the equipment looked reasonable, so Tamara turned to Jonna and said, “Let’s hit the weights and get the kinks out. Then I’m going to kick your ass a bit to warm up.”
“You can try, Iron Shot. You can try.”
Chapter 25
“How do I look?” Tamara asked Jonna for the third time in 15 minutes.
“You look great, Tamara, great. Nothing has changed since you asked me last.”
Tamara thought she did look great. She loved her hair, of course, and the gold and black shark suit looked striking. The shark suit, or fighting suit (no one knew why they were called shark suits) was a tight, form-fitting, full-body suit. With pressurized lattice-wear, it helped to contain bleeding and tissue damage from sword strikes. It traded armor for mobility. Early gladiators had more overt armor, more in line with what the d’relle wore, but that had gradually shifted to the tight shark suit Tamara now wore.
The suit had not given up on all armor, though. Using the same technology as in a Marine’s “bones,” the fabric itself immediately formed crystal-like structures that served to deflect oblique blade strikes, to immediately “de-crystalize” a fraction of a second later. This gave some protection without affecting mobility to any noticeable degree.
Another feature of the shark suit was that it left nothing—nothing—to the imagination. Every curve, every nuance of a gladiator’s body was revealed. The first time she’d put on her fitted suit, the Orinoco girl in her had almost been mortified. She hadn’t considered herself a prude, but with three technicians swarming over her, taking readings, touching her, she’d been highly embarrassed. It had taken her a bit of time to get over that. She’d sacrificed so much for this body, she realized, and she shouldn’t be ashamed of it.
Some kind soul from the terraforming staff had put a full-length (normal human full-length) mirror screen in the room, but by stepping back, Tamara could get a good look at herself. She made a few combat movements, studying her image.
Yeah, I guess I do look pretty good.
Looks shouldn’t matter; she was here to fight and win. But she was st
ill human, and her appearance did matter to her. Idly she wondered if her image would make the cybernet rounds. She’d have to win this fight, of course, first, but the paramours and gladgeeks who collected images could be pretty tough judges.
“Tamara, the d’relle and her entourage are on their way, about five minutes out,” Lester said as he stepped into the dome.
Tamara had finally gotten him to call her by her first name instead of “Miss Veal.” He was actually a pretty good handler, all things considering. He looked young, and if her sex drive was still in working order, he had the looks that probably would have elicited a response from her. Tamara knew he probably had about five Ph.D.’s in psychiatry and psychology and whatever—almost everyone who had any contacts with gladiators were highly educated and trained—but his manner made it was easy to forget that and think of him as a younger brother.
“I guess we’re a go, then,” she said to Jonna. “You’ve got my—“
“Yes, I’ve got your weapon,” Jonna answered, picking up the sword case. “It’s my only job here, so I’m pretty much on top of it.”
“You’ve got another job, girl. So come do it and give me a hug.”
Jonna stepped up and into Tamara’s arms. Tamara squeezed her friend tight, thankful for the comforting contact.
“You’re going to do fine,” Jonna whispered in her ear.
Tamara held the hug for about 10 seconds longer than was comfortable, then broke it off.
“Lead on, Sir Lester,” she told her handler.
The moment she left the dome, her attitude changed. From the calm woman inside the dome, which had kept her from burning nervous energy, she started to focus. She could feel her body come alive, a wonderful machine that would eviscerate any d’relle who dared to stand before her.
You’re a lean, green, fighting machine. You’re a lean green, fighting machine . . .
Her mantra took over, the rhythm honing her nerves. With every step, she felt more powerful and deadly.
You’re a lean, green, fighting machine. You’re a lean green, fighting machine . . .
Ahead of her, all 800 or so of the humans in this sector of the planet were waiting for her. A cheer broke out as she came into view, but that barely registered.
This was a far cry from New Budapest and the hundreds of thousands that had been there to watch Marta’s fight. Tamara’s fight would be broadcast throughout human space, of course, but here, at the scene, she had no Spectacula, no fans. Civilians were not allowed on the planet. The 800 terraforming staff and 100 or so UAM staff would make up the observers. And of course, the 20 gladiator witnesses. As Tamara walked up the slope to the camp’s small LZ, where the ring had been constructed, the gladiators came into view. Tamara saw them with her peripheral vision, but she refused to catch any of their eyes.
You’re a lean, green, fighting machine. You’re a lean green, fighting machine . . .
She stepped into the ring and stood there, feeling the consistency and footing. As usual, the ring was filled with 12 centimeters of packed sand, but as all planets are different, the sand could vary. Tamara slid her feet forward and back. This was pretty good, she realized, close to the main practice rings on Malibu. Tamara liked her footing firm, unlike Jonna who liked a “slipperier” ring.
You’re a lean, green, fighting machine. You’re a lean green, fighting machine . . .
Tamara’s nerves almost started singing in a counterpoint to her mantra. She felt more alive at that moment than she’d ever felt in her life, which had its own irony because she could be dead in ten minutes. Still, that didn’t seem possible. She was invincible!
The devil’s advocate in her tried to surface. Over-confidence was a recipe for disaster. A lack of confidence was even worse, but a true warrior tried to balance the two. Tamara knew that over-confidence was winning out at the moment, and she just accepted it, going with the flow.
