Plan B (18 page)

Almost, it seemed that Nelirikk might laugh. He pointed toward Val Con's food.

"The explorer," he said, hesitantly, "is unfamiliar with local custom."

"Local custom is that hungry persons may eat. If you dislike what you have, you may have some of mine. There is water here, too, if you'll share the canteen. Or use your own, if you trust the filters."

"Eat," the Yxtrang repeated quietly. He opened the silver packet, discovered the tray and tray mechanism quickly, triggered it, stared again at the label.

"What food is this?"

Val Con glanced at the bright lettering. "Prime salmon. Excellent—though I hope you will not find it necessary for me to share it."

Nelirikk looked up sharply, wariness clearly visible through the facial decorations.

"No?"

Val Con laughed. "The food is good. But on my last mission the God of Quartermasters saw fit to supply my captain and myself with a year's rations of salmon and crackers—and nothing else!"

The Yxtrang sampled the fish carefully. In a moment he was eating with gusto.

"Tell me my death, Scout Commander."

They had finished eating and the small man had passed over the canteen. Together, they had gathered the remains of the food and put them in a recycle box, and now they looked at each other.

"How shall I die?" Nelirikk repeated, the Yxtrang words bittersweet in his mouth.

"I do not know," said the scout quietly, also in Yxtrang. "The orders I have are simply to do what must, of necessity and honor, be done."

"Honor?" The word seemed to hang overlong between them—he had not meant it as a challenge, in truth, but what could a captive-holding troop know of honor?

The Liaden shook his head; shifted on his seat.

"My curiosity and arrogance seem to have caused you much pain. I had never meant for a fellow seeker-of-worlds to suffer—certainly never as you have suffered. So, I seek to balance the evil I brought upon you."

Nelirikk stared, trying to grapple this concept into sense. The scout spoke of
personal
responsibility—
personal
retribution, personal action. The oddness of it made his abused head throb.

"Balance." He tasted the word for connotation—for implication.

He looked at the Liaden, sitting so solemn atop his crate, seeing no trace of humor, or malice, or deceit, or any attitude of attack. No attitude of defense.

Yet—questions of honor with
Liadens
? Those worthless enemies who had no respect, who—treated a man like a soldier, when the Troop had thrown him away.

"Balance," he said once more, and contrived a stiff, seated bow.

"Your ship, Scout Commander."

The green eyes were cutting sharp upon him. "Yes."

"The reason I am here," said Nelirikk, slowly, "is that during the strike on the landing field I showed your ship to the forward controller. A no-troop may not speak unless spoken to—" Nelirikk thought a moment of anger and glanced at the blade, which sat idle as he spoke equitably to an enemy.

"Despite the regulation, I gave warning that your ship was dangerous—that I had seen its like before. I told them to take it out—"

The Liaden had stiffened, face intent.

Nelirikk leaned an elbow on a knee, meeting those sharp eyes with puzzlement and some sadness.

"There is your balance, Scout. Freedom for freedom. For overstepping—for causing a general to seem a fool—I was sent to explore boundaries and map the importance of your ship's defense."

"It seems a balance for generals and units," the scout commented.

"Yes," agreed the Yxtrang. Then, thoughtfully: "Was there a junior officer onboard? Did you lose troops from this?"

"No, thank you. The ship—I could not return in the ferocity of the attack. The ship defended by—reaction."

"I saw it return fire to orbit," Nelirikk said, "but was told that it did not."

The Liaden nodded.

"Fired upon from orbit, it would return fire to orbit. The beam would be weaker, but enough to singe, I warrant."

"So." The Yxtrang's grin was savage. "Seven drop-jets and a strike on the battleship, at least. Your ship did you well, Scout Commander." He paused. "It was a ship to behold."

The Liaden acknowledged this with a sketched salute, smiling wanly.

"Did proper duty," agreed Val Con. "As you did. As I've done." He looked up sharply, waving a thin hand for emphasis.

"Does it strike you as a wasteful—even artificial—equation, Nelirikk Explorer, that doing proper duty tends to result in destruction?"

The question jolted—the more so because he had asked it of himself, as a thinking person must, while he had been explorer, and while he had been no-troop. His answer came a heartbeat later than it should have.

