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Tenacity’s senior conference room was situated aft of the bridge and below it on C Deck, facing along its rear dorsal surface. The view from its domed transparent durasteel windows showed the bluey glow of Cherenkov radiation off its upper Void Drive nacelles as the tightly-controlled singularities within them propelled the ship at reality-altering speeds for Morvenan space. Some sense of that distortion whirled by, bands of phantom light tumbling off into an endless blackness somewhere indeterminately behind.
It was easier to look at those eyeball-bending phenomena than at the six pairs of eyes focused upon her in the room. But return those gazes, Ylura did, as she stood from her own seat and moved to the head of the table and the holographic controls there. Rapt attention or vague hostility answered her stare—it was hard to know which. But their auras were easier to judge, darkening or thoroughly black.
She made herself not think about it as she fed a memory crystal into the input port of the holo controls and keyed her recently-granted SRA clearance codes into it. She forced herself not to sense their vague mistrust—betrayal, even. That last part was hardest to swallow. She had been one of them, had made the terrible trek back to Sanctuary space, the Old Wolf’s flight from Golgothan darkness.
That she hadn’t chosen to stay with them, even though hers had always only ever been a temporary assignment, should not have felt like a crime.
Fighting the sensation down, she straightened her spine and touched a control key, brought a star map into being. For a moment, a dizzying mass of the galactic arm’s billion suns assaulted the eyes. With a toggle she zoomed in on the space known to the Republic. Sanctuary territory color-coded blue. A lesser grouping of stars shaded faint gray.
“The Morvenan Unity encompasses twelve systems, now, all within twenty light years of Morvena, herself,” she began in a controlled voice. “As near as their historians can tell, these were worlds where enough of their people dwelt that, as the Old King’s empire collapsed, they comprised the majority of the populations and were thus able to seize control.”
“But Morvena is the homeworld...?” Commander Varley asked from the far side of the table, seated to Dath’s right.
Ylura nodded hurriedly. “Morvena is believed to be the location of the Old Kings’ original labs and manufactories.” She looked around the table, surprised at the sudden surge of discomfort that filled her. “The Morvena were synthesized—for the Kings’ amusement.”
Discomfort became general as a heavy silence filled the room. The creak of Varley’s chair was the only sound to break it.
“Again,” Ylura went on, “much is not known of that time, but it seems my mother’s ancestors were tailored for their attractiveness, their creativity, their artistry and music and craft. And, of course, their telepathic and empathic abilities, which the Kings had in greater sum, but delighted in granting to some of their subject-creations” she scowled “for a tighter bond.”
“Bondage, is more like it,” Khiry Jaxan growled, seated to Dath’s other side and leaned back jauntily in her seat. “Slavery.”
“That’s correct,” Ylura replied and pinched her lips together before adding, “That’s what they rebelled against.” She looked at the cluster of a dozen stars, huddled off to the far side of the known galaxy’s crowding of powers—but important again, now that Sanctuarian power had spread and found boundaries. “And the memory of it led to many ages of isolation, broken only when it could no longer be avoided.”
“Humanity,” Dath said grimly.
“It was, in fact, the Ree that they encountered first,” she told them. “That proved to be an embarrassing and violent encounter, one both sides eventually learned from.”
The door to the conference room whisked open and a tall figure in sweat-stained fatigues straining against an ample belly hurried into the room. “Sorry!” Tom Rougan huffed, wiping sweat from his brow and settling noisily into a free chair to Jaxan’s left. “Sorry, Captain!”
Dath’s features and aura darkened as he eyed the ship’s chief engineer. “Almost left you behind at docks. Now you’re late to staff meetings.” He relented a little on his harsh tone, tempered it with a twinkle of humor to his good eye. “Not the greatest start to a voyage, Tom.”
“It’s these newfangled Hypernaughts, Captain. I tell you, I—”
Dath held up his hand to quiet him, smiling tolerantly. “Later, Commander.”
