The d’relle began to move in again, but there seemed to be a slight a degree of uncertainty to her pattern. Tamara was just beginning to accept that this d’relle might not be experienced when the slightest tell alerted her instincts before her mind realized what was happening. At the height of the swirling pattern, the d’relle reversed the swing to slash down at Tamara. If she’d done it an instant before, she might have scored, but the extra height of the d’relle’s arm gave Tamara just enough time to parry the slash down and riposte. She’d hoped to hit the d’relle at the juncture of her sword arm, but her opponent ducked lower, and Tamara’s blade slashed through the flesh and tendons of the smaller upper left arm. It would be painful, and given time, the loss of blue blood would weaken her, but it was hardly a killing blow.
Take the initiative! she admonished herself.
Except for Bertie, who calmly parried whatever Tamara threw at her, Tamara scored more wins by her relentless attacks than through fancy skills.
Tamara pressed forward, driving the d’relle back. Her opponent had given up the swirling patterns and had reverted to the defense, parrying each blow Tamara sent her way.
Tamara had not fully committed yet as she felt out the d’relle’s defense while still maintaining her own. A too aggressive attack could leave her open to a deadly riposte. She had to be aware of not only what was her best offense, but what the d’relle was doing.
Even after admonishing herself about being too aggressive, that was almost her undoing. The d’relle stumbled, and in her eagerness to take advantage of that, Tamara leaped into an attack. Leaped, not lunged, a cardinal sin in sword fighting. It might look dramatic in the flicks, but a swordsman did not leave her feet—ever. There was no way to change direction in the air, no way to control movment until back down on the ground. Luckily, the d’relle’s riposte missed her leading thigh, and Tamara was able to counter her opponent’s second intention. No serious harm done due to her breach of training, she quickly gathered herself to fight as she was taught, not like some Hollybolly superhero.
She almost forgot, though, that the sword was not a d’relle’s only weapon, and that could have been fatal. The d’relle’s sword tip drifted too high, and Tamara moved in for the kill when unbelievably quick, the d’relle’s right leg snapped out at her belly. At the last instant, Tamara twisted so that the large claws grazed her hip, but not with enough of a connection to spin her around. Tamara immediately wrapped her left arm around the leg and pulled forward. The already extended d’relle gave a screech, too close to use the point of her sword. Incredibly, she hopped on her right leg, which was almost bent under her, preparing to launch a kick up into Tamara’s unprotected crotch.
The d’relle was too close to use the point of her weapon, and that meant Tamara was, too. But a mameluke had a long, sharp edge. She yanked the d’relle closer, so the kick she unleased didn’t have time to generate too much power, and the shin connected instead of the deadly claw. It still slammed Tamara, but not with enough force to do any damage. And now, the d’relle was completely exposed. Tamara was not in position to generate an executioner’s stroke, but she managed to bring the forward curve of her mameluke to the base of the d’relle’s neck, and as if cutting carrots in her kitchen, simply pushed forward, letting the sharp edge bite into the d’relles neck, slicing a good five or six centimeters into muscle and nerves. And an artery.
Blue blood spurted out, covering Tamara as the d’relle screamed and struggled, kicking her right leg free and falling to the ground. She put both right arms on the ground to right herself, a true sign that she was hurt.
Tamara didn’t know how long it would take a d’relle to bleed out, and she wasn’t about to find out. Her opponent was hurt, possibly fatally, but even so, she could still win the bout. She didn’t have to live, only live longer than Tamara.
Tamara kicked out the lower right arm, and to keep from falling flat, the d’relle swung around her sword arm to catch herself. Even so, she managed to swing it in an arc which almost caught Tamara.
Tamara ducked back, then with the Klethos queen on her hands and knees, lunged forward like a matador on a bull, driving her mameluke into the back of her opponent’s neck, right at the base of her feather crest. A Klethos had a spine similar to a vacuum cleaner hose. It was a very tough cartilage-type tissue, supported by bony strips that ran its length. Tamara could feel the tip of her sword slide alongside one of the bony strips until it found an opening and pierced through the cartilage as she rammed it home. The d’relle didn’t even shudder but simply collapsed to lie motionless in the blue-stained sand.
