Warp World (12 page)

Brawls were not technically part of the game but were expected nonetheless, and usually encouraged.

Today the brawl
was
the game.

Viren’s team, aside from Ama, was composed mostly of those from the gutters of T’ueve. Prow and Ama as ropers; Viren, Keer, Swinson and Rikker as passers; and the square-headed Handlo as goal keeper.

On the other side, Cerd’s players hailed from the prison cells or docks of Alisir. The exuberant Tirnich and his new friend Slopper looked comically out of place next to ex-prisoners Kype, Luds, and Soddig, but Tirnich was by far the best player and Cerd had been quick to enlist him and his younger counterpart. Rounding out Cerd’s team was the perpetually-irascible Wyan Pruitt, who had once called Ama
spawner
before trying to convince her to leave Seg for dead.

One of the older Kenda the men had taken to calling Graybeard had been voted as referee. He had been neither prisoner nor con-man back on their world, and he called Malvid home, which rendered him suitably neutral to both teams.

The game was well underway, the score hovering at even. Most of the goals on Viren’s team had been scored by Swinson, who could toss the ball across a full court and put it through the hoop without so much as grazing the sides.

Ama watched Cerd roll to his feet and survey the field with his good eye. The other eye was almost completely swollen shut. Viren was limping, his arm hanging at his side. His shoulder had been injured, perhaps dislocated, when he had gone down in the latest scrum, but he wasn’t coming off the field just yet.

Ahead of the rest, Wyan took a pass from Tirnich and squared off against a mountain of Keer. Anyone could see there was no contest between the two. Despite the never ending bitterness that fueled Wyan, Keer was at least ten years younger and built like a stone wall. Ama whistled twice, then twice more to urge Prow forward since there was no way Wyan could make it downfield.

Keer barreled downfield. Wyan feinted left, then darted forward, ducked under Keer’s swiping arm and stomped his foot hard, just in front of the ankle. Keer tumbled sideways, grunting in pain as his ankle twisted. Wyan planted a boot on Keer’s back, hopped over him, and slashed forward, hurling the ball.

“Foul! Foul!”

Ama heard the cries from the spectators but had given up waiting for any whistle or referee intervention. Wyan would pay for that move.

Running along the side of the court, rope hanging loose in her left hand, she watched Tirnich toss the ball past Handlo, her team’s goalkeeper, and through the metal hoop.

A loud whistle signaled everyone back to their places. The contingent of those cheering for Cerd’s team took a minute to settle.

“I like him,” Viren said to Cerd, with a nod to Wyan. “Dirty bastard but smart. Wonder why he chose your side?”

“Some prefer winning to looking clever,” Cerd said. He accepted the ball from Tirnich and tossed it back over to Viren. “Your move.”

Viren grunted, passed the ball forward to Swinson, and plowed into Cerd, knocking him flat. The move cost him, as he landed on the injured shoulder, but he used the opportunity to elbow Cerd in the ribs while he was down.

“Sorry, deckie, honest mistake,” he said.

Cerd pushed off the ground and skirted sideways. “My sister hits harder than that.”

Kype rushed toward Swinson like a runaway river barge. Kype was the biggest man on Cerd’s team, a former prisoner of the Secat who bore his three-fingered hand as a badge of honor, a mark that he had never given over to the hated Damiar.

He charged over Swinson without slowing but now Keer loomed in front of him, a much more formidable opponent. Kype tossed the ball to Wyan, who ducked Viren and shot down the field once more.

Ama was ready for Wyan this time. She had lingered at her team’s end of the court just for this reason. She had already tossed her rope to Prow and now it lay flat on the ground. As Wyan approached, she sent up two shrill whistles and they pulled the rope taut. Wyan’s trailing foot caught and he fell to the ground in a flurry of arms and legs.

The ball shot from Wyan’s hand and skittered across the floor as Tirnich pursued it. Wyan rolled out of his crash, wiped off the blood from a split lip on his sleeve and shot Ama an acid stare.

