Seven

The Gladius braked hard in interstellar space, slowing the giant ship enough to allow entry into the Kale system without shooting past the orange star and out into the void again. Weeks from now it would begin its final approach to Neu Schweitz, the small, emerald-green world that was its final destination. Only then would it awaken Lucas Droad and a thousand other passengers. They were in cyro-sleep, safely shielded from the grim gee-forces required to decelerate the ship and allow it to slide into the Kale system.

Events upon Neu Schweitz proceeded at a natural pace while the Gladius approached. The planet was the third in line from the star Kale, the same position as was held by Old Earth in the Sol system. It was, however, a smaller world than Old Earth and heavily-cratered. Due to natural biomass growth and heavy erosion from frequent storms, these craters took the form of thousands of sharp, striking mountains intermixed with vibrantly green, circularly-shaped valleys. There were many cold, black lakes between the towering peaks, often as deep and dark as they were wide.

The equator of the planet was decorated by a narrow belt of oceans. Since less than twenty percent of the planetary surface was covered in water, oceans were occasional rather than common on Neu Schweitz. The relatively few expanses of sea water were small, stormy affairs. The tidal forces caused by the seventeen moons that circled the planet caused unpredictable surges of fifty meters or more in the depth of the equatorial belt of oceans. The many moons ripped at the frothing stripe of oceans, creating regular tsunamis and whipping hurricanes. As a result, few dared to travel the seas in surface vessels. Air transport, submarines as big as tankers and tunnels beneath the sea floor were the preferred methods of moving freight.

Far south of the central seas existed a town known as Visp in one of the southern-hemisphere cantons. Outside of Visp, in a crescent-shaped valley between six looming mountains, a group of people had gathered. Hushed and serious, the group stood solemnly in a vibrantly green meadow at the foot of a cliff of salt-and-pepper granite.

A flock of giant rooks, an indigenous species, stared at the gathered humans seriously from their perches in the whip-pines that surrounded the meadow. Although the natives of the cantons called them rooks—and they were black-feathered birds—they were not the same species that flew upon Old Earth. They were far larger, being nearly a meter tall in some cases. They were quiet birds, as well. They did not twitter and squawk. Instead—they stared.

The rooks of Neu Schweitz often gathered where blood was about to be spilled. Somehow, natives maintained, they knew. They were nut-eaters, not predators or carrion-eaters—but in some instinctual fashion, the birds were drawn to watch the struggles of other creatures while safely roosting on their high perches. With lidless, reptilian eyes, the birds quietly encircled the group of humans like black-feathered snakes. They sat in the swaying, whip-pine branches... and they stared.

Aldo Moreno stepped forward into the center of the circle of humans. He raised his sword and slid it down the length of his opponent’s blade. It was a ceremonial motion, the customary salute that two combatants provided one another before dueling with plasma-rapiers. Both swords loosed a spray of lavender sparks in response to the contact. The sparks showered the hard-eyed contestants. They barely blinked.

“Step back two paces,” said the arbiter.

Both Aldo and his opponent, Commander Werner Goll, obeyed the arbiter. Their eyes stayed locked as they performed the maneuver, each stepping backward two strides. Werner Goll’s expression was grim. Aldo was serious, but there was no rage in his face. Instead, his prominent nose rode high and his attitude was that of a professional performing at the top of his deadly game.

Both swords were fine steel and deadly in their own right. In addition to a precise mono-molecular point which could pierce hard metal, the rapiers ran with shimmering emanations of kinetic force. The slightest touch would deliver a serious jolt in addition to laying open the flesh.

“Check settings. Both parties have agreed to level four, crippling force.”

Each man flicked his eyes to the studs at the pommel of their respective weapons. Neither had to make an adjustment.

“Being a matter of honor concerning a disputed debt, schlag rules shall apply,” continued the arbiter. “Honor shall be served by death, incapacitation, or the agreement of both parties.”

Both men gave imperceptible nods.

Aldo Moreno could trace his ancestry to the original families of colonists on every side. He was from the southern cantons, the Swiss who had been of Italian descent many generations earlier. He, like practically every citizen, felt a fierce pride in his heritage. The people of Neu Schweitz, unlike most colonists who had journeyed out to new worlds, had come here to save their own culture rather than to escape it. Therefore, they clung to old values in any manner they could. They had romanticized the past and rejected what elements of the present they found dispensable.

After nearly two centuries of hard work, the Swiss had built up a thriving colony on this chilly, beautiful planet. They had also developed some unique customs, such as the bearing of public arms. In most cantons, publicly displayed guns had been eventually outlawed due to an overabundance of young deaths in duels. Local governments however, particularly of the southern cantons, had left out specifics concerning other forms of weaponry. And dueling, while still frowned upon, was understood by the law. People must have a way to blow off steam, it was commonly argued. And so the guns were left at home, but many men wore swords and were considered fashionable. Over time, the simple metal weapons of the past had been improved upon. An industry had sprung up, serving the needs of the prideful gentleman and the swaggering rogue alike. Their rapiers had grown steadily more deadly, more technically proficient.

