Randall narrowed his eyes. “Is that a threat?”
“No, Mr. Randall. It’s an opportunity for you to shut your mouth and show me who’s the better man.” Sikander let his arm drop. “You were full of opinions last night. I’d like to hear what you might say to me in the gym when no one else is around.”
The operations officer glared at Sikander, but he did not back down. “All right, North, but you ought to be careful what you wish for. I won the Academy’s silver belt for kickboxing three years running.”
Sikander simply held Randall’s gaze a moment longer, then yanked the hatch open and left the room. He set up the gym reservation on his dataslate before he reached the Gunnery Department office and returned to the transit preparations.
* * *
Hector activated her warp rings precisely on time, and the ship settled into its FTL routine. A bubbled ship was a strange little island universe, cut off from outside communications and events. The gym was naturally popular during warp transits, so the first free time Sikander could schedule was late in the evening. That suited him just fine. He skipped dinner, and used the opportunity to retrieve vids of Randall’s Academy kickboxing bouts from the ship’s extensive files. If Randall was proud of his record, then Sikander was more than happy to study his technique ahead of time.
Sikander found Hiram Randall waiting for him when he arrived in the ship’s gym a few minutes before 2200. The Aquilan officer wore long athletic trunks and light striking pads on his fists, elbows, and feet; he bounced on the balls of his feet and threw quick punches in the air as he warmed up, until his torso was gleaming with sweat. Chief Petty Officer Trent, the ship’s master-at-arms and the supervisor of all hand-to-hand combat training on board Hector, stood nearby, watching with her arms folded. She was a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a studied lack of curiosity in her posture, and any kind of sparring or other use of the gym was under her purview. There was simply no way that Randall and Sikander were going to be able to fight without Chief Trent standing ready to intervene if things got out of hand.
Randall gave Sikander a single contemptuous glance and went back to his warm-ups, but when Darvesh followed Sikander into the gym, he scowled and lowered his hands. “What the hell is this?” he demanded of Sikander. “Is your butler going to step in and take your beating for you?”
“Mr. North has instructed me not to interfere, Mr. Randall,” Darvesh told him. “I must caution you that I will be forced to do so if I see you make use of a lethal technique or continue to strike Mr. North after he has been rendered defenseless.”
“I’m not going to kill him,” Randall snarled. He looked at Chief Trent and jerked his thumb at the valet. “Make sure he stays out of this.”
Trent shrugged her heavy shoulders. “I kind of agree with Chief Reza, sir. I’ll step in if I see either of you make this any stupider than it has to be. For that matter, I’ll step in if either of you cries uncle, because the XO will have my head if I don’t. But we’ll both stay out of it as long as you two gentlemen keep it clean. Right, Chief Reza?”
Darvesh nodded to her. “As you say, Chief Trent.”
“Fine,” said Randall. He turned his back on Sikander and went back to his warm-ups.
Sikander peeled off his workout gear, stripping down to sparring trunks. He ignored Randall and began his own warm-up routine, a set of standing yoga exercises mixed in with plenty of stretching and some shadow-boxing. For his own part, Sikander preferred Kashmiri bhuja-yuddha. It was a mixed style that emphasized locks, throws, and close-in strikes. Every North received a decent amount of training in both armed and unarmed combat as soon as they were old enough, and it had been one of the few interests he’d developed as a young man that his parents approved of.
When his muscles felt loose and warm, he allowed Darvesh to strap on his striking pads. He would have been happy to dispense with them, but this was ostensibly a friendly sparring session—the equipment was required. He tested the snugness and fit of the pads, then looked over to Chief Trent and nodded. Randall was already waiting.
The master-at-arms motioned for Randall and Sikander to step onto the mat. “Okay, gentlemen. You know the rules—no lethal techniques, otherwise unlimited. We’ll observe three-minute rounds. If you step out of the ring, I’ll issue a warning the first time, and stop the bout if it happens again. No contact after the bell or outside the ring. If I call a stop for any reason, you will immediately break contact and return to your corners. Understood?”
Sikander nodded. “I understand,” he said. Randall just nodded.
Trent looked at each one in turn. “Three rounds enough?”
“Two more than I’ll need,” Randall said.
“Three rounds are fine,” Sikander said. He didn’t think it would last that long, either.
“To your corners. Mouth guards in, and wait for the bell.” Trent retreated out of the way as Sikander and Randall waited. She studied the two fighters for a moment, then pressed the signal device at her belt. The ring’s bell chimed sharply.
Sikander settled into his fighting crouch and advanced. Randall came out to meet him, light on the balls of his feet. They circled warily for a moment, as Sikander studied his opponent’s stance and compared it to what he’d seen in the vid records. Close, but not quite the same, he decided. Randall was still quick and light on his feet, but his footwork was quieter, a little less energetic; he seemed a little more cautious than he had in the records Sikander had watched. More discipline and experience? A little rusty and conscious of being out of practice? Or had he studied vids of Sikander’s own wrestling bouts from the Academy and worked out a different set of tactics?
The distance between them steadily narrowed—and then Randall launched his first attack, throwing a hard front kick at Sikander’s midsection. Sikander got his knee up to block, and Randall threw a quick round kick from the other side. Sikander took a hit to his thigh and tried to get outside Randall’s legs, but the Aquilan circled away. In a long bout, Sikander might have stayed at a distance and waited for a chance to catch a kick and turn it into a takedown, but this wasn’t about outlasting his rival; he wanted to hit Randall, and just make sure he didn’t let a fight-ending punch or kick get through before he could.
He pushed forward, and in the space of an instant the two were engaged in a furious exchange of knees, elbows, and short jabs. Neither gave much thought to defense, punching hard and taking hard hits in return. Sikander took a stiff jab to the jaw and a knee to the side that just about lifted him off the mat; he landed a hard right hook in Randall’s ribs, a knee to the thigh, and then he ducked under the next punch and got his hands on the Aquilan’s back leg. Randall punished him with a couple of off-balance hits to his head and shoulders, but Sikander got him up off his feet and drove him into the mat. On the ground Randall balled up and raised his hands to defend himself while Sikander attacked furiously, scoring brutally through Randall’s guard. Then Randall got one foot up into position to push Sikander away from him, and scrambled to his feet before Sikander could get back on top of him.
“Round! Round!” Chief Trent called. Sikander backed off, and realized that the three-minute bell was ringing. He’d almost forgotten there would be a break; slowly he retreated to the side of the ring, and took stock of his injuries. His thigh ached, his ribs were sore, he had the taste of blood in his mouth—but looking across the ring at his rival, he could see that Randall’s eye was already swelling and he was wincing as he walked around. When did I punch him in the eye?