“Right...” Rougan mopped sweat again. “Right. Sorry, sir.” He nodded to Ylura, caused more perspiration to shake loose and his aura had the discombobulation of someone who’d been drinking. “Good to see you, Lieutenant.”
“And you, Commander.” Ylura glanced at Dath, who nodded for her to continue.
“The main lesson the Morvena took from their encounters,” she went on, “was the need to modernize its defenses.” She touched the tabletop control and a second hologram popped up, showed a registry of several, graceful ship types, looking more like works of art than warships. “The Unity maintains a small but professional fleet and its ships of the line are deemed by the Admiralty to be the equivalent of Republic heavy cruisers.”
“Enough that the shift of their sympathies to another side could prove a serious problem for the Republic,” Dath noted to the others, “especially with the Golgothans up in our faces.”
“Is that really a concern, though?” Alvarez asked, closest to Ylura’s left and leaning forward in his seat to set his elbows upon the table. He met her gaze. “I thought the Morvenans were our friends?”
“Neutrals, would be the more accurate description, Lieutenant,” she replied. “And, certainly, a great many Morvenans consider Sanctuary their friend. But the Unity is...not necessarily unified in all things.”
That got some chuckles from the others, a lightening not only of auras, but also a little clearing of the room’s atmosphere of tension. Grateful for it, she smiled back, remembered, as she looked at each of them, how truly good it had been to call them crewmates. But Dath cleared his throat by way of nudging her.
“Great clans formed in the aftermath of the Collapse,” she resumed, “representing not just family interests but interplanetary ones. Not all see things the same way. And the pressures of recent events have driven them farther apart. House Orange, from which my mother descends, prides itself on its intergalactic posture. House Red, in contrast, has congealed around a more adversarial stance.”
“They’re all named for colors?” Varley asked.
“The primary colors, yes. The Morvena are born with what you’d call synesthesia; they experience word and song visually as well as audibly. Sound is color. And the clans grouped themselves according to those visions that most aligned with their temperament.”
“Does that go for you, too?”
“I have my father’s eyes,” she replied, meeting the Commander’s stare, “which gives me a decidedly human perspective.”
“But the telepathy” Jaxan straightened up from her seat, leaned forward with a slight simmer to her aura “you do have that.”
All stares and auras quivered upon her at that—save Dath’s, who already knew this very well, indeed. And it was the old, ignorant issue, again, for humans; that a Morvenan—even a half-one—might intrude upon their thoughts. Ignorance, she seethed inside. And arrogance; that they’d think their own thoughts, in a universe full of them, would be so important that anyone would want to snoop.
But that was a Morvenan perspective, for certain.
“Yes,” she answered at last, and patiently. “Morvena are born with varying levels of it. With most, it manifests with the ability to sense emotional states and even to detect some surface thought. Among Morvena, it allows deep connection, when parties allow. With other races, there can be varying levels of connection.”
“But not the mind magic of the holomedia?” Rougan asked.
“Not in most.” She paused, considered before continuing. “But some are born with higher levels of sensitivity.” Tahna fluttered through her mind before she banished her. “Around this, the Shala Order was formed. According to legend, the Shala were originally the resistance movement against the Old Kings, led by Morvena of truly exceptional gifts. Since the Collapse, they have become an institution unto themselves, a religious sect that teaches the Five Circles of Wisdom.”
“And which are you?” Varley asked with a crook of an eyebrow and an ironic note.
She smiled back at him carefully. Tenacity’s Executive Officer was not exactly renowned for his tolerance, even in a Fleet that boasted, now, dozens of species of crewmembers. “In ten years, I managed only the Second,” she told him. “The Fifth is reputed to be a level of power over energy, itself. It’s not known that any Morvena has reached such a plane in modern times. Mostly Shala is a practice of calming the mind and listening to the energies surrounding us all.”
“Sounds a little bit like the holomedia,” Rougan snorted.
That got more laughter.
“So,” Varley raised his voice over the babble, “knowing all this, why does Tenacity go all the way out to the Unity instead of fighting Golgos at the front, Captain?”