It only took a few moments for Tamara to realize that the d’relle was dead. She’d been acting almost on instinct, and now her conscious mind was regaining control. She jerked free her mameluke, raised it to the skies, and shouted out her pure joy.
She had won!
MALIBU
Chapter 26
Tamara and Jonna rode through the gate of the campus, and of course, it was Jasper manning security. He stepped out of his shack and rendered a passable salute. Tamara knew he couldn’t see her through the heavily tinted windows of the van, but she saluted anyway.
I’m glad to be home, she thought, a feeling of calm sweeping over her.
And that made her pause. This was her home now, not Orinoco. She’d been born again here, her sisters were here, and she would die here—well, unless she lost a fight somewhere else. But she would be buried here, at least.
Things had been pretty hectic since the fight. After some immediate interviews, she’d been whisked back to the ship for the trip back. Normally, she might have had some time to decompress on the ship, but it had been set up with full meson comms, so there had been more interviews as well as calls from her parents and Di, from the Chief Executive of Orinoco, from the President of the Confederation of Free States (to whom Halcon 4 belonged), some under-secretary of the UAM who called with congratulations from the Secretary General. Most surprising were the calls from no less than three heads of state of the Oceania Association. Her haka had gone over well with the general population, if holo feedback tallies were indicative, but it had been a huge hit in the association as well as other planets with large Pacific Islander populations.
The van zipped past the admin building. Tomorrow, she’d start her official debriefs, and she knew Swordmaster Abad would be waiting to dissect her fight (and probably tear her a new one for leaving her feet, even if she had beaten her opponent). But for now, she was untouchable. Her PA, which had something over 80,000 messages with more coming in (she reminded herself to get AI help to get through them all) was turned off. The staff was out of her hair. Now was time for the ceremony.
The van took them to Gustavson Village, letting them off at the community center. “Sunset Acres” was essentially the gladiator retirement home. Gladiators who were no longer well enough to be on the active list, while they could stay in their original homes, usually chose to come to the village to live out their last days among others in the same situation. Tamara didn’t like to come to the ceremonies, but this time, she didn’t mind.
The van stopped, and Tamara and Jonna got out. The van immediately took off for their home where a staffer would unload it of their gear for them. The two women strode up the immaculately trimmed walkway. Elei, a huge grin on her face, stood by the front hatch like some sort of oversized doorman, opening it with a flourish as the two reached her.
Inside, every gladiator was packed into the center.
“That’s a lot of beef,” Jonna whispered. “And all here for you.”
In the middle of the group, Fleetwood hovered in his chair, the senior gladiator. He still made her uncomfortable, but she’d managed to learn to control her feelings while around him. At least he was still mobile, still somehow hanging on to life. Several of the senior sisters could not even sit in a hover, they were so far gone. They were here for the ceremony, though, even if one or two might not completely realize what was happening.
>
“Senior Gladiator,” she announced to Fleetwood in a loud voice. “I have returned victorious!”
Loud cheers and foot-stomping greeted her proclamation.
“So I see. Then I must turn you over to the ministrations of our sister, Naomi.”
Naomi Van Sustern wasn’t the senior braided gladiator, but she the senior who was still cognizant of her surroundings. She was in a hover next to Fleetwood, and she beckoned for Tamara to come and sit before her. Tamara complied, turning around to face away from her as she sunk to the ground.
Naomi’s body might be wasted, but her hands were firm as she separated a handful of the hair on Tamara’s left side and quickly braided it the telltale sign of a victor. Within moments, she was done, and she asked Tamara to rise. More cheers and foot stomps greeted her as she raised an arm in acknowledgment.
