Korval's Game (17 page)

The Yxtrang stiffened, anticipating the pain as the blade sliced between his left arm and side, neatly parting the ropes.

“I am currently attached to the local defense force,” the scout said in conversational Trade, as he moved south relative to the position of the Yxtrang’s head. “A military necessity, as I am sure you understand. My name is Val Con yos’Phelium, Clan Korval, and I hold the rank of Scout Commander.”

The knife flashed again, parting the ankle ropes. The scout nodded and jumped back to the top of his crate, folding his legs neatly under him.

“You are?” he asked in quiet Terran.

The Yxtrang lay unmoving, considering the knife, the scout’s smallness, his own reach and the distance that lay between them.

“Your name and rank, sir?” The Liaden persisted, this time in Trade.

Cautiously he moved his legs, flexed arm and chest muscles against the loose bindings.

The scout sighed. “Conversation consists of dialog,” he remarked in High Liaden and tipped his head to the left. “The request in your own language seems unnecessarily abrupt, though perhaps I judge it wrongly.” He straightened.

“Name, rank, and troop!”

The Yxtrang snorted and sat up, putting his eyes on a level with the Liaden’s. “Your accent stinks like a charnel-house.”

“As well it might,” the scout said calmly. “I meet very few people native to the tongue who are willing to converse with me. Your name and rank? No?” He reached behind and hauled a battered pack onto his lap.

“I find here that you are attached to the 14th Conquest Corps.”

He said nothing and after a moment the scout worked the pack’s fastening and rooted about inside, head and shoulders all but vanishing. He emerged eventually, held out the bulky Security-issue blade, and cocked an eyebrow.

“The 14th Conquest Corps equips troops shabbily, don’t you think?” He waved it away, thinking of his own knife, that rode in his boot-top, that they had never taken from him, that had an edge to cut hullplate and—

“A knife is a knife, after all,” the scout insisted. “I admit this one has seen ill days, but a few minutes’ work will put it right. And it is surely of a size more fitting to yourself, Explorer, than to me.” A moment passed . . . two.

“Take the damn thing!” the Liaden shouted in Troop tongue and thrust the knife forward.

Hounded, he took it, stared at it, and lay it down beside him. He should unsheathe it, he knew, and use the dull blade to skewer or to bludgeon the scout. It was his duty to report back to the Troop, to—

The scout was offering the whetstone.

“Your blade,” he said, “needs care, Explorer.”

“I am not an explorer!” That came out a proper roar, lancing his head with pain.

The little scout didn’t flinch. “No? And yet I first found you behaving in a very scout-like manner, piloting a single-ship and making very curious studies. Surely you were an explorer then, at least?”

“No longer.” The snarl startled stars across his back-eyes, and he winced, unsoldierly.

“You have been given medical attention,” the scout murmured, “though it was predicted that your head would ache for a time after you woke.”

“Medical attention? Why?” He leaned forward, shouting into the small, bland face. “Scout, are you mad? I am Yxtrang! You are Liaden! We are enemies, do you recall it? We are made to hunt and kill you!” He sat back, away from the face that neither flinched nor crumbled in terror.

“Occasionally,” he continued, more quietly, “you kill us. But it is not done that you hit your enemy over the head with a rock and then call the medic to repair his wound.”

“I did not hit you over the head with a rock, Explorer—”

“I am not an explorer!
Look
at me! Captured!
Captured like a cow for slaughter
! Twice to fall alive into Liaden hands! I am a failure, a weakness, and a shame! Rightly I am Nelirikk No-Troop!”

“Catch!” The command was Troop tongue. His hand flashed out—and he discovered he held the whetstone.

“What shall I do, Scout Commander?” he inquired with heavy sarcasm, “sharpen this blade so you may cut my throat? Or should I cut my own? That—”

“Would be a waste of talent,” interrupted the scout. “I have contempt for the 14th Conquest Corps, who put their insignia on such equipment as they give you—explorer, no-troop or common soldier!” He hurled the pack off his lap. Nelirikk caught it as it struck his chest.

“A canteen with worn filters, a knife so dull it’s more bludgeon than blade—yes, you still have the one in your boot, and I see you cared for it—out-of-date ration packs, half-nibbled by mice; a fire-starter in danger of burning out on next use—”

“Surely, Commander,” Nelirikk said with sudden weariness, “you know how it is to equip the expendables?”