You’re a lean, green, fighting machine. You’re a lean green, fighting machine . . .
Motion to her right signaled the arrival of the d’relle and her team. Tamara stared straight ahead refusing to look at her, but she could still see this d’relle had, at least, a dozen other Klethos with her. Differences between a d’relle and a normal Klethos soldier were minor, but it looked to Tamara that at least three of the other Klethos might be d’relle as well. She’d find out after the fight, though. It was hard for her to tell without really looking at them, and she was keeping her eyes locked to the front.
Her opponent stepped into the ring and immediately launch into her challenge screech and lunge. She barely waited any time at all before launching into her haka.
You’re a lean, green, fighting machine. You’re a lean green, fighting machine . . .
Now, Tamara paid attention. She watched the movements of her opponent, looking for anything that might help her. This d’relle was more graceful than most, and her movements lacked many of the strength-type moves. She twirled and spun, all four arms intertwining in continual motion. Her sword looked the same as any other d’relle weapon, but it didn’t sing through the air as had Marta’s opponent’s. It was more as if it was slipping through the air instead of cleaving through it.
With ten or twelve blindingly quick pirouettes, the d’relle kicked up a small cloud of dust before landing back in the challenge pose, one foot stretched out and pointing at Tamara.
You’re a lean, green, fighting machine. You’re a lean green, fighting machine, she thought one last time.
The time for mantras was over.
Tamara had thought long and hard about her haka. Some gladiators tried to mislead the d’relles by performing a haka in a style opposite of her fighting style. Other’s tried to create the most exciting haka, hoping to strike uncertainty in her opponent. Tamara rather thought that was over-thinking it. She doubted that it really mattered other than as a formal acceptance of the challenge. So she decided to honor the people from whose culture the word haka had come. She would do her version of a Maori haka.
With a shout, she jumped into the center of the ring, centimeters from her opponent. She stuck out her tongue as she squatted, legs bent and spread. Slapping her hands on her thighs, she then raised her hands high before slapping them down again.
“Prepare your feet! Stamp with fury and gusto!” she shouted, slapping her thighs in time with her words.
It is death, it is death.
It is life, it is life!
Behold the hairy woman
Who reigns in the sun
And so it shines
Tamara started twisting her body, right arm flexed, the left reaching around to slap at the first arm’s elbow.
Arise, arise
Rise up to the heights of the rising sun
She flung her arms up, still keeping the beat with her stomping feet.
It is death, it is death.
It is life, it is life!
I’m going to die. I’m going to die.
I’m going to live! I’m going to live!
She held her left arm high, bent at the elbow as she held her right arm straight and down at a 45 degree angle, turning her head to look down that arm.
Because I am so strong,
I will bring back the sunny days of peace.
Up the step! Up the step!
I’m making progress to prolong the sunny days of peace!
Tamara slapped her chest, stomped harder and faster, and stopped, still only centimeters from her opponent, who hadn’t moved a muscle.
For the first time, Tamara seemed to take notice of her opponent. She leaned in closer to the d’relle, canted her head, and the best warrior face she could muster, yelled out at the top of her lungs.
After a moment, she casually stood up, turned as if not aware of the d’relle anymore, and walked back to the edge of the ring. The crowd behind her erupted, which Tamara barely noted. She turned back to face her opponent and held her right hand behind her. A second later, she felt the hilt of her mameluke slap firmly in her han
d. She paused only a moment, then with one more shout, fell into the challenge lunge.
Nothing she had done had been normal procedure, and it had been a far cry from the haka she’d shown the staff at Chicsis. She’d danced the haka without her weapon. She’d stopped within range of her opponent, and then casually sauntered back, exposing her back, before she finished her final lunge. Tamara knew she’d hear about it if she survived the bout, but she’d figured she was safe until she’d finished the haka with the challenge acceptance lunge and shout. And since she was still alive, she’d obviously been right.
The d’relle slowly stood up, then started twirling her sword in an intricate pattern. Tamara almost smiled. While patterns like these looked good in the Hollybolly flics, patterns were a warrior’s enemy. An opponent can read the patterns and plan an attack. However, a pattern can lull an opponent into a sense of complacency so that a quick change in the pattern can catch the opponent off-guard. Tamara vowed that would not happen to her.
The d’relle almost casually advanced to Tamara, all the time her sword moving, twirling. Tamara watch her, though, not the sword. A sword never telegraphed what it was going to do next, but a swordsman did. Tamara had studied enough recordings of d’relles in action to be fairly confident in her abilities to watch and understand the tells. The problem with a d’relle was that even with an obvious tell, the d’relle could be just too quick and too powerful to do anything about the action, even knowing it was coming.
Tamara was not going to wait for her opponent to take any more of the initiative. With a short lunge, she executed a vertical parry, not expecting to gain any advantage, but more to interrupt her opponent. To her surprise, the d’relle immediately backed up, then began another different pattern of almost lazy sword movement.
If she was really that hidebound, she would be easy pickings for Tamara, but Tamara refused to fall into what had to be a trap. No warrior could be that vulnerable, and d’relles didn’t have a reputation of being easy pickings.
Gladiator (Women of the United Federation Marines Book 1) Page 13