Deathstalker Legacy (20 page)

“Why don’t we allow the aliens to have their separate Votes, but only on those matters specifically concerned with alien affairs?” the King said calmly. “Our alien friends will thus acquire valuable experience on how the House works, while allowing the Members to study the aliens’ decisions, and determine how best to further integrate them into our system.”

This was language the House could understand; a compromise that no one liked, but everyone could live with. A solution that allowed progress, without committing anyone to anything. There were a few dark murmurs about the thin edge of the wedge, but they tended to fall quickly silent when the cameras turned in their direction. The MPs quickly voted to allow each alien race their separate Vote (if not an actual Seat) on purely alien matters. It was a good start for the King as Speaker, and everyone knew it. Douglas had shown wisdom, a good grasp of politics, and a willingness to work within the process rather than against it. The whole House seemed to relax a little.

And then Saturday made his race’s maiden speech before the House and spoiled it all. You could practically see the goodwill evaporating as he spoke. Basically, the reptiloid spoke very poetically of his species’ delight in the act of slaughter, complimented Humanity on developing the fascinating concept of war, and finished by assuring the House that the reptiloids would never attack Humanity, because they didn’t fight amateurs.

When he was finally finished, the only sound in the House was the quiet laughter of the Swart Alfair.

 

Finn Durandal had his own private box at the Arenas, right next to the bloody sands, so he wouldn’t miss any of the action. There were huge vidscreens on all sides of the Arena, showing every detail and allowing for repeat shots and slow motion for the best bits, but it wasn’t the same as having it happen right in front of you. Ringside boxes cost a small fortune, but no one had ever asked Finn to pay for his. It was an honor just to have him there. It didn’t surprise Brett Random in the least. To those who have, shall be given. He’d always known that. He sat uncomfortably beside the Durandal as they watched the opening acts warm up the crowd, eating his complimentary peanuts and flicking some at the slower-moving fighters. He’d never understood the appeal of the Arenas. Life was painful and dangerous enough as it was; the whole concept of volunteering to fight, for the thrill of it, was entirely alien to him. And paying good money to watch people suffer and maybe die . . . sometimes Brett thought he was the only sane person left in the Empire. So he watched Finn watch the fighters, and was surprised to realize that the Durandal actually seemed bored, if anything.

“Not enjoying the show?” he said finally, around a mouthful of peanuts.

“Amateur hour,” said Finn. “I swear some of them are faking it with blood bags. They might as well send in some clowns, and have a pie fight. And I hate clowns. What’s funny about violence where no one really gets hurt?”

Brett decided he wasn’t going anywhere near that one. “I suppose your honor only appreciates the skills of the more expert fighters.”

“Skill is always interesting,” said Finn. “But it’s still not what I’d call entertainment. This whole thing is so . . . artificial, when all is said and done. They fight according to rules and regulations, with every protection under the sun, and after it’s all over there are regen machines standing by, to salvage most of the victims. It’s playacting at fighting, with the odds stacked in your favor whether you win or lose. Nothing like the real thing.”

“Then . . . why do you have a box here?”

“Because it’s expected of me. Just one of the many stupid things I have to do, to maintain my popularity. They like to see me here, sharing in their pleasures. It’s all part of the image. Now shut up and pay attention; it’s time for the first match. Time for the Wild Rose of the Arenas to show us what she’s made of.”

Brett looked out over the bloody sands, and saw the opening acts scatter and beat a retreat to the exits as Rose Constantine strode out into the center of the Arena. Clad as always in her trademark, tightly cut red leathers, the color of dried blood from her thighboots to her high collar. Her skin was deathly pale, her bobbed hair was black as night, her eyes were even darker, and her rosebud mouth was a savage crimson. Fully seven feet tall, lithely muscular, full-breasted . . .

Brett thought he’d never seen anyone sexier, or scarier, in his life. And he’d been around. He watched openmouthed as Rose Constantine stalked across the sands with a predator’s deadly grace. She carried her sword casually in her hand, as though it belonged there, as natural as any other part of her body.