Call me spawner again and see what happens
, she thought, as another whistle went up and the field was reset.

Tirnich was scoring the bulk of the points for Cerd’s team, so Ama kept her eye fixed on him, waiting for a break in the melee to dash between the players. As she hit her mark, Prow threw out; she grabbed the end of his rope and started to circle Tirnich. A moment later Wyan’s elbow smashed into to her cheek. She dropped the rope and went sprawling to the floor.

“Foul!” Viren said.

Ama stood, shook off the blow, dipped her head to one side as if to acquiesce, then leapt forward and tackled her opponent to the ground.

She had only a moment of surprise on her side, but she used it well, driving her fist into Wyan’s face.

Wyan tossed her aside. Shouts erupted from watchers. Ama kicked at Wyan as he tried to run over her. Frustrated, he launched a kick of his own at her midsection. It connected poorly but was enough to give him an opening, and he pounced.

He was on top of her in a breath but Ama hooked her legs around his waist and cinched herself to him. She slipped his punch, grabbed him by the collar with both hands, and snapped her head into his nose. By the torrent of blood that rained on her and Wyan’s sudden howl, she knew she had broken it. She slipped out from under him and stood tall.

This fight ripped down any remaining veneer of sportsmanship and within moments the scene on the court was not much different than a night in the Alisir Port House.

Wyan held his sleeve in an ineffectual effort to stem the tide of blood pouring from his nose. “Nod bad,” he said, as he staggered away from Ama and the improvised field.

There would be no winner, and it was unlikely anyone would care.

Viren and Cerd, as Ama had expected, had given up all pretense of play and were intent on settling the score between them. Thankfully, they were both already banged up and tired enough that neither could do the other any real damage. She collected her rope and staggered off the field. Experience told her these things settled themselves in their own time. For now, she would get a drink of water, wipe the blood from her face, and give her aching shoulder a rest.

She had to admit, though, the brawling and cursing were the perfect remedy for homesickness. And, for a short while, since the game had begun, she had been able to think of something other than Seg.

“I just paid for these people to be medically treated.” Seg groaned. Below him, the players below him crashed into each other. He and Fismar watched the Kenda from an overhead catwalk.

Fismar had found a back route into the warehouse with surprising ease. Manatu had remained outside, on watch, while Fismar led Seg up the ladder to the upper levels, slipping unannounced and undetected onto one of the catwalks high above the floor below. Disappointed by the lack of sentries or barricades, Fismar quietly commented on the matter as they slid into position to watch the group play their game.

“You’ve just started to pay for their patch jobs. Trust me, you run troops and you run med bills.” Fismar kept his voice low. He shrugged and returned his focus to the men, then pointed at Viren. “So, there’s your loudmouth. He’s a natural, you need him on the side of whatever you’re doing.”

“He’s an irresponsible scoundrel. I didn’t want him here,” Seg said.

“He’s a natural. You want him,” Fismar repeated. “Trust me on this; this is my business. Going to have to split him up from his buddy with the big chin, though.”

“Prow, that’s what he’s called,” Seg said. “A card cheat, among other dubious talents.”

“Prow, gotcha. Always separate the troublemakers, never forget that.” Fismar shifted his finger to Viren’s opponent, “That one there, he picked up a bit during decon. Cerd Jind, he’s the one who follows rules because they’re rules. Not my type exactly, but there’s a place for guys like that. Just need to file off the too-good edge.”

Seg studied the muscular man, his coiled drexla tattoo highlighted by the sheen of sweat on his back. “He’s not the sort I’d characterize as
too-good
, honestly.”

“Trust me, I know this business, Theorist. As for rules, the rest of the World may run on ortho, but we fight to win. The ones who are worth a karg, anyway. So there’s rules, and there’s rules of how it works. You follow the rules that work and karg the rest.”

Seg winced as one of the larger players was taken down by a dirty play from a stringy, angry looking little man.