“Not enough shakedown time?” Alvarez hazarded.
“That doesn’t make any sense” Jaxan shook her head “then why send us out on this jaunt?”
“I mean,” Rougan said with a shrug, “those new Drives could certainly use more of a work-over.”
Again, Dath held up his hand. “Let’s just let Lieutenant Aval finish.”
“With the war,” Ylura continued as the others settled once more, “old divisions between the Colors have resurfaced. House Orange has long held preeminence. But Red, under this man” she touched the tabletop control and a fresh hologram displayed a stern, narrow Morvenan face “Count Arvlo Krazmyb, has agitated for greater representation of their views.”
“Which are?” The softly-spoken question came from Karen Imliss, ship’s doctor, a sour-faced woman of short-cut gray hair seated to Ylura’s right and apart from the others.
“Severance of ties with the Republic,” Ylura replied ominously. “Complete self-reliance. Construction of the Unity’s own war machine. Krazmyb would have the Unity stand on its own, not at the whims of powerful neighbors.” She clicked the glaring Morenan’s visage from the air. “And he has an audience now, with the galaxy in chaos. In light of their history, the Morvenan nightmare has always been domination by others, again.”
“The Republic has no designs on the Unity,” Jaxan insisted.
Ylura’s lips pinched into a straight line. “I’d remind you that Sanctuary did have its own imperialistic phase.”
“Under the Hegemony,” Jaxan scoffed. “That was First Family crap!”
Varley flinched and muttered something from his spot.
“And I hear you,” Ylura spoke up over a rising babble. “But the Unity is rattled. And what’s more, other forces stir the pot.” She shot Dath a side-glance, thinking again on Tahna. “A radical faction known as the T’Sona agitates from another angle, entirely. They’ve declared the Colors incompetent and unfit to lead.”
“Anarchists,” Imliss said.
“Of a flavor, yes. They have bombed spaceports, stolen ships, and engaged in low-level piracy at the edges of the Unity. And they add tension to an already-charged environment.”
“I begin to get an idea of why we’re paying a visit,” the doctor replied.
“That’s right,” Dath raised his voice and leaned forward over the table, looking around at each of the officers. “We’ve been invited to pay our respects to House Orange and to take a tour through the systems. The rest the of the Unity has agreed to this, at least. Our task will be diplomatic in nature and in this manner, we will rely heavily on Lieutenant Ylura’s connections. But more, we will let all factions get a good look at us” he grinned ferally “a good reminder of what friendship with the Republic of Sanctuary means.”
“Sounds like a threat,” Imliss pointed out.
“There’s an old saying about walking softly and a big stick, doctor.”
“Which is how fights start,” she retorted.
“Maybe.” Dath’s smile didn’t falter. “And if this T’Sona group wants to try conclusions with us, then I’ll be more than happy to offer them one. Morvena’s friendship to the Republic cannot be allowed to falter.” He looked around again. “That’s the job, people, and it’s an important one.” His stare settled upon Rougan. “Now, how long till the Unity?”
“Seventy-two hours at Void Speed Six.” The engineer shrugged. “We could cut that down, but one of the Hypernaughts, Number Two, is acting up.”
“Again?”
“We’ll use the time to sort it out, sir.”
“Alright.” Dath stood from his seat, and the others followed suit. “Questions?” He looked around, waited. “Great. Then thank you all. Dismissed.”
The gathering dissolved quickly for the door, a bright conversation starting up between Alvarez and Rougan, a muttered one between Jaxan and Varley. Ylura retrieved the memory crystal from its port.
“Lieutenant Aval, remain a moment.”
Doctor Imliss, trailing behind the others, paused at the exit, hearing Dath’s voice, and glared at the pair of them before retreating. The conference door whisked shut.
Ylura stiffened, knew she couldn’t avoid this by proprieties and duty forever. “Sir?”
“I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t mention your relation’s involvement with the T’Sona.”
