Star Commander Xera. Just as he’d thought. And instead of listing her command as Ripper Flight, under her name was the new callsign Broken Fang.
No, it wasn’t. Torrent yanked the dark glasses off his head, tucked them into his belt. Actually it read Broken Fan with the “g” still missing. Paint and stencils sat on a nearby work platform. That would be Xera provoking the situation by trying to co-opt Star Captain Mehta’s flight callsign, slowly assuming his position. Drops of bright red blood darkened toward drier brown on the nonskid deck at his feet. A fight.
He swung about, and the look in his eyes sent most people back to work. The ones who hadn’t slipped away after his obvious arrival, that is. The slow-learners. Those who stayed behind shifted about on nervous feet, the techs waiting to finish work on the aerospace OmniFighter.
Except for two.
Star Commander Drake stood closest to him. Torrent studied him head to foot, noting the dark smear of blood under his split lip and the righteous fire burning behind his pale green eyes. The man had fallen into Xera’s trap, pulling her away from the Jagatai and earning a fist or foot for his effort. Not even the five minutes it must have taken Torrent to arrive had slackened his fury. Or it had been incredibly strong.
Xera stood a more relaxed post off to one side. A master tech and two apprentices separated the two pilots. Not keeping them apart—lower-castes did not interfere in a fight between warriors—but showing support in the way they stood closer to Xera than Drake. Torrent noted that, too.
“You two should have taken care of this three days ago.” He kept his deep voice under careful control, simply pointing out the facts. “A hot stick is not enough. If either of you had an ounce of Laren Mehta’s leadership potential, you would have challenged sooner.”
Neither Star Commander said a word, which was to their credit. He glanced at Xera. “You struck Drake outside a circle of equals?”
She nodded. “He laid hands on me without permission. That is an attack.”
As Torrent had already surmised. “Do either of you have an official challenge?”
Xera preempted Drake by being faster off the mark. “I have restored my own honor. And, as I was the one Star Captain Mehta last placed in command, I assume his authority.”
“Then I challenge,” Drake argued at once. “The position is mine.”
Torrent nodded. “I forbid augmented combat while we are on a military footing.” By custom, choice of hand-to-hand or live-fire combat belonged to the ‘hunter,’ the one who challenged. “Drake. For that, I offer you choice of venue.”
“Here. Now.” The pilot couldn’t wait to think if he enjoyed an advantage someplace else.
Torrent glanced to the remaining technicians. “Give them five meters.” Starting near their star colonel, the six remaining men and women formed a loose circle around the pilots, leaving them approximately five meters for their circle of equals. “First one forced out of the circle,” Torrent said, a time-honored condition of victory. Then he set himself in a wide, comfortable stance, and waited.
The two combatants circled each other warily, watching for any telltale sign of weakness. Xera’s sharp, hazel eyes missed nothing. A warm anger radiated out of Drake, who was beyond patience. He rushed in, coming low and fast to maintain his center of gravity and not get simply toreadored out of the makeshift circle.
Xera accepted the full brunt of his attack, protecting herself by balling up and rolling away, losing skin from her hand against the nonskid deck and coming dangerously close to the circle’s edge. By intention, as it happened. Greedily, Drake pursued, thinking to kick her the rest of the way out of the Trial. Xera rolled back toward him, speared out one leg in a low sidekick and connected solidly with his knee.
He stumbled forward and Xera could have won the Trial right then if she had helped him to fall over and past her. Instead, the female pilot struck out again, bringing her foot up fast and cruel, spearing Drake in the groin and stopping his fall cold.
Torrent couldn’t help his wince of sympathy.
Drake backed off, doubled over and trying to catch his breath. Jumping back to her feet, Xera gave him no time to recover. She danced in graceful as a striking snake, throwing a roundhouse kick into Drake’s stomach, folding him in half and then bringing her elbow down on the back of his neck. Then she waited for him to rise again.
The star colonel had Xera’s measure now. Rather than take the victory when she could, she was winning this challenge and any future challenges of her new position. She waited for Drake to concede. Torrent respected that, even if it might cost him a pilot for the better part of a week. Such a commanding tactic was one of many reasons why women were considered the most dangerous competitors for a Trial of Bloodname or any other rough contest. They simply did not try to win. They tried to destroy.
Drake didn’t know enough to thrust his hand out of the circle and slap the ground. Instead, Torrent watched him crawl painfully back to his feet. Dogged persistence was an admirable trait in any warrior stock, the star colonel granted Drake that.
Xera moved in again. This time Drake threw every ounce of his remaining energy into one vicious punch. His uppercut caught the female pilot a glancing blow as Xera rolled her head in the same direction. She sagged forward as if falling, grabbed two handfuls of Drake’s coveralls, and then rolled backward dragging him with her. Planting her foot into his gut, she used their combined momentum to throw Drake up and over, slamming him down on his back against the cargo bay deck. The air rushed from Drake’s lungs in a forced exhale.
Still on the ground, Xera pivoted on her shoulder blades and threw a backfist that connected with Drake’s nose. Torrent heard cartilage and bone crunch. A gout of blood splashed down over Drake’s mouth and the man lay still.
Xera climbed back to her feet.
Drake lay prostrate near the circle’s edge, but still no part of his body had broken the perimeter. Torrent stepped forward, violating the circle. Xera would now be within her rights to attack him as well, taking his interference as a slight to her own honor. It depended on how much respect she held for her commander. Torrent did not even glance at her as he stepped past, giving her his back with full confidence. He paused near Drake and used his foot to shove the pilot’s hand so that it fell outside the circle. Then he stepped over the unconscious man and left the circle behind.
Star Captain Demos jogged over from the bay door, her sharp gaze flying past Torrent to seize upon the ended Trial. “You did not wait?” she asked, obviously upset. “I would like to have seen that.”
“And gamble on it, no doubt.” Torrent shook his head. “As I recall, you still owe… Yulri… on a previous wager.”
“I have not forgotten. I took a bondsman yesterday, after the skirmish near Taibek Mines. But he is an infantryman and is proving… intractable.”
Taking defeated enemy warriors as isorla, making them bondsmen to the Steel Wolves, was a Clan practice Kal Radick encouraged among his forces. Torrent was less sanguine about the idea, looking only for those who truly supported the Steel Wolves. They were out there on Achernar, and they would come over to him at the right time.
He merely needed to provide it for them.
“You had something you wished to discuss?” Demos asked him after several paces in silence.
“I do.” Torrent mentally thumbed through the Achernar briefings he had memorized. There were two local reservists who had once petitioned for active duty under Kal Radick’s command, citing their blood ties to Clan Wolf expatriates. Freeborn, but still of warrior stock. It was a guess, where he’d find them, but the briefing mentioned their dissatisfaction driving LoaderMechs and short-haulers.