And that was the ceremony—short, sweet, and to the point. Classmates and friends crowded in to congratulate her, but more people seemed interested in the fine layout the chefs had put together. The ceremony was for her, but they’d had nine already this year, so it wasn’t that unique. After she’d been braided, it turned more into a social gathering, a time to eat, gossip, and simply be family (albeit a very large family).
Tamara had barely gotten used to having long hair again after so many years, and now she was acutely aware of the heavier braid laying against her cheek. It felt good, she decided. Everything felt good. She wasn’t even bothered by the Brick sufferers.
Tomorrow might be different, but for now, all was well with the world.
TARAWA
Chapter 27
General Joab Ling, Commandant of the Marine Corps, had to stand on a small stool in order to be able to reach up to pin the Single Combat Service Medal on Tamara’s chest. Tamara kept her eyes locked straight ahead during the process, wondering what would happen if the commandant fell off the flimsy stool. She had to fight back the smile that threatened to creep onto her face as she pictured that.
He got the medal fastened, though, without incident.
“We’re proud of you, Chief Warrant Officer Veal, really proud.”
Her victory in the ring had also resulted in her promotion that morning to chief warrant officer. Colonel Covington had arranged the ceremony, and Tamara’s mother had proudly pinned on her new bars.
Her family had been a little miffed to find out that she was not coming home after the bout. Tamara had begged off, telling them she had no choice, that she had to go to Tarawa for Marine Corps duties. In the end, she had invited them to Tarawa for the promotion and medal presentation.
The truth was that she could have gone home; she simply didn’t want to. The Marine Corps had requested her presence, so that hadn’t been a lie, but as she was attached to the UAM mission, not even the commandant himself could order her presence. But she decided would rather go reconnect with the Marines than spend another couple of days back on Orinoco attending every possible ceremony that they could devise.
She still had to explain to them why she’d stopped off at the Kingdom of Hiapo to become an honorary kao’o’e, or bodyguard of the king. She’d even received her own lei-o-nano, only the third non-citizen to ever received one of the war clubs. Evidently, the king had been more than impressed with her haka, and as the prime figure in the Oceania Association, he’d evidently appropriated the Maori haka as part of overall Pacific Islander culture. Frankly, Tamara didn’t care. The ceremony had been interesting, the lei-o-nano strikingly beautiful, and the party was out-of-this-world. Sitting around the luau with the rest of the kao’o’e, who had to all have been genmodded as well to get so large, she had felt a degree of kinship that she hadn’t felt outside of the Corps or with her sister gladiators.
With medal pinned on her, she moved to the commandant’s left and faced the parade deck while a lieutenant snuck in to grab the stool and take it away.
A lieutenant colonel from the division staff march forward, took his position, and shouted, “Pass. . .in. . .REVIEW!”
Two-thirds of First Marine Division was stationed on Tarawa in the vicinity of Marine Headquarters, and to Tamara, it looked as if almost all of them had taken part in the parade. She’d done enough parades in her career and knew what went into preparing for one that she both felt sorry for putting them through it and honored that they had. As the band started playing, she felt a surge of pride sweep through her body.
One-by-one, the battalions taking part in the parade marched past the commandant and her. Tamara remained ramrod straight, but if she stood a little taller when 2/3 marched by, that could be excused. Her old battalion was hosting a picnic for her after the parade, and this was one event to which she was looking forward.
Just as 2/3 reached her, the breeze picked up, lifting both the battalion colors and her own hair and streaming them in full view. She could almost feel the excitement of the camcorder operators as both they and cam-drones rushed to the right vantage from which to frame the shot
Her hair, or course, was decidedly non-reg, but she was not about to cut it, and no one expected her to. And in her Marine alphas, tailored to her huge frame, she thought the red and gold looked great against the green of the uniform.
As soon as 2/3 passed, the breeze died back down. It was almost as if it had been planned, but while most junior Marines thought the commandant was God himself, or might as well be, he couldn’t command the weather.