The crowd cheered her, but there was none of the warmth or appreciation that Brett would have expected for such a long-standing victor of the bloody sands. The Wild Rose had come to the Arenas at a mere fifteen years of age, a vicious little poppet with an insatiable appetite for combat in all its forms. She’d fight with sword and ax, energy weapons and force shields, in full armor or buck naked, and never once looked like losing. Now, ten years later, she was still undefeated. She’d take on any opponent, no matter how experienced, and once fought in an exhibition match against odds of fifteen to one. She killed them all in under ten minutes. The audience had seen her bleed, but they’d never seen her flinch. Rose was admired, but not adored. As her fame grew, it got harder and harder to find anyone who’d go up against the Wild Rose, no matter how big the prize money. The crowd liked to see expertise, skill matched against skill, or at the very least courage in the face of adversity. All Rose offered was the certainty of a kill. But still they came to see her, the Wild Rose of the Arenas, darkly glamorous, endlessly fascinating. The relentless bloodred angel of death, who appealed to the crowd’s darker, more savage needs.

These days, she fought only in special matches, arranged and advertised well in advance, usually against deadly killer aliens imported by the Arena’s Board from the outlying worlds. All nonsentient, of course, but guaranteed vicious as all hell. And the crowds always came to watch, waiting for the inevitable day when the Wild Rose would finally meet something even nastier than she was. They wanted, needed, to be in at the death. To see the nightmare fighter of the Arena finally brought down. The crowd might have its favorites, but it didn’t like any individual to become more important than it was.

“Any idea who she’s fighting today?” said Brett. “There’s nothing in the program, which I can’t believe they tried to charge me five credits for. It just says: the Wild Rose, in a Special Event.”

“Where have you been hiding yourself?” said Finn. “No, of course; silly question. The Board has been advertising this fight for months. Ticket scalpers have pushed the seat prices through the roof. The greatest match in the history of the Arena, according to the Board, and for once they might just be right. Pay attention, Brett; even the legendary Masked Gladiator never fought anything like this.”

The crowd was chanting impatiently now, but Rose stood cool and calm and utterly collected in the very center of the Arena. She was smiling slightly, looking at nothing in particular. And then the main gates crashed open, and Rose turned unhurriedly to face them, and Rose’s very special opponent strode jerkily out onto the sands. And the crowd went quiet. Brett could practically hear them breathing in unison. The creature stalked slowly forward, orientated solely on Rose Constantine, and she stood there, holding her sword casually, waiting for it to come to her. The vile thing was ten feet tall, wrapped in spiked scarlet armor that was somehow a part of it, almost the same color as Rose’s leathers. Vaguely humanoid, its wide heart-shaped head lacked anything even remotely resembling a human expression. It had steel teeth and claws, and it moved like a killing machine, a nightmare given shape and form and bloody intent in the waking world. And everyone there knew exactly what it was, what it had to be.

“Oh sweet Jesus,” said Brett, leaning forward in his chair despite himself. “Oh Jesus God, it’s a Grendel. Get her out of there. Get her out of there! She’ll be butchered!”

“Control yourself,” said Finn. “This is the Wild Rose. If there’s anyone left in this weak and complacent Empire that could take a Grendel, it’s probably her. The odds are only seven to one against.”

“Where the hell did the Board get their hands on a bloody Grendel?” said Brett, barely listening. “I’ve never seen one outside of the holos. Didn’t think anyone had. They’re supposed to be extinct!”

“No,” said Finn. “There was just the one left; preserved inside a stasis field, in a university museum on Shannon’s World. No access to anyone, except the very highest xenobiologists. But apparently the museum found itself
very
short of funds, and the Board made an incredibly generous offer . . . Even after today’s takings the Board will lose money on the deal, but you can’t buy publicity like this. And of course there’s broadcasting rights, holo tapes . . .”

“This is sick!” Brett said sharply, so angry he actually forgot to be afraid of Finn. “Even the Wild Rose doesn’t stand a chance against a Grendel! This isn’t a duel, it’s a death sentence. It’s murder. The only human ever to have gone one-on-one with a Grendel and survived was the blessed Owen! Look at the bloody thing . . . death on two legs and proud of it. Please God, they’ve got a regen tank standing by . . . and a doctor that likes jigsaw puzzles.”