She looked into his unmatched hazel and holographic eyes, clenched her jaw. “I considered it,” she said at last. “But the others can read the mission packet.” She held up her chin. “It won’t be a problem for my perspective, Captain. I assure you.”
He folded his arms and sat back into his chair, gaze as unreadable as his suddenly veiled aura. “You also made no mention of the new friends you made while you were away,” he said quietly, as though speaking too loudly would allow them to be overhead. Eyebrows arched. “Operative of the SRA?”
She hated the way he said it. “I am still an officer of the Fleet.”
“With caveats.” He chuckled humorlessly. “You’re not just Tenacity’s Systems Officer for this one; you’re our handler.”
“And that information is need-to-know,” she replied coldly. “As Captain, you do; the others do not.”
“Perhaps they deserve to?” Dath replied softly and leaned forward, his good eye warming with earnestness. “After all we’ve been through together?”
And she knew, from his voice, from the sudden warming of his aura, and from just knowing him as she did, what it was he meant by that. He was the captain of the ship, and spoke out of concern for his people, of course. But he was also Dath Raker, who knew her better than most—too well, it could be said.
More than once, he’d begged her to stay, and she’d gone.
“Captain...” she gave herself a shake “Dath. We have a job to do.” She cleared her throat. “I have a job to do, and it won’t be a simple one. That’s what people need to know.”
He settled back into his chair once more, unreadable once again, save the vague twinkle of dissatisfaction in his natural eye. A light shrug accompanied his words.
“If you say so. Lieutenant.”
***
“IT’S LIKE WE’RE WEARING shoes too big for our feet!” Rougan hissed.
He stood at the workstation before the Reflex Furnace in Main Engineering, bathed in the weird bluey glow of its reactions. The holographic screen before him came back blinking all green in readiness. But when he queued up the Number Two to re-start, and link-up through the nacelle showed as a solid line, something held his hand.
“Problem, sir?”
Rougan turned at the airy, wheezing voice and instantly had to fight down conflicting surges of weirdness and familiarity. The officer waiting behind him stood not on two feet, but four splayed tentacles, while its other four waited at various postures of readiness. In truth, a Xokan’s preferred posture was hanging, but the species had adapted to human-centric vessels with remarkable rapidity. In fact, it still had the sense of hanging, there, at Rougan’s side, twin rows of yellowy eyes blinking expectantly from an orange-hued face and breathing slits behind those puffing rhythmically.
Weird.
But, also, familiar. Rougan couldn’t help looking at Lieutenant Vekkla and remembering another officer, Zillix, who’d been new to Tenacity at the time of the Golgothan blitz and, like seventy-four others, had lost its life getting the Old Wolf out. And the memory of that, of course, brought the Arathra-memories scuttling back into his skull, and Rougan itched for the flask hidden in the cargo pocket of his fatigues.
He twitched, realizing he’d begun to reach for it. “What was that...?”
“Problem?” the Xokan repeated. “Sir?”
Rougan gave himself a shake and half-turned back to the workstation, deactivated the re-start process. “It’s these damned Hypernaughts. I don’t quite trust them.”
“You were about to start Number Two again?” the cephalopod asked, drifting close enough to eye the hologram Rougan had been working at.
“Yeah, I wasn’t going to quicken a singularity in her, obviously.” Adding thirty percent to propulsion and power out-of-sequence and while the ship was already at FTL was a recipe for problems. “I just wanted to see how the plasma exchangers reacted with a warm current from the Furnace. When we had her out for trials, Number Two was the one that kept spiking on us.”
“Yet, it remained within design parameters.”
“Barely,” Rougan replied. “And the Hypernaughts’ design parameters are paired with a Union-class chassis; not a Fenris-class.” He shook his head. “I tell you we’re overpowered.”
“More power doesn’t seem like it would be a problem.”
Rougan glanced at the cephalopod. Issuing from the breathing-slits, its voice couldn’t be said to be human-like. But the note of humor was unmistakable. “More power’s a problem if we can’t control where it’s going,” he replied. “If we have a surge that burns through the Singularity Shaft, you’re talking about a miniature black hole eating its way out and—” he made a poof gesture with his hands.