"The Troop survives! The Command survives!"

The Liaden moved his shoulders, expressive of some emotion Nelirikk could not name.

"Very true. Faceless and interchangeable, Command survives. I tell you that I, Val Con yos'Phelium, know about duty. Duty says you and I must fight, eh?" He brushed hair out of his face. "Duty demands that I attempt to kill the closest peer I've met in several Standards. Duty demands blood all too often—in this time, what does it demand of you, Nelirikk?"

It was hard, that answer, but it was in him, blood and bone. Any soldier would have answered the same.

"Duty demands that I call fire on your brave ship, Scout. It demands that I kill you, given the opportunity."

"And then?" the Liaden insisted,
pushing
with mere words! "What demands, after I die?"

"That I escape, back to my unit to—"

"To report and be shot!" shouted the scout.

Nelirikk bent his head in the Liaden way. "I might instead be used as a target for knife practice."

The Liaden looked a bit wild-eyed.

"Do you wish to fight?" he demanded.

"Scout, I must!" Nelirikk looked to the blade.

"Is it true," asked the scout, very calmly, "that two men of equal rank might fight for the higher position?"

"Yes," Nelirikk agreed, wondering at this change in topic.

"And that then, the winner commands the loser?"

"With the concurrence of the next above in the troopline, yes."

"Ah." The Liaden slid abruptly down from his perch, head tipped up to stare into Nelirikk's face.

"I propose," he said, "a contest." He turned his back, walked to one end of the room and back, eyes brilliant. "I propose that we fight—for duty's sake. We will fight as equals—scout to explorer. If you should win, I will take your orders. If I win, I will sponsor you to my captain for admittance to the troop—pledged to me and my line."

Nelirikk sat speechless, staring at the manic little man, who grinned at his stupefaction. Fight a Liaden for troop position? Treat scout equal to explorer? Who would enforce a win? The difficulties. . .

"
Are
you mad?" he asked slowly. "How could you hope to win such a contest? I'm strong, fast, and weapon-wise—"

"Mad?" The scout's grin grew wider. "It is madness to waste resources. It is madness to give in to the faceless. I will represent you—Nelirikk Explorer—to my captain—should I win. I swear it by Tree and Dragon! If you win—"

"If I win, Scout, you will likely be dead!"

The little man came forward, stopping just within Nelirikk's reach, face and eyes gone child-solemn. "Would you really waste so valuable a resource?"

Nelirikk stared, put his hand on the troop blade—and took it away again.

"I hope I do not waste resources," he said. "But where will you find a neutral here to serve as referee? How could we break?"

The scout waved a hand airily. "Technicality," he said. "Mere technicality. Do you agree in principle? If so, we will be able to devise details."

Nelirikk sighed, then slowly stood.

"It is better to do something than nothing. I know that you won't feed an enemy forever." He bowed, stiffly, but with good intent. "For duty and for balance. May you be strong for the Troop."

The Liaden returned the bow with fluid grace, then brought his fist to his shoulder in a proper salute.

"As you say," he agreed, and climbed back atop his crate. "Let us now consider technicalities."

Together, they pushed the storage crates in front of the door. On them went: a rifle, a pack, a long-knife, boots, another pair of boots, several more knives—including one sheathed in fine black suede, the handle of which gleamed like polished obsidian.

They stood, toe-to-toe and barefoot, scout and explorer.

The Yxtrang looked down on his toy-like opponent, a line from a camp-song echoing briefly in his head:

A soldier's opponent is more than might—

Little Jela was a demon to fight. . .

For clarity they went over the agreement, first the Liaden and then the Yxtrang, each speaking in the other's language to be sure there was no difficulty in translation.

"Thus shall it be," came the Liaden words from the Yxtrang: "should I prevail in this contest, I shall pursue my duty as I see it, you subordinate. Should the win be yours, I shall pledge myself and my services to you and your line until released."

"The win," said the Liaden in Troop tongue, "goes to the first able to count three on a vulnerable opponent; the loser yielding at once."

They backed away, then, each looking the room over, perhaps measuring the luck of this or that corner, or seeking an advantage of light, or filling their mind with a last living vision, each already distant from the world.

The timer on Val Con's watch beeped.

