Chapter 3
“Both fear and anger lean forward into every approaching moment of conflict. This produces imbalance.…”
Devlin Sinclair-Maru, Integrity Mirror
Claude Carstairs critically examined his appearance in the reflection from the skimcar window. He touched one blond lock of hair, adjusted the golden tassel of his cloak. Thank god cloaks are back in fashion again!
“Rest easy, Claude,” Saef Sinclair-Maru said. “You’re beautiful.”
Claude continued to twist his head about, looking for any flaw. “Damned kind of you to say, Saef, but honestly, you wouldn’t know. Fashion escapes you. Always has.”
Saef shrugged and crossed one tall boot over the other, turning his gray eyes to the view outside. Just before a duel every detail of life seemed significant. He felt an odd satisfaction, enjoying a rare moment with his UI entirely silenced. Natural vision seemed all too vivid as the skimcar wove through the maze of Port City.
Once, Saef knew, the Family possessed vast offices and warehouses here in the largest city of Battersea. Before his time, they were long gone. But perhaps, perhaps he could do as old Devlin once had, and somehow pull victory out of the ashes. It was a hopeful thought, yet Saef felt the plague of misgivings rising up even now.
“I say, Saef,” Claude said with rare tones of thoughtfulness. “You know I would never interfere in a matter of honor, never, ever…but, I must say it would be…er…grand if this fellow you’re fighting survived the duel.”
“I think it would be rather nice if I survive the duel, Claude.”
“Oh, of course! Goes without saying. That would be good, too. But my cousin, you see, on m’mother’s side, she has a bit of business with this Lars fellow’s family.”
“How enterprising of her.”
“Yes,” Claude agreed, nodding vigorously. “Yes, and profitable, too!”
“And you want me to…what? Throw the duel somehow?”
Claude’s eyes started wide. “No!” he almost shouted, looking about the skimcar as if lurking listeners might somehow be concealed about the bare cushions. “Gods, no. Saef…Hah! The things you say. Hah. Throw the fight? No, no, no. Just let him live, you see. My cousin’ll watch it on some vidstream—this duel is sure to be all over the Nets, you know—and I’ll tell her that I persuaded you to spare the damned scrub. It’ll do me no end of good with the Family.”
“Claude, no one but other heavyworlders have beat a Thorsworld native in a high-gee duel. Not for a century or so.”
“Well, if you lose, Saef, you needn’t fret about my cousin. It’s if you win that has her worried, you see.”
Saef laughed despite himself, shaking his head. “Why do I endure you, Claude?”
Claude smiled, “Because we’ve been friends forever. Because I advise you on fashion, which clearly no one else does, and because I attract beautiful women into your orbit who would otherwise flee from your scowling, unfashionable self.”
“Surely I don’t scowl,” Saef said.
Claude mused a moment before saying, “Except for right this moment, it sure ain’t a smile.”
Saef’s smile faded. “We all have our burdens, I suppose.”
“Yes, very true, Saef,” Claude said, forcibly struck by the comment. “Burdens. I’ve got a ton of ’em! Aside from you and your scowl, and my cursed cousin and her business, there’s that party tomorrow. What am I possibly going to wear? While you…!”
“Me? Yes?”
“You! You haven’t a single worry.”
“Really, Claude? This duel, perhaps?”
“No, no. Not a single worry, Saef. You look just fine, I assure you. And you will never have a moment of distress again. I’m frankly envious, I must say.”
“I really don’t see what you—”
“Uniforms!” Claude declared.
“Pardon?”
“Uniforms, Saef. Go to a party, uniform. Funeral; uniform. Luncheon. Uniform.” Claude clapped his hands together. “All of your problems have disappeared. Poof.”
“Claude, I really don’t see—”
“And a damn fine idea it was, too. Passing that Fleet test. Smashing! Never would have expected such sense from you. Uniforms for life. And the Fleet officer’s get-up is devilishly handsome, I tell you straight away, devilishly handsome.”
“Well, thank you, Claude, I’m glad to have redeemed myself in your sight.” The Fleet test: a mighty success that warmed Saef’s bones, but an unfamiliar tension teased him, even beyond the unease of his approaching duel. And then the Family…
“I had despaired, but all’s well now.”
“If I don’t get killed here in a moment, yes.”
“There’s that, too,” Claude said, nodding seriously. “I’ve been thinking about that, Saef.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, yes. If this Lars fellow does get a lucky slash in and puts you down, I was wondering something…”
“I’m a-sweat to hear it,” Saef said.
“Since this will be all over the Nets, what do you think would look better, since you’re my best friend and all: just a look of grim sadness? Or do you think honest-to-gods tears are in order here?”
“I think rending your clothes in grief sounds about right.”
Claude’s eyes nearly started out of his head. “Are you completely mad? Have you even looked at this shirt? And think what an ass I would look on the Nets! No, no, I think grim sadness, Saef. Maybe a single, solitary tear down my cheek.” Claude trailed a finger down his cheek and looked sorrowfully into the distance.
“Since I’m your best friend,” Saef said.