“Be quiet, Brett,” said Finn. “And lower your voice. You are attracting attention. Sit back, and enjoy the match. Rose is special. A genuine, dyed-in-the-wool psychopath. Very rare, in this sane and civilized era. And just what I need.”

“And if she doesn’t survive?”

“Then she isn’t what I need. Now hush. The curtain’s going up.”

And as suddenly as that, the match was on. The Grendel surged forward, moving impossibly fast, and the Wild Rose went to meet it with a happy smile on her crimson lips. They slammed together, and sparks flew as Rose’s sword clashed harmlessly against the Grendel’s reinforced silicon armor. Its steel claws sliced through the air where Rose’s throat had been a moment earlier, and then the two killers sprang apart again, circling each other slowly. The alien towered over the human, but it would still have been hard to say which of the two looked the more dangerous. Brett was breathing faster already, his heart hammering in his chest. He had no time for the Arenas, but this . . . this was something special. More than just a duel, much more than some arranged match. This was something much more personal. Not human against alien, but monster against monster.

Her long sword flashed forward, and the point dug deep into the Grendel’s momentarily exposed joint. Rose snatched her blade back before the creature could catch it, and the Grendel’s dark ichor spotted the sands. First blood to the Wild Rose, and the crowd went crazy. The Grendel leaped forward, impossibly fast, and Rose couldn’t get out if its way fast enough. A sweep of a clawed hand sent her sprawling, hitting the sands hard, blood flying from her lacerated ribs. Brett winced. The crowd went crazy all over again. They needed to see blood, and they didn’t much care whose. Rose was already back on her feet, circling the Grendel slowly while carefully keeping out of its reach. Blood ran steadily down her heaving side. She was still smiling. Brett studied her pale face, huge and luminous on the giant vidscreen, and saw nothing human in her gaze or in her smile.

He glanced at Finn, sitting easily in his chair, unmoved by the ferocity of the match or the howling crowd, and Brett knew that there were three monsters present at the Arena today.

Rose darted in and out, stabbing at the angles of the Grendel’s joints, the only real weak points in its armored protection, somehow always that little bit too fast for the Grendel to stop her. It was huge and fast and very powerful, but little by little, as the cumulative damage increased and the blood flowed out of it, the Grendel began to slow. Its claws still drew Rose’s blood now and again, but never anywhere vital, never anywhere that mattered; and Rose didn’t give a damn. She was in her element now, doing what she was born to do. The Grendel didn’t even consider giving up or retreating; it had been designed long and long ago to fight and kill, and it knew nothing else. But its attacks were slowing visibly now, and its wide head swung back and forth, as though puzzled by its inability to kill this bloodred phantom that darted forever just outside its reach.

Rose sensed its confusion and moved in for the kill. The crowd was on its feet now, cheering and screaming. Brett was standing too, driven there by the pride in his heart, at the sight of a lone human defying the ancient alien legend of destruction. He shouted and screamed Rose’s name till his throat hurt, all but jumping up and down. Rose went for the Grendel’s throat, and energy beams stabbed out of the Grendel’s eyes, crackling on the air. Rose ducked under them at the last second, following her sword in. One beam clipped the side of her head and set her hair on fire. She ignored it, boring in when the Grendel least expected it, and struck with all her strength at the creature’s exposed throat. Her blade cracked the thin layer of armor and dug deeply in. The Grendel staggered backwards, and Rose went after it. She jerked her sword free and struck again and again, hacking at the throat like a forester with a stubborn tree; and the Grendel fell. It hit the sands hard, its arms waving feebly. Rose stood over it, grinning fiercely, and brought her sword down with all her strength behind it. The blade sheared clean through what was left of the Grendel’s neck, and the heavy head rolled away across the bloody sands, its mouth still working. The headless body kicked and thrashed, but Rose ignored it, calmly beating out the flames in her hair with her bare hand.

Brett dropped back into his seat, limp and exhausted. Finn hadn’t stirred. Brett had to wait a while for his breathing and heart to steady, and then he looked at Finn. “How . . . how was that possible?”

“Easy,” said Finn. “She cheated.”