Insistence of Vision (21 page)

“Roger, Porcorosso Control. I am nulling engines and activating internal dampers.” Doni scanned the readouts. Inner-hull integrity looked good enough to shield passengers, cargo and electronics, when the docking fields clamped down.

“Very good, Shuttle Three. We’ll take over now. Welcome home.”

You weren’t supposed to feel anything, inside the perfect Faraday Cage of hull shielding. But Doni knew the very instant that a
hand
sculpted out of coherently tuned magnetic monofields converged to grab the little ship, both gently and implacably insistent. A queer vibration seemed to claw at the back of his throat, much like the
mutter
that he sometimes detected coming from a Coss.

Especially when one of them felt equally... insistent.

He turned and glanced back at Lady Kopok, who now sat blithely content, emitting no mutter at all, but viewing her domain with the apparent pleasure of a true owner.

I sure hope they have the place spic and span,
Doni thought.
The cadets and instructors had plenty of warning.
Of course, nothing would suffice. But the headmistress was also fair. With any luck, only a week or so of hellish fault-finding lay in store, before the Academy settled back into hellish routine.

But you wanted this,
he reminded himself.
You wanted it real bad
.

The main asteroid loomed ahead, laced with tunnels and studded with window lights, linked by a tensegrity circlet of cables and girders to the great tether, as well as a dozen outlying rocks. Dead ahead, a dock-cavity opened for Doni’s shuttle, blast doors separating so that only a shimmering force screen kept atmosphere within, a barrier that ships and boats normally passed through, with nary a sign. Though again, Doni had to clench his teeth, enduring a brief tremor until they were well inside.

As the little craft neared slip number three, a double honor guard of cadets were already lining up to welcome home the headmistress. But glancing left, Doni noticed that another spaceship had taken moorings – a little courier lug, designed for use only within the Belt. Several valves hissed visible trails of condensing vapor, a sign of recent arrival, probably no more than half an hour ago. From an open cargo port, three elepents were unloading boxes that looked surprisingly familiar.

“Milady,” he said to the headmistress. “Those crates. The ones for Compassionate Beneficence...”

It wasn’t always wise to break into a Coss train of thought. But Doni knew no better way to maintain Kopok’s trust than by staying useful to her. The matron glanced in the direction indicated, and let out a small snort.

“So, the dockmaster wanted to ensure no hard feelings. Remind me to send him a small gift, Doni.”

“Yes Maam.”

“And see to it that a crew loads all that stuff onto an elepent sledge, for shipment to the gulag. I don’t want it clogging the dock.”

“Aye aye.” Doni had already risen from the pilot station. Soon he had the hatch safetied, ready for opening. Through solid metal, he could hear the Academy’s small band strike up the school anthem. He turned, checked Lady Kopok’s gown for any lint or faulty folds that might cause embarrassment, then took his place behind, carrying her purse, briefcase and travel bag.

“Thank you for your hard work on this voyage, Doni,” the great lady murmured softly, taking a glance his way as he blinked back at her in surprise. “All complaints were minor,” she added. Perhaps the strongest praise he ever recalled hearing from the lips of a high-ranking Coss.

Only a low hum seemed to emanate from the matron as she then lifted a white hand and gave a languid turn, blithely ordering the hatch to
open
.

And, of course, it did.

ᚖ

“Have at you!”

A spray of sparks leaped from his blade, where it glanced off Puryear’s buckler, barely missing a two pointer on the upperclassman’s arm. Doni tried to slide his edge up and over, but found his way blocked by the mini-shield on his opponent’s shoulder. The other fellow was just too tall. Half a second later Doni leaped backward, dodging a savage counter-thrust.

Every point of contact crackled with ionization, emitting brilliant, evanescent motes and flashes – especially when Puryear’s shimmering zord beat down against Doni’s with harsh electrical impacts – forcing him to retreat. Nose filters alone couldn’t stanch the bitter tang of ozone. It made a dangerous taste in the mouth. One that soaked in through the sinuses, like death.

Of course there were safeguards. Limitations to the bodily damage that a cadet could suffer in practice. Still, there was a sense of deadly earnest that went beyond the pain of electric shocks and the shame of losing. Because someday –

He pounced toward an opening before completing that thought, then drew back from the trap, leaping as Puryear’s blade slashed where his ankles had been.

Because someday... soon... I’ll face real duels.

In the officer caste – especially the lower portions that were open to human beings – you had to be ready to fight and die over matters of dignity and reputation – part of the Coss policy of a
Return to Honor.
It helped Doni to focus during practice, knowing that soon this sort of thing could be deadly real.

After graduation
.

Noisy cavitation waves boomed and seemed to ripple the air, every time their blades touched. A flurry of rapid exchanges – slashing attacks, parries and ripostes – sent reverberations bouncing off the walls of the Porcorosson practice arena. Doni blocked Puryear’s thrust
en quatre,
then tried to turn each blade around the other, catching the other boy’s weapon in a bind. A good move, but it depended on raw power and Doni just didn’t have enough brute force. He couldn’t press the advantage against a bigger cadet. As they locked together, grunting, embers of glittering oxygen flew between them, like angry gnats, to sting their exposed throats.

His opponent countered, using the advantage of strength to shove both glowing weapons toward Doni’s face. Doni had no choice but to interpose his left arm, deflecting the slender wands of glowing metal with his buckler-shield, a disk of armor no wider than his head. Sparks flew, briefly dazzling him and prickling his exposed cheek, raising dozens of micro-welts that would itch painfully, for days to come.

“Give up?” The senior asked, in a voice that clearly expected no answer. Taunting was allowed; surrender was no option.

