Part 7 (2/2)

With that, the contact ended, and Hovan went to dreams of the coming reunion that were as pleasant as anyone could wish. Most of the next week and a half saw Hovan and Tarlac together continuously, the Ranger getting a crash course in all the basics of a Traiti clan, from Language to customs and courtesies. The Ordeal was neither short nor continuous, so he would be part of Traiti society for some time, both aboard the Hermnaen and on Homeworld. The more he knew about his adopted clan and culture, the better.

Even without that consideration, Tarlac was delighted at the opportunity for such studies. An acute case of curiosity was another part of being a Ranger, and the few fragments he'd picked up at first only increased his interest. He wondered for a while at their lack of teaching tapes, which meant he had to memorize everything the hard way, but that was fairly minor. His only problem with it was that he didn't expect to have everything perfect by the time they landed. Hovan agreed, but a.s.sured him n.o.body would expect perfection, only that he learn enough to avoid giving serious offense.

The first lesson, reasonably enough, dealt with military customs, and Tarlac found out that wearing his gun had meant respect to the Traiti, not a threat. They had cla.s.sed Rangers with the military, as fighters--and for one fighter to voluntarily meet others unarmed was a deadly insult. The Traiti were aware that there was no way Tarlac could have known that custom, but even so, the fact that he had come to them armed was seen as a good omen.

Language took more time, but was essential since not many Traiti spoke Imperial English at all, and even fewer spoke it as well as Arjen and Hovan. Tarlac found Language a challenge. English had become universal on Terra and its colonies, even where other languages were spoken; he'd never had to speak anything else, though he'd learned to read the cloudcats' tongue-talk.

And what the Traiti called simply Language had little in common with English. The most obvious difference was its tonality, much to Tarlac's frustration and Hovan's amus.e.m.e.nt. While the Ranger enjoyed and could appreciate music, he'd never done any serious singing; it took days for him to learn to make his voice do what he wanted it to.

But they didn't spend all their time working. Hovan was proud of his s.h.i.+p, and spent much of their leisure showing Steve the Hermnaen and its crew. Even though the flags.h.i.+p was considerably smaller than a Sovereign-cla.s.s cruiser, there was a lot to show; it was still a full-scale battlewagon. Tarlac was particularly interested in the small, one-man hara.s.sment craft it carried, and since Hovan had flown one of them in combat several times, his interest was just as intense and far more personal. It took only one close-up look, though, for Tarlac to understand why such tiny craft were so surprisingly effective.

Barely twelve meters long, the s.h.i.+ps humans had labelled ”hornets” were nothing more than a beam weapon and its power pack, with a propulsor and basic life-support system wrapped around it and given some armor and ablative s.h.i.+elding. It couldn't stand up to a hit from even a secondary disruptor, so a single hornet posed only a minimal threat to any Imperial s.h.i.+p larger than a courier--but they were normally launched in groups, used to saturate their opponent's defenses, letting the main battlecraft use its heavier weaponry in an all-out attack.

It was an effective tactic, one which had cost the Empire far too many lives and s.h.i.+ps. The Empire didn't know it also cost Traiti lives.

Imperial experts believed the little hara.s.sment craft were computer-controlled, because of their precise maneuvering and persistent attacks. It didn't really matter; the results were all that counted.

Unless, of course, the Ranger added grimly to himself, you happened to be one of the pilots.

Tarlac also found out how the fighters maintained their individual combat proficency at maximum. There was a constant series of one-on-one challenge matches that were as much entertainment as training for the crew. Every fighter on active duty, from Fleet-Captain Arjen to the lowest-ranking commando, was expected to take part, and did so with considerable enthusiasm and usually-friendly rivalry. Standings were hotly contested, and were seldom related to the partic.i.p.ant's rank or clan status--though Hovan was rated third in the Fleet.

The matches awed Tarlac, despite what he knew of Traiti endurance and strength. They might be fought with shortswords, or knives, or teeth and claws, at the match judge's option, but rules were minimal and it was perfectly acceptable for a fighter who lost a weapon to continue the match unarmed, no holds barred, until a clear winner emerged. That seldom happened without one or both contestants being wounded, though the judge would stop a match before anyone was maimed or killed.

