He followed the punch with a series of quick blows that Thaler just barely managed to block, retreating as quickly as he could. Rod got just a touch too confident, let his right foot lead just a little too far—and Thaler's knee snaked around Rod's, and a fist the size of a corned-beef brisket slammed into Rod's ear.
The sky reeled, and the plasticrete struck under him, hard; but he tucked his chin in, and his head didn't hit too hard.
As the world circled past, he noticed the sole of Thaler's boot coming down. He grabbed the foot, twisted, and threw. Thaler hopped back, howling and flailing for balance.
Rod gathered himself into a ball, rolled to his feet, and saw the same damn foot coming at his face again.
Now, Thaler didn't look as though he were apt to win any IQ prizes, but he did look very experienced—so he couldn't be dumb enough to try the same trick a second time, when it hadn't worked once already. So Rod caught at the foot, but stayed alert for a trick—and sure enough, there came the fist, swinging down at the back of Rod's neck.
Rod let go of the foot, took a half step forward, and straightened up hard, both fists over his head.
They caught Thaler right under the jaw.
Thaler swayed, glassy-eyed.
Rod stepped back and swung a haymaker uppercut.
Thaler's head snapped back, and his feet snapped up, and his whole body slammed down flat on the plasticrete.
Rod stood, panting, a little wild-eyed, looking around him, woozy, head splitting with pain, but alert for anyone else to start swinging.
But they stayed where they sat, glowering up at Gwen, and nursing their jaws.
Rod looked up at her, incredulous.
Gwen glared about her in indignation. They have no sense of honor, my lord! They would seek to molest me whiles thou didst defend me!
In spite of his aches, Rod couldn't help grinning. He pitied any man who had tried to lay a hand on his sweet wife. "What did you do to them?"
"Only a slap for each, my lord."
A slap with its force multiplied by telekinesis, Rod guessed. He was surprised none of the men were heading for the hospital.
"Most excellently done," said a cool, amused voice.
Rod looked up, startled.
A tall, slender young man leaned against the outer wall. His uniform was crisply pressed, and he wore a cap with a polished black visor. His sleeves were bare of insignia, but his shoulder boards were decorated with tiny brass razors.
Obviously an officer.
He turned his head, inclining it toward the slob. "Sergeant."
"Sir." Incredibly, the slob came to attention.
"You are out of uniform, and what you do have is more fatigued than fatigues. And your personal grooming doesn't exist."
"Yes, sir." Then, defiantly, "At least I'm here."
"Indeed you are—so you've only a dozen demerits, not fifty."
The slob winced. "Sir! That's me whole next paycheck!"
"Are you paid so little? My, my. But courage, old chap— a little extra spit and polish can win it back for you, over the next few months." He turned away, and stepped up to nudge Thaler with a boot-toe and a smile. "Poor chap. But what can you expect, really?"
At last, the officer turned to Rod. "You're really quite skilled, you know."
Rod shrugged. "Just a little special training. Your, ah, discipline, is rather, shall we say, remarkable."
The officer shrugged. "It's actually not bad at all, when you consider that our Wolmar was a prison planet, up 'til nine years ago. Nearly everyone here is a convict of one sort or another."
Rod stood stiff with shock, partly at discovering all these soldiers were criminals, and partly from the name of the planet. He didn't know that much about it, but he remembered it from his history books. After all, he was an agent for the Society for the Conversion of Extra-Terrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms, and before they'd sent him out searching for Terran-colonized planets whose governments were shaping up to become totalitarian, they'd told him a little about all the colonies that had been out of touch while PEST ruled the Terran Sphere. Wolmar had been one of them— one of the furthest from Terra. And it had stayed a prison until PEST cut it off from contact, and supply.
Which meant they were in their own universe, after all, but five hundred years before either of them had been born.
Gwen had been listening to his thoughts, of course. She stepped closer to him, clinging to his arm. He was glad; he needed the contact. Suddenly, their cozy little cottage seemed much, much farther away, and the wind of loneliness blew about their souls.
Thaler rolled over with a groan, opening his eyes to a painful squint. The officer looked down at him, shaking his head and clucking his tongue. "Intolerable, sergeant! Two unarmed civilians, seeking our protection—and what do their rescuers do? Attack them!"
Thaler sat up with a groan. "He wasn't unarmed, Lieutenant."
The lieutenant glanced at Rod's sword and rolled his eyes up. "That oversized toothpick? Don't be ridiculous, man! Report to your quarters until your hearing!"
Thaler blanched, but he managed to keep looking belligerent as he struggled to his feet and turned to go. As he passed by, he gave Rod a quick glare of hatred. Rod watched his retreating back, deciding that he always wanted to know when Thaler was around.
He turned back to the lieutenant, relaxing a little. Thaler's resentment was what he'd have expected from any sergeant talking to a fuzz-cheeked lieutenant—but this lieutenant wasn't extremely young anymore, and he bore himself with the self-confidence that can only come with experience. There was something about him, the way he held himself, that said he didn't need to rely on military rank to enforce his orders.
"My apologies, Sir and Madam." He bowed courteously to Rod, and a bit more courteously to Gwen. "I beg you to pardon that outburst. Please be assured of your welcome, regardless of what you have witnessed here."
"Why, thank you." Rod inclined his head in return, wondering why the lieutenant hadn't stopped the fight. Maybe because it didn't look as though anyone was apt to be killed.
"Thou art most considerate." Gwen dropped a small curtsy.
The lieutenant's eye held a gleam, but he buried it quickly. Rod gave him points for self-discipline—and wondered if it was really from self. "May I have your names, sir and madam?"
"Rodney Gallowglass." He was tempted to use his real name, "d'Armand," but decided against it. He caught Gwen's hand. "And this is my wife, Gwendylon."
Gwen looked up at him in surprise, and he heard her unspoken thought: Wherefore didst thou not use thy title?
Other countries, other customs, he answered silently. People like this are as likely to resent a lord as to honor him.
"Lieutenant Corrigan, at your service." The young officer clicked his heels and bobbed his head. "Now, Citizen Gallowglass, I would appreciate your explaining to me the presence of our honored antagonists." He nodded toward the outside of the main gate. Rod looked down, and saw a crowd of Wolmen, chanting the same word over and over again. With a shock, Rod realized it was, "Justice! Justice! Justice! Justice!"
"Not that they're unwelcome, you understand," Stuart explained, "but I would like to know the issue I'm going to be discussing."
"I'm afraid I don't really know," Rod confessed. "We were just standing there in the middle of the plain, minding our own business, when they came up over the ridge and started chasing us."
"Ah." The Lieutenant nodded. "A simple question of remuneration, no doubt. If you'll excuse me, I'll go discuss the issue with them." He bowed slightly with a click of the heels, and turned away.