Gathering his strength – augmented by the recent visit to Earth – Doni yanked away, managing to hop backward...

...though, as he escaped, one of the blades took a glancing stroke along his right thigh. Ionization pain tore through Doni’s leg, almost buckling the knee, feeling all-too genuine.

“Two points,” the computer referee announced, even though nobody cared about the score. Only who would be left standing, and who would spend the night unconscious, in a Recovery Room gel bath.

To make matters worse, the active training garment stiffened suddenly, limiting his movements, simulating the disadvantage of a real wound.

No choice. I’ve got to end this quick. One way or the other
.

Before Puryear could notice this shift in advantage, Doni launched a series of overhead saber cuts toward the taller boy’s scalp, forcing him to retreat a little, while blocking high. But there was no worry on the senior’s face. In fact, a smile started to spread. After all, flamboyance was his forté. Nobody could match Puryear at hacking and slashing. Soon, he was moving off the defensive. Each exchange of cut and counter was taking place a little farther from his head and closer to Doni’s, than the one before. At this rate, with one fencer barely able to walk, there would be no escape. And when that glowing blade reached its inevitable destination, Doni knew what kind of brief agony to expect, before blackness.

Still he had one chance. Puryear was enjoying himself too much. His saber cuts were getting a bit broad, like those you might see in some action movie. And no surprise there. The Coss
loved
old two-dee flicks from the 20th and 21st Centuries. These very
zords
– slender metalloids that glowed and hummed, then crackled as they clashed – were inspired by images from that golden time of heroic fantasy, before the Coss arrived. An era when
choreography
ruled and practical fencing had almost become a lost art.

Just hold on...
Doni told himself, concentrating as a back and forth clanging of blades seemed to split the very air, obscuring it with fireworks.

That’s right.
Puryear’s weakness lay in his tendency toward gloating. He was adding little flourishes to each attack, relishing a powerful rush of superiority that arose naturally from the saber, more than any other weapon. A sense of dominance.

While Doni knew a hard truth.

The era of human lords is no more. Even if we become officers under the Coss, our role won’t be to lead.

It is to entertain.

And, when convenient...

...to die.

There had been several brief openings, but he made himself wait, letting his opponent bear down, pounding on him harder and closer with every broad slash. Instinct begged Doni to answer every stroke with something just as potent and dashing, but he concentrated on doing the absolute minimum, deflecting a blow and then parrying, getting through each exchange with one rule in mind.

Don’t slash. Don’t hack. As much as possible, keep the zord tip aimed at your opponent, as if held by an elastic cord. Let him think you’re conserving your last strength, when the real reason...

Doni could tell when Puryear began playing his end game for the audience. Of course, a lot of other cadets were tuned in, watching either from their dorm rooms or the gallery above, beyond the mirrored ceiling.

More sparks flew, but the blows were more glancing, the closer Doni allowed them to come. In response, Puryear started hitting harder, taking a longer windup before each whirling slash. Surely some of those watching right now must be Coss – rumor had it they tuned in from around the solar system – during the best student duels, laying wagers. If so, with their love of flash, would the odds be overwhelming, now?

What about now?
Doni thought, lowering his guard in a show of exhaustion that was only half-feigned, right after Puryear’s zord swung past his head. Would the other cadet take a guard post, as he had been taught? Reverse momentum to re-engage? Or –

The taller boy grinned and
kept going
, swinging his blade in a gaudy flourish...

...and Doni turned his fingers
so
, rotating his own zord, so that the tip would happen to coincide in space and time with a small part of that flamboyant arc. Occupying that point in rendezvous with Puryear’s wrist.

No sparks leaped from the point of contact. It wasn’t flashy, just a short electric zap that raised a sudden smolder of smoke from Puryear’s glove and a howl from his throat. Doni had to duck fast, as the other boy’s blade flew from his spasmed hand, tumbling colorfully, end over end, before sputtering out near the door.

Puryear slumped to his knees, clutching his right forearm in his left hand. But to his credit, though his body wavered, he did not let go of consciousness. The fellow had guts, even if he gave in too easily to rash decisions. Of course, whichever Coss lord recruited him, those traits would likely be the very thing valued. The aliens were nothing if not good judges of human potential.

“Disabling wound. Match terminated,” said the referee voice. “Is honor satisfied?”

Unseen eyes were watching. Evaluating on so many levels, judging for so many traits. Victory was not the only criterion that decided which Coss livery a cadet would finally wear.

I wonder what kind will recruit me?
Doni mused.
I won’t be amusing, I’m … efficient.
Well, reliability had its virtues, perhaps on some lord’s boring security detail. Years of standing guard.

Puryear knew about the watching, evaluating eyes, clearly. The tall boy struggled to straighten up, overcoming pain and nodding, even though he could not speak. At which point, Doni hurried next to him, taking the fellow’s weight upon one shoulder. And together they left the clean modernized arena, passing out of view from any audience, shambling into portions of Porcorosso that still bore stains from a final battle – the Last Stand of the Cadets who once died here, defending a forlorn Human Federation.

Doni felt the power of his body, tuned and augmented by tech developed by Coss and human savants, trained and disciplined and hardened by the methods of an ancient warrior caste. By any measure, he was twenty times the fighter that any of those boys and girls had been, who died in these halls. And yet, each scar and blaster burn… and occasional, brownish splatter of vacuum-dried blood… reminded him.

They were men… but what am I?

And what loyalty shall I ever have, that compares to what they foolishly died for?

Passing a space-window – a new pane that the Headmistress had brought with her from Earth – he glanced across a glitter of nearby asteroids and faraway stars, knowing that patience had its virtues. That opportunities await those who watch and learn and pay close attention.