While he was a very interested spectator, Tarlac didn't partic.i.p.ate in either the betting or the matches, which meant that few of the Traiti considered him a real fighter. He was regarded, he thought, as they would regard a youngling who called himself a fighter to impress his elders: with amused tolerance.

And that, Tarlac admitted to Hovan later, was very probably why he accepted when, three days out of Homeworld, a Fire Control operator named Valkan challenged him. It was the only reason he could think of for his impulsive acceptance, that he resented being treated like a child. He certainly hadn't done it because he thought he would be able to defeat his ma.s.sive opponent.

By the time the match in progress was over, word of the challenge and acceptance had spread throughout the s.h.i.+p. The grapevine, Tarlac reflected, must be the universe's most effective communications net for Traiti as well as humans. Almost all the off-duty crew gathered in the exercise hall to watch the uneven contest. Most were silent, though a few called encouragement to one combatant or the other, and there was the usual murmur of bets being placed as Tarlac and Valkan removed their s.h.i.+rts and weapons belts.

Tarlac accepted the dagger Hovan offered, getting the feel of it while his sponsor and Valkan spoke to the match judge. There was no question in his mind that what he held was intended as a weapon. Its slim double-edged blade was a quarter meter long, and the hilt, despite being a bit large for his hand, settled easily into the diagonal grip that allowed maximum effectiveness. All in all, the well-balanced blade had a deadly, efficient beauty.

When the brief discussion with the judge was over, Hovan gave Tarlac his ruling. ”He as I hoped decided, Steve. This will a knife fight be, since that more skill than strength requires. And for your safety, the judge has two conditions made. If you disarmed are, or if Valkan a good grip on you gets, he an automatic win earns. Otherwise you will both tournament points score, and the first to one hundred reach, wins.”

The Ranger nodded. ”That sounds reasonable. I'm ready.” He'd noticed Hovan's failure to mention any automatic win for him, and grinned briefly at the omission. He might not be likely to win, but he was determined to give it a good try. He faced Valkan and dropped into a knife-fighter's crouch as Hovan stepped back into the audience and the match judge took his place, giving the signal to begin.

Human and Traiti circled cautiously, evaluating each other. Hovan watched, hoping the judge's precautions would be adequate, though he didn't suspect Valkan of any true hostility toward Steve--not after seeing the K'horan fighter's reaction when Steve accepted challenge.

Valkan had been disconcerted, had seemed to want to call off a joke that had backfired, but he couldn't do so without loss of honor. Hovan did have some sympathy for him; he could imagine very clearly how he would be feeling in Valkan's place. He'd want to win, but without doing the human any real harm; it wouldn't be right to send anyone into the Ordeal injured. And he'd be having qualms about fighting the man at all. Steve was an adult fighter, a legal opponent--but Valkan would have to feel as if he were facing an underdeveloped youngling.

Tarlac neither knew about nor shared the Traiti's misgivings. He watched Valkan's moves closely, trying to spot a weakness. He could see none, and decided that if Valkan did have an Achilles' heel, it was psychological. The Traiti's bearing and moves were graceful--and confident.

The Ranger suppressed an urge to smile slightly at that. Of course Valkan was confident! He was taller, had a longer reach, and was accustomed to such matches. But if Tarlac could feed his opponent's confidence until it overwhelmed his caution . . . he'd only get one opening, at that . . .

He got the chance to begin putting his plan into effect almost immediately. The Traiti made the first move, lunging for Tarlac's chest. The Ranger dodged, Valkan's blade cutting air less than a centimeter from his skin. His counterattack was a split second too slow to give a disabling slash to Valkan's other arm.

It went on like that for the better part of ten minutes: the human escaping serious injury by what seemed pure luck, his attacks at most nicking his opponent. He was being steadily outpointed, and seemed to be tiring fast.

Hovan watched Steve's losing battle with concern that rapidly became dismay. If this was the Ranger's best, he would have little chance to survive his Ordeal. Granted, he was overmatched, but he shouldn't be moving so clumsily, gasping for breath, so soon!

And then Hovan saw Valkan decide to end it quickly. Steve was obviously near the end of his strength, but he continued to fight even when he had no chance of victory; that did him honor. Then the exhausted human stumbled to one knee with his head and shoulders slumped. Valkan moved in.

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