He moved forward slowly, accepting both the necessity for motion—from the L'apeleka stance,
Desiring Difficult Desires
—and the need for caution.

From the other side of the large room came the Yxtrang. The face behind the tattoos had gone distant: intention hidden deep within the eyes while the huge body came forward gently, gracefully, inevitably. Val Con noticed that the Yxtrang's feet, like his hands, seemed disproportionately delicate.

L'apeleka demanded the right elbow forward now; the Yxtrang answered by crouching a shade lower. Val Con pulled the arm in, saw his opponent's shoulder rise in proper reaction.

They were beginning the dance with caution: both testing responses or lack of, until at once they were in and close, arms in motion, knives the honest threat. Could-be threats were of this, that, or the other throw or kick, a punch hidden behind the placement of elbow or flick of wrist.

Nelirikk feinted, saw the feint ignored, the threat parried before execution.

Val Con's Loop evaluated the situation: a clear 43 percent Chance of Mission Success.

The Loop flicked away, lost in the sudden hugeness of the explorer, looming above, knife held so—

Val Con ducked, twisted—heard the hum of blade passing over—close to his ear, saw the big man recover a trifle slowly, used the heartbeat to barely touch an ankle with the blade—

And was past and behind, where he needed to be, but the foot placement warned him and he whirled away just ahead of the kick, Nelirikk grimacing with the effort it cost him to keep balanced.

The wall was barely an arm's length from Val Con, forcing him to dart in close again. He found the move in L'apeleka:
The Blizzard Swirls
.

Hands, arms, legs, knees, feet blurred with the sequence—he got a kick in on a solid thigh, a knifeless punch high on a shoulder—and tried to dance away—too late!

The answering blow caught his shoulder, he spun with it, tumbled, whipped around to find the Yxtrang in full charge, leapt, kicked solidly at the face—and caught the ear as the other's knife slashed his tough combat leather leggings.

Disengage.

The room was silent but for their breathing, and they backed away, each searching for signs of damage. The Yxtrang's ankle had a small spot of blood; his ear was dark red. Val Con felt a slight sting; shrugged it out of consciousness—damage to his right leg was minor—no more than a scratch.

Nelirikk adjusted his belt with a quick hand.

Val Con tried to move in; was held off by the other's long reach. He moved left; found himself faced. Right—and again the move was there, checking him, boxing him, trying—

Nelirikk was trying to get him into a corner, arms low and spread.

Val Con feinted right, feinted left, went straight in for half-a-step, then dove for the right arm, blade nipping out as he tucked—rolled—and felt the force of the blow on the floor behind him, gained his feet and whirled in time to see the Yxtrang's blade bounce, once.

He was too slow: the knife was recovered.

Both were sweating now; the floor was slick with it and with dripped blood, making a slip or misstep all too likely.

As if by common consent they moved downroom to a drier patch of floor. It seemed neither wished to be on the right side of uncertain footing.

CMS flashed behind Val Con's eyes: 41 percent.

He grimaced, and the Yxtrang started moving in, perhaps taking it as a sign of despair.

Val Con drew back as if to throw the blade; Nelirikk glided casually away, adjusting his belt as he came back again, hands protecting face but leaving shoulders and thighs vulnerable. Val Con glanced at the unbladed hand—empty.

Three seconds! How many times had they already threatened each other with—

Val Con tried again to close; was fended away. Nelirikk lunged, Val Con twisted, avoided, skidded on dampness—snatched a moment to recover his balance.

A moment was too long—a heavy arm swung out, slamming him off his feet and into the wall. He bounced, rolled and came up, knife in hand, shoulder aching, but unbroken. There was blood on the floor from his leg.

This time he feinted a slip as the Yxtrang closed; wrapped himself around that massive knife arm and punched his blade into the upper shoulder.

Nelirikk grunted, shook—and Val Con was airborne again, flung loose like a hound from a bear. He came up and around as his opponent tossed his knife to the undamaged left hand and charged.

Val Con gave ground, saw the trap—

Nelirikk slipped on a smear of blood—and Val Con raced by, elbow lifting to fend off the descending blade—which was sharp, gods; a proper soldier's knife, fit for slashing leather, flesh, bone . . . The blood was quick. Hot.