“Since you are my best friend.”
“Your destination, sirs,” the skimcar’s modest Intelligence chimed in.
Saef and Claude entered the old demi-cit athletic club together, Claude’s slender, elegant figure beside Saef’s more robust form. The place stood empty except for a clutch of Vested Citizens standing on the far side of the graviton training pad.
“Ah, there’s that Lars chap and his second, right there, Saef. I’ll go make sure we’re ready.” Claude walked across the training pad, his cloak billowing dramatically around him.
Saef took off his jacket, folded and placed it on a nearby cushion that looked moderately clean. His pistol belt joined it. He stretched his shoulders and shook out his hands. Only a couple of days prior he had collapsed, nearly catatonic, after the grinding, thirty-hour ordeal of the command test, and he could still feel its lingering effects. Part of Saef’s mind wondered what the Family thought of his success. Would they finally acknowledge Saef’s efforts in some meaningful way? Or would they find some fault even now? Would they even back his new command opportunity? His thoughts returned to the moment, and the possibility of impending death.
Saef glanced across the training pad at Lars, the Thorsworld cadet who had forced this duel. Shorter and probably twenty-percent heavier than Saef, all muscle, sinew, and bone.
Lars had all but spit in Saef’s face to force this duel, but why? They both attended the Imperial command college, but had barely known each other.
Saef shrugged to himself and continued scanning the other figures in the crusty old athletic center. Six people stood around Lars, while Claude and his counterpart stood to one side, chatting and gesturing about. At the periphery of the room, seated in the shadows, a lone figure sat, and something about him looked vaguely familiar. Aside from the hair color, the man could be one of the Sinclair-Maru cousins.
Saef turned away, drawing his short sword and long knife. Each blade came from the Family auto-fab, but despite the claims of some purists, a Sinclair-Maru blade held qualities superior to any handmade blade. The Family utilized elaborate (and secret) programming to produce wonders in metallurgy, layering diverse alloys in a complex bonding that provided lightweight strength and a razor edge.
He re-sheathed the blades and paced out onto the training pad. With a neural gesture he activated the scaram fear generator implanted with his House UI electronics. The familiar jolt of primal terror driving ice into his guts brought him back to a thousand training cycles. The instinctive narrowing of his vision, increased heart rate, and shortness of breath barely began before disappearing.
Saef immediately found the mountaintop of calm that old Devlin had named “the Deep Man,” and fear could gain no purchase in him. His vision broadened, his shoulders relaxing, and he saw Lars step onto the training pad.
Saef redrew his sword and knife, using both for the first time in a duel. It was a counterintuitive move, where most non-heavyworlders would want both hands free to wield a sword grown suddenly heavy in the increased gravity.
As he felt the familiar press of ramping gravity squeezing every fiber of his body, Saef disengaged the scaram. He remained in the pool of calm as his stocky heavyworld opponent stepped nearer, sword in hand.
“Regain what you may, dog!” Lars snarled at him, in a wrathful approximation of the formal words.
Either truly angry…or frightened…
Since Saef had never given a true reason for offense, he bet on fear, but either emotion held benefits over a calm, calculating opponent.
Saef lifted his sword smoothly up and held it pointing directly into Lars’s eyes. He heard the murmur of the onlookers, likely surprised that he managed the increased gravity so well, but Saef knew he could only manage this rocklike hold for a short time.
“I had no quarrel with you,” Saef said, looking down the blade into his opponent’s wide eyes. “But for the honor of my family I do this.” He lowered the blade to low guard and advanced, working hard to lift his feet naturally.
Fear. Saef saw it written in his foe’s eyes, in the rigid face masked with anger, in the sword lashing too early, trying to keep Saef at bay.
Constricting vision, poor muscle control, repetitive thought loops: these were the enemies defeating Lars before Saef ever touched him.
Saef rationally knew that Lars could quite easily best him, just by maneuvering defensively for a time, allowing the heavy gravity to wear down Saef’s non-heavyworld muscles. But instead, Saef took hold of his own route to victory, plotting his path in three distinct moves.
Saef advanced, thrusting low with the knife in his left hand, clashing against his opponent’s sword, and again, though slightly nearer. Lars frantically parried a second time, his eyes locked on the wicked blade stabbing toward his belly, ignoring all avenues to counterattack. Saef advanced and jabbed the knife in another identical thrust, Lars’s sword leaping to parry. He didn’t see Saef’s straight sword-thrust from the deceptive right hand until far too late. It pierced Lars through, just beneath his collarbone.
Saef jerked his sword free but did not step back. For only the second time in his life he began to utter the “first blood” statement, sparing his opponent’s life. “First blood. My honor is—”
Terror radiated from Lars’s eyes. He made a guttural sound, one hand at his wounded chest, slashing recklessly at Saef. Saef barely stopped the blade, and continued the motion, feeling the razor edge of his Family sword pass through flesh and click against bone.
Lars crumpled to the ground, his light fading, his vitality an expanding pool fanning out behind him.
Someone shouted for restored gravity, the crushing pressure eased, and Claude appeared at his side.