Aldo Moreno was a traditionalist who had embraced this element of his native culture. He was, in fact, a professional duelist.

The customary silver flute warbled. Both men raised their guards, saluted one another and advanced. Commander Goll attacked first, his lunge aiming high. Aldo parried in quinte, then smoothly riposted, and was parried in turn.

Goll did not retreat. He beat at Aldo’s blade. Sparks showered the ground at their feet. Black spots appeared where the plasma burnt the wet grasses.

Aldo fell back before the assault, which was competent and quick, but not inspired. Almost immediately, Aldo took measure of his opponent. He was good, but Aldo knew he was better. His confident smile grew fractionally.

Aldo let Commander Goll come in, attempting lunges, blade-beating attacks and circular disengages followed by sudden darting thrusts. He parried every attack, and when there was an opening, he threw himself into a counterattack. His onslaught wasn’t a wild series of random moves, but rather a deceptively simply set of un-deux attacks. Commander Goll gave ground steadily in turn, parrying and riposting enough to keep Aldo honest. Goll was in shape, Aldo could say that for the man. His breathing was even, and he looked as if he wouldn’t tire for a long time.

Aldo feinted low then, just as the other was beginning to feel safe. Goll made his first serious mistake, lowering his own blade to parry the thrust rather than retreating. Aldo could tell he was a man who hated to retreat. That was a dangerous attitude to have as a fencer. Aldo used all his speed and precision to bring the tip of his own weapon up and managed to score a grazing blow on the Commander’s left arm.

There was a lavender flash, and spurt of blood spilled down upon Goll’s whites. The blood flow quickly ceased. One benefit of using powered swords was their tendency to instantly cauterize the wounds they created. Goll’s left arm hung now, almost useless.

Aldo withdrew a step. After all, he wasn’t here to kill the fool.

“I’ve struck the first touch, sir.”

“Indeed you have.”

Obviously in pain, but still keeping his guard up, Goll stared at him. If anything, he seemed more enraged than before. Aldo’s smile, for the very first time, faltered. Would the fool not see reason? He could not hope to win. He’d met many angry, prideful men on the field of honor. Most quickly grew contrite when seriously injured.

“Defend yourself!” shouted Commander Goll. He came on then, and amazingly, his attacks were more accurate, his skill greater. Rather than being paralyzed by fear and pain, he was wild with the desire for revenge.

Aldo flicked his eyes to his elderly master: Brigadier Klaus Druzman. His master widened his blue-marble eyes and made a small fluttering movement with his hands, indicating his bafflement. Aldo flicked his eyes back to his opponent then, lest he be run through by this madman.

Aldo’s master, like Aldo himself, was a gentleman who bordered upon the world of the rogue. Klaus Druzman’s vice, however, was that of gambling rather than dueling. There was nothing inherently wrong with gambling in the southern cantons, but Druzman was a man who almost never lost a hand of cards. He achieved his startling series of victories, naturally, by cheating. Often his victims suspected him, and occasionally they demanded satisfaction on the field of honor. Druzman was prepared for this eventuality, and would immediately claim fatigue due to his great age. He was, in fact, over a century old. If the abused debtor insisted upon dueling, he would ask to be allowed to use a stand-in. Aldo Moreno, a gifted swordsman, was always on call to fight as Druzman’s appointed champion in such cases. The system had been admirably effective. No one had ever gotten away without paying their debts to Brigadier Klaus Druzman.

Blades flashed and sparked. The clashing weapons rang with violence and strength of arms. Both men were soon breathing hard. Blood trickled anew from Commander Goll’s arm, but he paid the wound no heed. Aldo, who had been giving ground steadily before the other’s onslaught, stopped his retreat and performed a shockingly fast riposte. He struck suddenly, for the heart, knowing he would be parried, but wanting to scare his opponent and shake him off this suicidal path. Goll parried the chest attack in quarte. But the scare did not slow his furious assault. The two men had come too close for effective swordplay. Instead of withdrawing, Goll pushed their swords and bodies together.

The two crackling rapiers flowed ozone in a hot gush up into Aldo’s face. They struggled for a moment, shoving.

“Hold!” said the arbiter. “Step back.”

The two men pushed apart and stepped back, returning to en garde. But suddenly, something unexpected was done. Something foul—something against the rules of honor. As they parted to stand en garde again, Commander Goll’s blade flashed out low and slapped against Aldo’s thigh.

