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I opened my eyes and looked up at Bea’s grinning face, if grin is what you could call it. It was more a death grimace, crossed with a pervert’s leer and sprinkled with a liberal dose of lip snarl.
“You don’t play fair,” I muttered as I struggled to my feet. She didn’t offer me a hand up.
“Once you get beyond the ancient notions of fair and right, you’ll do so much better in life,” she pontificated.
“Who are you quoting?” I asked.
“Me,” she replied.
“I should have known,” I grumbled. “I did kind of save your butt back there, you know.”
“No, you interfered,” she snarled. “I had just figured out lizard-boy’s rhythm and was ready to strike. You took my kill,” she said, hissing the last word.
Beatrice McMasters was our ship’s security officer. Always spoiling for a fight or challenge, she was also the weapons officer and ship’s physical trainer. She was built not so much like an Amazon but rather the gladiator I had just defeated. No one would call her pretty, especially not to her face. She might have been if her rather plain features weren’t perpetually twisted in a snarl or grimace.
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HER FATHER HAD BEEN an all-planet cage fighter until he was accidentally killed in the ring during a grudge match. Simmons, a life-long family enemy, had fared poorly in the fight. He was losing until his son, also his manager, had slipped a stun bar into his father’s waistband after the last break. The shock hadn’t killed Roarin’ Rory McMaster, but it had stunned him. Being momentarily off-balance had set him up for the throat-punch which had crushed his trachea.
Bea had watched from the front row on her 17th birthday. Trained since early childhood by the only person she had ever loved, Bea had promptly challenged the winner. That option was something most family fighters didn’t exercise and even fewer accepted. Simmons hadn’t hesitated for an instant to acknowledge her challenge.
It took Bea almost an hour to break over half of the bones in his body. In a family-challenged grudge match, the only two who could call the fight were the managers in the corner. Simmons had made it clear to his son that he was not, under any circumstance, to throw in the towel. The McMasters’ family manager had never said a word.
Simmons had gamely continued until the last bone Bea had snapped was his C3 vertebrae. She held him where she had maneuvered him into a reverse headlock for several seconds, twisting on his head. It was almost as if she were trying to actually tear it off.
It was her first kill. She unceremoniously dropped Simmons with a thud to the ring’s concrete floor. Turning, she leaned over his twisted form and spat on his face. After her victory was announced officially she charged outside ring, running around toward the other side and the junior Simmons. He caught one glimpse of the raging madwoman coming for him and took flight.
Bea had never known her mother and was now effectively an orphan. Being accustomed to violence as a way of life, she joined the Global Defense Force the next day and never looked back. Her mantra and life code was No Quarter. It was rumored she had been a sniper, assassin, spy, and whatever else the GDF offered her in the manner of taking human life. Rumor was she had 27 notches on a gunstock she kept in her private locker.
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I CAUGHT THE FLASH of green in the corner of my eye and locked in my hologuide, waving Bea toward the dining room across the corridor. Keying an open channel, I hailed Lars Iversson. He was the ship’s Swedish engineer and mechanic.
“Lars, hur mar du?” I called.
“Mår jag bra och dig själv?” he replied.
“I just got stabbed in the back by my weapons officer,” I offered.
“And you turned your back on her why?” he chided softly in his deep, rumbling voice.
Bea’s throaty laughter rang through the small ship.
“Because I know under that roughshod exterior beats a heart of pure gold, and soft as a baby’s breath,” I replied.
Her scream of rage was louder than her laughter.
“Lars, once you’re limbered up, can you get the ship’s stores open?” I ask. “I could really use a cup of your good coffee.”
“I’m already in the dining room, and enjoying my first cup,” came his ready reply. “I’ll pour one for you.”
“On my way,” I replied thankfully.
Lars did something to coffee that was almost magical. One cup and you felt like you had just drunk beauty, health, and happiness all at once. Yet when analyzed, the computer said it was just coffee. There was something mystical about it, as there was with many things about Lars.
He did triple-duty as engineer, mechanic, and blacksmith. Part of his fabrication job description was the creation of personalized body armor for each crew member. He also made the sharpest bladed weapons I had ever cut myself on. Even Sumiko, our resident Ninja, was impressed with his prowess at the forge.
His security moniker was Battleaxe, a name he wore with pride. Physically, his squat, fire-plug physique made him a significant member of the security team. He usually led one of three teams and was second in command to Bea. It didn’t hurt his image at all, wielding an exact replica of a 10th century Norse Mammen ceremonial broadax.
He had shared once with me, over too many cups of ale, that his family line was directly descended from Erik the Red. He even practiced their Norse Pagan religious tenets. It was during one of those inebriated visits that I had sworn him as a blood-brother. We had even performed the ceremonial palm-cutting. Some of my Germanic heritage was also descended from Vikings.