“I like him.” Fismar nodded. “Wyan, I think it was, from the prison. Yep, him I like. Him I can do things with. He fights to win.”

“Should we stop this before someone is killed?”

“Probably ain’t gonna kill anybody. Sure, you’re going to have to bring your med back after this is over, but I’ll work them harder than this.”

Seg despised the thought of calling on that gutter scraper medical Elarn again. But what options did he have? He needed someone who would travel to Old Town to work on a group of rowdy, ungrafted Outers, and keep his mouth shut about it. For as little money as possible. No respectable medical would even consider such an offer; most would immediately report him just for making it.

As Ama took down Wyan, Fismar nodded again. “Her. She’s rough around the edges, but she’s good. ’Course, she was at the Temple. We know what she can do.”

“Yes.” A smile spread, unbidden, on Seg’s face. “I do.”

“Mind on the job, Theorist.”

“What?” Seg turned toward Fismar. “I wasn’t—”

Fismar elbowed him. “Joking, joking. I don’t give a karg if you like her for real. I never gave a damn about ortho anyway. I mean, it’s kinda weird, but whatever does it for you.”

Seg’s mouth worked as he considered, then withheld, a retort.

“Ama won’t be staying with the men, anyhow. She’s coming to live with me.”

Fismar cocked his head. “That a smart idea?”

“What do you mean?” Seg’s shoulders rose, his muscles tensed.

“She going to be your caj?”

“No.” Fismar made no response, but in his eyes, Seg read disapproval. “These men will train to be raiders, soldiers; Ama has to learn to work as my assistant on extrans missions, which means she will train under my direction.”

“You’re going to teach her to be a Theorist?
Her
?” Fismar laughed.

“It’s not your business.”

“No it’s not. Anyway, I’ve studied the notes you sent. Gonna be a bit unortho training these ones up. Shave off the hair and beards, stick ’em in uniforms, run ’em until they’re ready to drop, break down all the routines, that’s pretty standard. Names are another matter.”

“How so?”

“Family names are important but it’s their first names they fight for. Those are the ones they want remembered,” Fismar said. “Those are the names they’ll want called in battle.”

“So those are the names you use.”

“Affirmative.”

“You will command as you see fit and keep me apprised of the details of the operation. I trust you, with this. Your word is mine here, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Understood. Okay, I’ve seen enough. You can take the ladder over there. If you don’t mind, I’m going to introduce myself.”

Before Seg reached the ladder, Fismar had vaulted the rail, caught a grip on a nearby stanchion, and dropped the remaining fifteen feet to the ground. He rolled as he hit and came to his feet in a suddenly silent room.

The men stood dazed and unsure. Fismar walked through a knot of Kenda, who parted as he approached. He collected a seft from the ground. One of the Kenda started at that, and rose as if to snatch it away. Fismar gave him a hard stare that froze the man in his tracks, then returned to the spot where he had landed.

“This is a warrior’s weapon.” Fismar’s voice boomed. “I’ve seen ’em used. Seen some of you use ’em, even. Warrior’s weapon.”

With a powerful thrust, he jammed the seft into the floor of the warehouse, snapping the steel blade.

“Warriors are ready for war. I walked into this damn place and not one of you was watching for me. Three damn days in hostile territory, and I come in here and you people are playing a kargin’ game? You think you’re warriors?”

Some of the men muttered. Someone shouted out, “Warriors kept in a prison!” Nods and murmurs of agreement followed behind.

Fismar tossed the broken seft aside and favored them all with a smile. “When I’m through with you? Prison is gonna seem like a holiday. You’re gonna
wish
you were back in that rat hole we broke you from.”

In short order, Fismar had everyone lined up. He offered Ama the slightest of nods. “Good work keeping these worms in line. Job’s over. Go report to the boss.”

Seg stood only a short distance away—close enough to watch the men, but out of hearing range. Even so, he wanted to run to her as she broke from the formation, to wrap his arms around her. The force of his feelings for Ama continued to surprise him but he was the leader of a small army now; appearances mattered.