Vekkla waved one of its tentacles, a movement Rougan had learned was its kind’s equivalent of a head shake. “I know the Hypernaughts, Commander. There would have to be an almost catastrophic power jolt from the Furnace to cause that. And the engines, themselves have redundant fail safes after that. They would eject the singularity, rather than have it destroy the ship.”
“Which would leave the engine useless, afterward,” Rougan noted.
“That’s so.” The Xokan sounded as though it was momentarily reconsidering its conclusions. But it pressed on brightly. “My point is they won’t fail. When I worked them on Bucephalus, they had a nearly spotless maintenance record.”
Rougan eyed the officer again, noting what was certainly pride in the Xokan’s voice. “Well, from what I hear, Bucephalus has a near-perfect record, in general.” He put an elbow onto the workstation and leaned into it. “And I don’t mean to pry, Lieutenant. Glad to have someone with your experience. But, why take the transfer from her to the Old Wolf, here?”
“Why” the Xokan sounded as if it was obvious “because this is Tenacity!”
Rougan snorted. “She is, at that. And I wouldn’t be anywhere else. But you had a Union-class dreadnought under your feet” he flinched “er, tentacles.”
“Feet is correct, sir,” Vekkla said cheerly.
“Right. Anyway, service on Bucephalus was certainly the faster route to higher things.” Rougan shrugged. “Staying with her, bet you would have been up for Lieutenant Commander and your own Engine Room in another year.”
“Then I would have been the first of my kind so considered.” The hint of bitterness was hard to miss, as was the momentarily darkening of the rubbery flesh of its head nodule, to almost a red.
And Rougan pinched his lips together in understanding. Prejudice. He wondered briefly at the true conditions aboard Vekkla’s previous ship.
As the Republic accepted new, space-faring races into its fold, the petitioners typically disbanded their “national” fleets and integrated their services into the broader Sanctuarian Fleet. This had been occurring at a rapid pace in the last decade—and Rougan wondered sometimes if that had been forethought, considering Golgotha’s aggression. But that pace had led to no small number of problems.
Many humans didn’t quite live up the Republic’s mantra of “Sanctuary For All”.
The Xokan made a sound Rougan took as an uncomfortable clearing of the throat and pressed on. “Tenacity is a legend, sir. You know it. Service aboard her makes one a part of that. Who could pass that up?”
“Legend...” Rougan chortled.
“It’s not so?”
“She’s a fussy girl, over ten years out of date, and the last of a not-very-lucky lineage, I might add.” He gestured for the ceiling and the rungs climbing up to the access chute into the Number Two Drive assembly. That chute led up through the support strut into the nacelle, itself. “But if you’re so enamored of her, Lieutenant, I’d love a few eyes on those plasma exchangers, while I’m running some tests.”
“It would be my pleasure, Commander.”
Rougan watched the cephalopod scamper over to the rungs and flow up the wall into the chute, gone in a blur. He shook his head at the inhuman speed of it. He didn’t take with ignorance, but he could understand a man’s discomfort with the alienness of the New Sanctuarian Fleet.
“I can go up, too, if you think it’ll help, sir.”
Rougan glanced over his shoulder, found Spacer First-Class Ardie Spencer stepping up to his side. The compactly-built little man had a shock of hair so blonde it was nearly white and cut close to the scalp on the sides. Smallish, brown eyes narrowed as they took in the chute. And Rougan knew when Spencer looked at Vekkla, he was seeing Zillix, too. They’d been through a lot together and the kid had held the late Xokan as it died.
“Yeah, why not?” Rougan replied, trying to shake off the ghosts of those memories. He watched as the spacer started to cross the broad, roughly rectangular compartment before calling out, “Spence?”
He turned back to him with furrowed brows. “Sir?”
Rougan wagged a finger for him to rejoin him. “The Lieutenant’s not the only non-human newcomer to the crew,” he said quietly. “Are all our crewmembers fitting in well?”