There was a small silence. “Are explorers expendable, then?” the scout asked softly. “Are they so little valued that they might be sent out all but weaponless to chase bears in our park, with never a thought to the waste, should the bear prove superior today?”

“Explorers are not. No-Troops are.”

“Ah.” The scout sat quiet for a moment, as did Nelirikk, who wished he might lay back down and go to sleep against the pounding misery in his head.

“Here,” the scout said abruptly; “this is also yours.”

He opened his eyes and stared at the rifle in dawning horror.

“You’re not going to let me go!”

“Take the rifle,” the scout commanded. “It’s heavy!”

He grabbed and sat holding the thing in one hand while he stared at the Liaden.

“I would not advise attempting to fire it,” the little man said conversationally. “I am not certain if the firing mechanism or the chamber will go first. If the pin goes, of course, you are simply disappointed when you pull the trigger. But if the chamber blows, Explorer, I suspect you will be either blind or dead.”

“Scout,” he said, very carefully, “you are aware that I can smash you to jelly with this rifle, whether it is in condition to fire or not?”

“Certainly. But, before you do, there is another defect I would like to point out.” The scout came to his feet upon the packing crate, and there was a sudden crystal gleam in his left hand, a flash and a pressure on the rifle—which had abruptly lost four inches of barrel.

Nelirikk looked at the severed segment, and then at the crystal knife in the scout’s hand.

“I note this further defect,” he said. “It is one I might not have discovered until it could not be remedied.”

The scout nodded, crystal blade vanishing as he resumed his seat. “Precisely. Like the canteen, if you had come across bad water.”

He snorted. “I am not going to drink bad water, Scout.”

“No. You’ll not die of bad water.”

“What will I die of?” Nelirikk looked directly at his tiny enemy. “Answer me, Scout Commander—will you give me the honor of a firing squad? It is more than a no-troop deserves.”

“Yes,” said the scout softly. “I know.”

There was another silence, then the scout spoke again. “But what befell you? Explorer to no-troop . . .”

“What befell me?
You
befell me! What else should happen to a soldier who survived the dishonor of capture?” Nelirikk rubbed the back of his neck, trying to finger away the worst of the headache.

“Security recommended execution. But the Command supposed I might yet have knowledge useful to the Troop, coward though I am.” He looked back at the scout, sitting so attentive atop his crate.

“Ten dutiless Cycles, of eating after the
soldiers
had their fill, of speaking when spoken to, of being the loser’s prize in games of skill between the captains! Ten cycles of scut-work and kicks and being banned from the piloting chambers—because you befell me! You should have cut my throat ten Cycles ago, Liaden. Be a soldier and do it now.”

The scout was staring at him, wonder on his smooth-skinned face. “You
reported
,” he breathed, so softly he might have been speaking to himself, except the words were Yxtrang, as was the shout that followed: “Gods damn you for a fool, man! Whatever prompted you to
report
it?”

Nelirikk stiffened. “What else should a soldier do?”

“Who am I to know what a soldier will do? But an explorer will use his brain and look first to his duty.”

“You,” Nelirikk suggested, with wide irony, “did not report.”

“And be planet-bound for years, while my head was drained of every nuance of our encounter, and my abilities languished? I was trained as an explorer and discoverer of worlds—to do less than that work was to fail in my duty to my teachers.”

The anger hit all at once—he saw it reflected in a sudden widening of the scout’s bright eyes. The waste of it! The years of shame might never have been! He might have advanced the Troop to a dozen new worlds. He might have—

He took a breath and brought the scout back into focus, noting with something akin to approval the soldierly way in which the Liaden sat his post, eyes wary and hands ready—much good it might do him against Nelirikk’s bulk and strength.

“You have endangered your teachers and your people,” he said, “by failing to report. How if they settle that world we found together, while some of the Troop do the same?”

“My report indicated that I had identified at least one example of a potentially sapient race,” the scout said; “and recommended the planet be studied again in a generation.”

“You know that planet, Scout! There were no more sapient . . .” Nelirikk choked suddenly as the phrasing overtook him; gasped, “Me?”

“You,” said the scout calmly. “I never considered but that you would do the same.”