The pain was excruciating. The cut itself wasn’t bad, but jolt from the power-blade, laid firmly against a spot with little grounding or protection, numbed Aldo’s leg so that he was almost unable to use it.

In automatic answer, Aldo flicked his sword out and carved a new chunk from Commander Goll’s left shoulder, which he had thrown up to take the riposte.

Commander Goll danced back now, arm flapping grotesquely. Blood ran everywhere. The crowd of gentle-folk that had come to watch a Sunday duel on a fine spring day gasped in horror.

“Foul!” roared the arbiter. “Foul, Commander Goll. You have dishonored yourself!”

“This contest is at an end,” said Brigadier Druzman, stepping forward.

 “Nonsense!” Goll shouted back, clearly pleased with himself. “My weapon slipped. It was no more a foul than was the presence of no less than seven aces in the deck of cards we played with last night. It was all merely an oversight Druzman, just as you assured me.”

Aldo, for his part, watched the interplay. Sweat beaded upon his brow. He didn’t want to lose to this angry fop. His leg, however, was all but useless. When dueling, a quick retreat before a charge was often the only thing that kept one alive.

“The rules were stated,” said the arbiter, having regained his composure. “Neither has died. Both do not agree to resolve the argument.”

“But he fouled my man!” shouted Brigadier Druzman, his face flushing red. “And both are incapacitated.”

“Not I!” shouted Commander Goll. He flopped his left arm about in a disgusting parody of control. “I will not yield.”

“Very well, the contest continues.”

“Unless,” said Commander Goll, grinning at Aldo. “You sir! Do you wish to yield?”

Aldo flicked his eyes to his master. Brigadier Druzman heaved a sigh and gave him a tiny nod of approval. He was given permission to quit.

“What do you say, lapdog?” Commander Goll demanded of Aldo. He grinned, showing a mouthful of tightly clenched teeth.

Aldo gritted his own teeth in anger and pain. He took a half-step forward. His right leg dragged, stiff and throbbing.

“Let us finish the matter,” Aldo said.

The small crowd gasped. Even Commander Goll looked surprised. He too, gave a nod. Some of his anger had faded now. He looked at Aldo with new respect. “Very well. As you wish.”

Goll came on in a steady advance. Aldo knew that he would lunge suddenly, when he closed within range. Aldo was not able to lunge himself, nor was he capable of effective retreat. All he could do was parry and counter.

The worst of it was watching the approach. His opponent took his sweet time. Aldo wasn’t sure if Commander Goll was enjoying the tension, or if he was simply being cautious, wanting make sure the kill didn’t cost him further injury.

The final passage of arms was brief, and too fast for the crowd to follow. Aldo parried his opponent’s lunge, disengaged, and thrust high without compunction. The tip flashed electrically again, this time as it contacted Commander Werner Goll’s right eyeball. The point, being a monofilament of aligned molecules, glided through the skull and popped out of the back of the man’s head. The tip sizzled and sparked.

The commander slumped down dead. Many gasped, some wept. Most of them shook their heads and frowned. Honor had not truly been served this day. The entire thing was a travesty. A grim farce. Even Aldo felt no elation, looking down upon his fallen opponent.

Aldo looked up at the rooks that lined the whip-pines. Many of them lifted off and flapped with slow, lazy strokes of their wings. The show was over. They had sensed blood coming today, and they had been right again.

As the crowd dispersed, Aldo’s master approached. He held out his hand. Aldo took it, as if shaking hands. The two men exchanged a data-bean. Aldo suspected it would be his final payment in the brigadier’s service.

“I must ask, Brigadier Druzman,” Aldo said formally, “to be released from your service.”

Druzman nodded. His pink skull and jowls were frosted with white hair. Every last lock of it that hadn’t fallen out due to his great age had been carefully groomed into an individual, spiraling curl. His hair resembled lamb’s wool upon a badly shaven lamb.

“You’ll have to leave the canton,” said Druzman. His piercing blue eyes met Aldo’s.

Aldo nodded. He could not believe his poor luck.

Commander Goll’s seconds came close and cast many glaring looks toward Aldo. They hauled away Goll’s corpse with ill grace. Goll had been a professional Fleet officer. His death would be missed. Dueling wasn’t exactly illegal, but killing another man in a duel could result in a murder charge. At the very least, he would be arrested and harassed by the local militia.

“I’ll go north,” said Aldo, but he didn’t like the sound of it.

Druzman nodded. “We had a good partnership.”

Aldo didn’t respond.

“Aldo?”

Aldo looked up.

“Did you have to kill him?”

“No. But I did it, just the same.”

Druzman shook his head. “That’s your problem. You pretend to be a professional rogue. But really, at the heart of it, you’re a killer.”

Aldo set to work tending his injured leg. He didn’t argue with Druzman. There was no need.