Spencer’s smile acquired a tightness. “Near as I can tell, sir. But, ah, some of my old contacts have transferred off-ship, or aren’t in contact so much anymore.”
By ‘old contacts’ Spencer meant humano-centrists or, as Rougan liked to think of them, bigots. Spence, himself, had fallen in with such a crowd initially; young man, new to ships and space, just looking for a tribe. Brawling with non-humans had seemed a way to fit in. But the strains of survival had forged new bonds for the kid. Tenacity—all of it—was his tribe, now, and he’d become a vociferous advocate for Integration.
Of course, that had got him into a few brawls of a different character.
“They’re no loss,” Spencer was going on. “But I haven’t gotten wind of any ugliness, of late. And the new Lieutenant knows their stuff. That’s earned some early goodwill.”
“Good to hear,” Rougan replied. He noted the extra stripes on the man’s fatigue sleeve. “Seems the jump in pay grades was justified.”
Spencer colored at the edges of his face. “Thanks, Commander. I’m trying.”
“Well, keep at it. Word is we’re heading out on a pleasure cruise, but I don’t believe it.” He shook his head. “When the Old Wolf’s usual luck catches up to her, we’re going to need everyone at their best.”
***
JAXAN STEPPED ONTO the middle of the workout mat and glanced around the dimly-lit gymnasium. Space was a premium, even on a battlecruiser the size of Tenacity, and the compartment was hardly five hundred square meters. Normally, she’d find it crowded. But it was the graveyard shift—well into the first quarter of a twenty-five- hour Sanctuarian day-cycle—and only the truly dedicated or strange used it at this hour.
Which she figured made her both.
“Control,” she called out to the AI, “simulate 1.02 times standard gravity on the pad.” She waited and felt the adjustment settle into her marrows, a draining extra that compelled her to give arms and legs a shake, as though the joints needed loosened. She kept this up for a moment, jogging in place, jogging it all out, before pausing to order, “Heavy bag, hover-module.”
With a whirring of anti-gravity fields, a weighted punching bag detached from the far wall and glided towards her. She waited, then jogged again in place, working up to the first tingle of sweat as the bag came to a halt, directly over the center of the pad.
“Jaxan, routine four,” she told the AI, balling up her taped fists and bobbing up and down at a sparring stance. “Activate!”
Blobs of holographic red light materialized over the rubbery black surface of the bag, indicating targets. A counter appeared above the bag with a countdown that instantly commenced from ninety seconds.
And Jaxan launched to the attack, first a roundhouse at what the bag approximated as a human hip—thwack!—then a follow up high tap to what would be a man’s temple—smack! A second pair of splotches appeared tauntingly and she pivoted on her still-planted left foot, cocked back the right, then launched it again into a side kick that would have sent her heel through ribs—ff-wump! But the next blotch quivered high above and to her right, out of position for the right, but...with a quick plant onto both heels, she leapt into a backwards spin that ended in a left-legged wheel kick slamming into rubber.
That would’ve been someone’s jaw broken, she thought with a feral grin that tasted of dripping sweat.
Another pair of targets appeared at the bag’s midsection and received a one-two jab. The air resounded with meaty thwacks as Jaxan punished the dummy, pursuing one set of targets after another, speeding up, coming in threes and fours now, all while that damned clock counted down.
Then riiiiing.
Jaxan skipped back from the bag, breathing hard, but still bouncing on the balls of her feet, ready for more. Exhaling rhythmically through pursed lips, she watched the tally of hits and the re-set of the clock. Not bad, she thought. But not good enough. She tensed for another rush.
Then flinched at a slow clap from behind. Whirling, she found Scott Varley applauding from the doorway, that arrogant smile in place, as always, but a hint of something else in his eyes. “That heavy bag didn’t stand a chance,” he called out. “Who were you fighting there?”
She glowered at him, but couldn’t resist a smirk. “Maybe it was you, Commander.”
