Korval's Game (18 page)

“Certainly.” He grinned at her. “As many as you like.”

“Good.” She nodded, keeping to Benish. “Your intentions with this soldier are? I see no worry, here.” She touched a finger to her temple. “Tell me the plan.”

“Yes. This man is a treasure, cha’trez. It is imperative that we do not waste him.”

“Hmm. But he talks like he thinks he’s got no worth—talks like maybe he’ll cut his own throat.”

Val Con stiffened. “Miri. How do you know what he said?”

She jabbed a finger at the monitor. “Heard him.”

“Yes,” he said carefully. “But when he said those things, he was speaking Yxtrang.”

“Yx—” Her eyes widened, finger rising once more to touch her temple. “You speak Yxtrang,” she said, very carefully. “I don’t speak Yxtrang.”

“Not,” he agreed with matching care, “so far as I know.”

“Shit.” She lapsed back into Terran. “Tell you what, boss: we gotta figure this thing out before somebody gets killed.”

He flicked a glance at the monitor.

“Yeah, yeah. Necessity and all that. What’s the backup? You want me in there, too?”

He heard the flat note of fear in her voice and in the internal song and reached to touch her cheek, scandalized old women be damned. “I may need to call upon you, cha’trez, my Captain. But at this moment, if you permit, Nelirikk and I have certain philosophies to discuss.” He smiled and lay his finger lightly on her lips. “It will be well, Miri.”

“You keep
saying
that,” she complained, around the concern he felt almost as his own. “Just don’t get yourself killed, OK?”

“OK,” he said. The door cycled open and he stepped back into prison.

***

Putting the knife
right soothed—and gave him time to think, to measure his weaknesses and his strengths.

The rifle . . . Nelirikk nearly spat.

Given a decent kit it could be restored; but he lacked the kit. He might also construct a small bomb from the components that still functioned, if he had time. He doubted the scout would be gone for more time than was required for the knife, and there was certainly someone monitoring the small scanner in the ceiling-corner.

A bomb, therefore, would be useless both as a surprise and as a vehicle for escape, given the solid masonry all about.

The knife-edge was superb now, for the stone was of excellent quality. These were the sorts of things one looted for on a Liaden world: the little things that worked better or were more elegant.

It was odd that beings which the Command taught were merely vermin should have the way of making such fine things, Nelirikk thought suddenly. Similar objects, made by Yxtrang hands, tended to be serviceable, but uninspired.

And an enemy had freely given this stone, that he might bring his blade to an honorable edge!

An edge that could now easily pass entirely through something as thin and fragile as the scout.

Alas, throwing such a bulky blade would be inexact at best, and it was folly to suppose the scout could thus be taken by surprise. Worse, the scout carried a personal weapon that sliced gun-steel like cheese. What it might do to flesh and bone—

He thought about that.

It might be possible to goad the Scout Commander into using the crystal blade. It might be possible, after all, to die a hero’s death, with no Yxtrang ever knowing that Nelirikk No-Troop had failed yet again, that—

There was anger.

Nelirikk explored it, for anger sullies thinking.

When he thought of the scout, there was anger, distant and indistinct, as if a cloudy remnant of those years of intensely focused pain hung between them, obscuring what might be truth.

When he thought of the rifle—

His heartbeat spiked, and he very nearly brought the blade to his own throat as the shame of being given a useless weapon broke across him.

Stupid. As always. With an effort, he calmed his thoughts and considered the blade and the scout anew.

What did he know of Liadens, in truth? That they were people—sentient and self-aware—must be clear to the dullest of the Troop, no matter the Command’s teachings. As
people
, then, following custom and system of their own devising . . . Was it conceivable that Liadens practiced some alien honor? Was it possible that this one left his enemy specifically alone, granting him honorable opportunity? The knife was very sharp: three rapid motions would solve many problems.

Nelirikk hefted the blade; sheathed it with a sigh. After a moment, he drew his grace blade from its snug boot top and used the whetstone on it.

Tending the blade was soothing. Perhaps the scout found it so, as well.

***

“I see you, Explorer.”

Nelirikk looked up from his task, eyes narrow on the bag the little man carried.

“I see you, Scout.”

Val Con nodded and resumed his former perch, settling the bag firmly in his lap. The Loop was disturbingly before his mind’s eye, elucidating a 27 percent likelihood of an immediate attack, and an even more disturbing refusal to project an ultimate Chance of Mission Success or Chance of Personal Survival.

Light glinted from the blade Nelirikk was sharpening—a fine thing, as like the larger blade as a screwdriver was to the Clutch knife he wore in his sleeve.

He rummaged in the bag and tossed a food pack lightly toward the Yxtrang, who snatched it and the next comfortably out of the air, and sat holding them in his hand.

“Food?”

“Food,” Val Con agreed. “Commander Carmody believes a soldier should be permitted to eat.”

Cautiously, Nelirikk bent and returned his knife to its boot-sheath, expression unreadable behind the tattoos.

“Do eat,” urged Val Con. “I suspect they may be better than the rations you were issued.”

Nelirikk frowned at the Terran-lettered labels.

“You would eat this?”

Val Con laughed.

“It is not nearly as delicious as the rabbit one snares oneself, I admit. But the mercenaries buy their own food—surely they would not poison themselves. Most certainly not Commander Carmody, who gives this from his own day-kit.”

He used his duty blade to open a ration pack while the Yxtrang sat watching.

“Shall we trade?” Val Con murmured, triggering the tiny heating element. “Are you concerned for the quality?”

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.”