With so much of the division in the parade, the entire pass in review, to include the company in PICS, the armor company, and the flyover, took almost 20 minutes. Tamara enjoyed every second of it. She was a gladiator, true, but she was a Marine first, and this touched her heart.
Finally, though, the parade was over. Various high-ranking dignitaries came forward to shake her hand while holocams recorded everything. Tamara introduced her family to the commandant, and she thought her mother might faint from the excitement. The commandant’s eyes almost glazed over as her mother went into a story about Tamara in the second grade, but he was a seasoned warrior, and he kept a smile on his face as he nodded while her mother blathered on. The commandant—and Tamara—were rescued by Colonel Covington.
“Chief Warrant Officer Veal, I hate to interrupt, but you have an appointment now at the Wounded Warrior Battalion.”
“But—” her mother started.
“I’m sorry, Mom, but I promised to do this. Then I’ve got 2/3’s picnic coming up. I’ll meet you tonight at the Lodge.”
“And we’ve got that tour ready for you, Ms. Veal. The bus will pick you up at 1130 sharp,” Colonel Covington added.
Tamara’s mother had been tickled pink to get a room at the VIP Lodge. Well, her father and Diana had been pleasantly surprised as well, to be fair, but her mother had taken her approval to a higher plane. And now, she was getting a lunch and a tour of the city by the mayor, and that quickly mollified her about not finishing her story.”
“OK, dear,” she told Tamara. “You have fun, and we’ll see you tonight.”
She let a captain escort them off as the commandant turned back to Tamara.
“I’ll see you again tomorrow,” he told her. “But if you need anything else, you call me directly.”
“Or me,” Sergeant Major Çağlar said.
Tamara let Colonel Covington steer her through the press and well-wishers to the waiting van, the same Ford model that was used at Chicsis, but this one Marine Green and with a huge gold Marine Corps emblem on the side. The Marine Corps had only one of the gladiator-sized vehicles, but this one would be at her beck and call for the duration.
While her trip to Orinoco had been chock full of events, the Marine Corps was letting Tamara pick and choose what she wanted to do. They had requested her presence at the welcome press conference and for the parade, but the rest was up to her. Tamara wasn’t the Marines first gladiator, of course, while she had been Orinoco’s first, but she thought there was more to it than that. In a way, it was as if they were honoring her, but that as a Marine, it w
as simply expected of her to serve the best she could. What she was doing was not out of the ordinary: laudatory yes, surprising, no. She was a Marine performing her mission.
Tamara could take offense at that, given the accolades she’d been receiving from just about everyone else. She’d volunteered to give up her life, after all. But as she walked into the Wounded Warrior Battalion, she knew that was nothing new for Marines. They’d been putting their lives on the line in the most desperate situations for hundreds of years.
It was obvious that the battalion had been eagerly expecting her. Marines were groomed, sheets crisp and clean, and staff standing by each rack. The smiles on the Marines touched her heart.
“What’s your name?” she asked the first Marine in the ward.
“Lance Corporal Tenzing Friar, Ma’am,” the Marine answered trying to sit up straighter in his rack.
Which was pretty difficult for him to do, given the fact that a regen chamber was where his lower body would have been. His right arm was in a smaller chamber as well, and half of his face was covered.
“Where were you, Tenzing, if I might ask?”
“Jericho, Ma’am. I got hit by an IED. Took my legs off at the hips.”
Tamara had only been vaguely aware that there had been a minor Marine mission on Jericho, but she wasn’t sure of the details. Minor mission or not, for Lance Corporal Friar, the mission had been life-altering.
“And how much longer for you? Until you’re back with your unit, I mean.”
“I just got out of my coma, ma’am, so for me, I’ve got another year-and-a-half, the docs tell me.”
Tamara tried not to flinch. That was a long time in regen, and with so much of his body undergoing treatment, his chances of contracting the Brick were far more than someone who’d just lost an arm or who’d had minor internal injuries.
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