“Ha.” He set the workout sack cradled under one arm down upon a bench by the door and stripped off his light jacket, leaving a sleeveless tank top that showed sinewy arms and shoulders to advantage. He stepped out onto the mat, worked his neck to loosen it. “What style was that you were using?”
She pivoted to face him fully. “Mixed style. Tae kwon do. Sabate.” She balled up her hands and brandished them before her, leering over the bulging knuckles. “Way of the Integrated Fist.”
“Might surprise you to know that I practice a bit myself,” Varley said, cracking his knuckles, then shaking out his arms, bobbing in place. “Bit of jujitsu, kung fu, even some Grakan arr-taskre I picked up.”
“I always found most Grakan forms to be little more than scratching and biting.”
His irritatingly brilliant smile spread. “Sounds perfect for you!”
Jaxan groaned and rolled her eyes, but added a bit of a grin to the expression. “Really, Commander, it’s late.”
“Not for you, it seems?”
“Best time to get work done,” she replied. “But I thought you had more pressing nocturnal pursuits?” Her smile acquired a malicious edge. “Is Lieutenant Kleema sleeping alone tonight?”
Varley’s smile slipped. “Afraid she’s moved on. Ensign Kupra in Stellar Mechanics seems more her speed these days.”
“Kupra’s a good sort. Serious. Little mousy.” Jaxan’s tone went positively nasty. “But he can stay focused on one thing at a time.”
“Ouch.” Varley almost sounded hurt. But he brightened once more, with the speed of the sun come out from behind a cloud. “But it leaves me with the late hours open!”
“Lucky me,” Jaxan groaned.
“Indeed.” Varley bounced in place, but shifted to what was unmistakably a fighting stance of some practice.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I won’t hurt you, Jaxan.”
She hesitated, but not out of fear. She wanted to do this, probably more than she should. “No gear?”
“Light sparring,” he replied, bobbing from one foot to the other. “Just want to see what you’ve got.”
“Bag dismissed,” Jaxan called out. “Mat set for standard sparring. First-touch alarm. Keep score.”
She waited for the heavy bag to glide clear of the mat and stepped up to the dividing line now holographically drawn across the middle of the pad. Varley was still bouncing, keeping up a nervous, almost manic pattern. From that, she knew he had some skill; but not enough.
“Begin.”
Varley shot across the line, already blurring into a roundhouse for her left hip. His height gave him a lot of leg to work with and Jaxan had to move fast, dodging to her right and pivoting into a low left block. Shin met wrist with a jolt of impact. Jaxan caught the glint of surprise in his eyes before retracting the strike and skipping back, out of range.
She didn’t follow, remained calmly bobbing in place; none of his live-wire energy, just cool focus. Her wrist did tingle from the hit. Light touch, my ass.
He came again, impatience crackling about his motions, now. He feinted to her left, then rocketing backwards into a reverse-wheel kick that would have put his right heel into her shoulder. She skipped back a step, felt the foot whistle past her nose, then lunged in again as he landed and recovered; eyes widening again as she was suddenly right there, in his face.
Jaxan went for a right front kick, right at his solar-plexus, something that would put him down—not permanently damaged, and not a rules violation—but enough to end this quickly. His left cross-block came as a surprise, jarring her strike to her right and leaving her unbalanced for an instant; long enough for him to fling a right jab for her face.
An open-palmed strike of her right hand deflected the blow, gave her a chance to skip back and regain balance. But Varley was on her, following with a left jab that, rather than block, that she back-pedaled violently to avoid. His fist parted empty air and left him scrambling to correct his overbalance. But her retreat had left her unable to capitalize on it.
They faced each other again across the mat, breathing hard and glaring as each resumed fighting stances.
“Not bad,” Jaxan called to him grudgingly. “I wouldn’t have expected that of a First Family rich boy.”
“Even among the Firsts, there’s a pecking order,” he replied between breaths. “My branch of the Braddocks was lowly enough that it helped, being able to defend myself.”
“Sounds tough,” she scoffed.