“Then that is the difference between us,” Nelirikk said heavily. “For I only thought to do my duty, and report everything to the Troop.” He looked up. “Kill me, Scout Commander.”

The scout shook his head and the wild brown hair fell into his eyes. “As to that,” he said. “I must speak with my captain and receive further orders.” He unfolded his legs and dropped to the floor, soundless and graceful as a squirrel, passing just beyond Nelirikk’s reach on his way to the door.

“Care for your blade, do,” he said as he touched the button set into the door. “I will speak with my captain and return.”

The door opened and the scout slipped through, leaving Nelirikk alone with his weapons.

***

The door rolled closed
behind him, amber overhead glowing bright.

“Sealed,” said the guard, and voices broke all around him, sudden and bewildering as a hailstorm.

In Liaden: Erob and tel’Vosti.

In Terran: Jason.

Variously:

“Well, what’d he say?”

“Is the information useful?”

“Are they going to attack through the park?”

“Well done, well done, excellent!”

“Shall we dispose of it now?”

Val Con gulped air, got his mental feet under him with wrenching effort and ran the Rainbow. He sorted the crowd and found Miri, silent and serious by the monitor, touched the song of her within his head and smiled into her eyes before glaring at the noisy rest and waving a hand for silence.

It came instantly, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“The project requires time,” he said in Trade, to avoid having to say it again. “Circumstances exist.” He glanced over Erob’s head to the towering Aus.

“Commander Carmody, have you plans regarding the upkeep of your prisoner?”

Jason laughed. “Upkeep? That’s two steps ahead of me, son—I just thought you might get something useful out of him!”

“So I may,” Val Con said. “However, he has not been well-cared-for by his troop of late. If I might—”

“Hell, bet he’s hungry as a freeze-toad at ice-out! Boy that size’s gotta eat as much as I do. Here . . .” He slapped a leg pocket; pulled out four ration-packs and tossed them over. After a moment, he unsnapped his canteen and held it out. “Best believe
these
filters are good.”

Val Con bowed and heard Erob catch her breath, no doubt scandalized that one of Korval should acknowledge so deep a debt to a mere Terran. “My thanks, Commander. Shall I need to obtain your permission regarding any steps I might find it necessary—”

Jase waved a hand. “Do what needs done. You’re a scout, ain’t you?”

“Indeed,” said Val Con softly; “I am a scout.” He turned to Erob, amused to find tel’Vosti’s arm firmly through his delm’s, fingers curled unobtrusively around her wrist.

“Erob.” He gave her full measure in the bow, made the sign of an equal requesting favor with his unladen hand.

“I see you, Korval.”

“This prisoner was taken upon your lands. He is housed within your prison and lives at your pleasure. In recognition of these things, I request that I be allowed to deal with him—with this person Nelirikk—as my melant’i and the necessities of Korval dictate.” He straightened and looked her full in the face. “On Jelaza Kazone.”

Breath hissed out of her and tel’Vosti’s fingers tightened about her wrist. “I require a fuller accounting of Korval’s necessities,” she said, as was her right in this.

Val Con bowed again. “I have former acquaintance with this Nelirikk. We met many years ago, when he was explorer and I scout captain. At that time, I dealt—inadequately—with him, and now wish to honorably correct an error in judgment.”

“Honor? With that?” She flicked a glance at the monitor, which showed Nelirikk seated upon his makeshift cot, stoically sharpening the larger knife. “It is an animal, Korval.”

Val Con sighed. “Erob, he is a man.”

“And you would attempt Balance with it.” She stared at him, at Jason, back at the Yxtrang. “So you feed it and allow it to sharpen its weapon. You think yourself able to take it, I assume. Mad your line and house may be, but I never heard that you were suicides.”

He bowed ironically. “I am to take this as your agreement to uphold my necessities regarding this man?”

She was quiet a time longer, staring at the monitor until tel’Vosti shifted at her side. Her permission, when it came, was resigned. “Deal as you must, Korval. You will, in any case.”

“My thanks, Erob. Korval is in your debt.”

He turned back toward the door, rations and canteen in hand; saw Miri lounging by the monitor. “Hey, Cory,” she said in Benish, which only they two among those assembled spoke. “You have a minute to talk?”