“Oh, well done! I daresay, well done!” Claude chortled, hustling Saef to the side while a medico went to work on Lars, attempting to save a life that was surely gone. “My cousin can’t say a cursed thing now. Good thinking, offering first blood like that. Now I’m off the hook.”
Saef wiped the thin line of blood from his blade, feeling a heaviness beyond gravity.
“That!” Claude exclaimed. “That right there. That’s the scowl, Saef. Millions of beautiful women will see your mug on the Nets tonight and say, ‘My god, would you look at that appalling scowl! But wait. Who’s that devilishly handsome fellow there beside the scowler? He’s nearly perfect.’ And you will be gone from their minds. Poof. Gone.”
Saef belted his pistol in place, slid into his jacket, and moved toward the door.
“You’re still scowling, Saef. It’s going to stick like that, old fellow.”
“He was terrified, Claude,” Saef said. “I offered him his life, but he was too frightened to take it. Frightened of what?”
“That’s a quizzer. Daresay it is. But no sense asking him now, eh?”
Saef nodded as he awaked his implant, bringing up his House UI. A flood of glowing alerts spun across his vision, most notably a priority call pending from Cabot Sinclair-Maru. Saef grunted in surprise, placed his earpiece, and triggered the call.
Without preamble Cabot began talking. “It appears you survived. Is he dead?”
Saef swallowed his surprise at the unprecedented call. “Y-yes, it appears that way.”
“Very well,” Cabot said.
“Who’s that?” Claude asked, standing to one side.
Saef ignored Claude as Cabot continued. “Get back to Lykeios by tonight. Consider yourself a target. Take every precaution, and do not return to your lodging. There may be an ambush awaiting even at your current location. Get in motion.”
“I…yes, Cabot.” Saef scanned around the room again as Cabot clicked off, this time with a more critical focus.
“What’s afoot then, Saef?” Claude asked.
“I’m not sure,” Saef answered, used to a lifetime of peremptory commands from his Family betters. “Let’s find a back door.”
“A back door? Really? To some sort of alley? In these boots? You have noticed my boots, haven’t you? I think not! Sure to be filthy.”
Some of the figures around Lars’s prostrate form did seem rather intently focused upon Saef, he thought.
He pulled up his new Fleet Command overlay on his UI, queried for location, and flicked through the blueprints, each flashing across his vision in glowing trails.
“This way,” Saef said, turning on his heel without looking back.
Grumbling, Claude followed.
Only a score of steps brought them to a small passage and a side door. The manual entrance readily yielded to Saef’s Fleet authorization, but before Saef opened the door, he thought again of Cabot’s warning.
Take every precaution…
Saef hesitated a moment before drawing his pistol, moving smoothly out the door, onto the side street. Directly ahead, he saw an older skimcar waiting, a man and woman seated within, windows open.
They noticed Saef at almost the same moment, their expressions reflecting recognition, but also relief. Saef kept his pistol low at his side.
“Commander Sinclair-Maru? Imperial Security,” the woman said. “We can’t be seen with you, but there’s a hired skimcar for you and your companion just around the corner on your right.”
A legitimate Imperial validation code flashed into Saef’s UI, verified by his Fleet overlay.
Without a word, Saef nodded and set out for the skimcar, holstering his pistol, his gaze flashing from the unimpressive heights of this old section of Port City, scanning blank windows, to the scant passing traffic.
“Saef, gods!” Claude demanded. “What the devil was that about?”
“Not entirely sure, Claude. I’m heading straight to Lykeios. You’re welcome to come with, if you like.”
“You, old fellow, have lost your wits,” Claude declared, struggling to keep up with Saef’s pace. “Lost ’em! Don’t you remember there’s a party tonight? You, in your uniform—uniform!—you will be the toast of the town.”
Saef shook his head. “Something’s wrong, Claude. Not sure what, but I’ve got to get home.”
“Something’s wrong? Something’s wrong?” Claude repeated, outraged. “Clearly. You are going to sit about with all your hangdog relatives instead of going to a party with me and dozens of open-minded women…in your uniform! Yes, something is clearly wrong.”
The skimcar, a standard livery job, to Saef’s eyes, idled just ahead, and Saef strode straight to it, his eyes scanning.
“Amazing. Just amazing,” Claude declared. “Why do you even fight all these duels? When the very best part of dueling is the party, and you always miss ’em!”
Saef shook his head and climbed into the skimcar. “I’m a slow learner. Be patient, Claude.”
“Slow learner?”
“Lykeios Manor, if you please,” Saef said to the skimcar.
“You’re not just leaving me in the street here, Saef!” Claude hollered as the skimcar’s door closed. “Saef? Damn it!”
The skimcar purred away, and Saef waved a farewell as Claude yelled after him, “You’re just leaving me in the street! I’m your best friend, you—you…!”
Claude stood watching in disbelief as the car disappeared in the distance before he noticed a demi-cit bystander staring curiously at him. “I’m his best friend,” Claude said by way of explanation, swirling his cloak angrily out behind him. “What a burden!”