He smiled through beads of sweat. “Probably not the South Solace slums, though.” With the last syllable he was launching into another attack.
She instinctively backpedaled before his jump front kick, which sent his right foot snapping the air, even though it missed her. That had likely been calculated, as his fists were already blurring into a volley of punches as he landed. Jaxan deflected without giving up further ground, a smack-smack-smack of counters that finally jolted for her an opening. She took it and shot her right forth, past one of his redirected arms, a flat-palmed strike to the sternum.
Varley’s eyes bulged as the impact sent him flailing backwards. To his credit, the blow only knocked him on his heels for a single, stuttering step before he regained balance and settled once more into a fighting stance. But his eyes blazed and his shoulders rose and fell with rasping breaths.
“Point!” Jaxan called and nodded at the holographic counter.
“You’re going to rub that in, aren’t you?”
“Constantly,” she replied. “Again, not bad, Commander. But you fight angry. It’s unbalancing.”
“You offering me a lesson, Jaxan?”
“It’s obvious; what are you so angry about?”
“I’m not angry.”
He came at her again, this time at a prowl, circling to her left as she pivoted to keep him before her. His gaze smoldered nearly as brightly as the sweat-jewels on his face, catching the chamber’s light. She could see what was coming next, even before he surged at her. And she was waiting for right roundhouse at her ribs he hurled an instant later.
Catching the kick in both hands before it impacted, she gave Varley’s leg a twist, then pivoted into what should have been an elbow-strike at his temple. But he caught that in one of his fists, pulled down hard, tipped her into him with his superior height and weight. Their faces were a centimeter apart, breaths snorting into each other’s nostrils. For a trembling second, they writhed for advantage over one another.
Jaxan released his leg and twisted in his grasp in one motion, getting a twist of the front of his shirt at the same time. She pivoted away from him, at the hips, as he fumbled to keep a hold on her. But the speed of her reaction made it futile; she was already folding, carrying his weight suddenly on and over her shoulder with the violence of the motion. A whuff escaped his lungs as he realized, then felt his peril. Then he was off his feet and flying over her. Another whuff blasted out as he smacked, shoulders-down onto the mat.
Skipping back, Jaxan held to her fighting stance long enough to see he wasn’t going to get up and follow. Relaxing, she called out, “Point!”
Varley heaved for air on his back. The wheezing distorted into a chuckle. “Alright...maybe now I’m a little angry!”
“I’m sure disappointment is a relatively new sensation for you.”
He sat up, again chuckling. “It’s unusual; but not new, no.”
Jaxan stretched out her shoulders, one after another, and kept an eye on Varley as he got back to his feet. “With me, you’d better get used to it being usual.”
“Now, you’re the one who sounds angry, Jaxan.”
She snorted derisively, but damned if he didn’t have her on that one. Pulling in a long, cooling breath she sweetened her expression into something that wasn’t a smirk. “Just cautious, Commander.”
“Of me?” he quipped and gave his arms and legs a shake, looked to be preparing for another go.
Jaxan held up hand. “I think you’ve had enough, sir.”
“Never,” he replied, now bouncing on both legs and grinning ridiculously. “We’re on the Tenacity, aren’t we? We’ve never had enough!”
She shook her head. “What’s the angle here, Varley? Is it distraction? Am I almost on to something with you already?” She started to bob, too. “Some scam waiting on Morvena?”
“Maybe it’s just you, Jaxan,” he replied, skipping to one side and then the other. “Maybe you’re a fascinating...” he leered “...adversary.”
She ceased her jumping and settling at a low stance, one she could dodge out of or deliver a gutting kick from. “At least you’re calling it as it is.”
“It’s a game then!” he replied in a gleeful note. “A chase! No need to dance around it!”
She nodded and shrugged agreeably. “Always easier when people know where they’re coming from. But on the point of dancing” she pointed “you’d better knock that off. In fact, you’d better get on sparring gear, if you plan on coming at me again.”
“You done toying with me?”
She cackled. “Let’s just say this is about to get serious.”