What was surprising was to find a member of Fleet standing there. As far as she knew, Colony Six had exclusive privileges on this planet. Could this be another AWOL from another Colony?
She strode politely if confidently up to the man and took in his bearing in a single sweep of her lovely green eyes: tall, husky, yellow Fleet stripe on his arm (like hers), buccaneer pants and boots (very vogue these days), tank top, series seven sword, no stunner, unnaturally curly hair. This last item was egocentric. Any man who had his hair set regularly was obviously glued on himself; this one was probably into an Errol Flynn thing (also very vogue these days). It could be merely swagger, but then she was flamboyant as well—and she was good! It was always prudent to test, even when you were the best.
“Station?” It was the expected universal greeting.
“Colony Twelve.”
She didn’t like the way he said it: snobbish, self-important. She didn’t like what his mouth did when it formed the words. But she was on official business, in a hurry. She’d give him the benefit of the doubt. “I’m Sheffield, Colony Six. On Fleet Apprehension Orders. Do you wish to assist?”
“No.”
It was the way he said it again. Ohh, this one was a smartass all right. That conceited, jutting chin, patronizing air. Probably a sexist to boot. She knew she should get about her business, leave this jerk to himself, but she couldn’t help adding one last item. “Are you aware that this planet is restricted to Colony Six personnel?”
“Is that a fact?”
“What is your business here?”
“I came to bag a Rhunk. With my sword.”
With his sword. Cute. Stuck on at the end to let her know he didn’t need a stunner to kill a Rhunk. Ohh, a real smartass all right. She knew what reaction her next words would elicit and she said them anyway.
“That’s against Fleet law.”
He smiled, widening the smarmy conceit, and his hand touched his sword hilt as she knew it would. “And you’re going to report me,” he filled-in for her.
“Yes.”
“Klete!” It was what she expected, one of the universal words for ‘on guard’ always followed by the swift unsheathing of the challenger’s sword. There were other words, but “Klete’ was the most widely used. Either she followed suit now or faced ridicule.
“Hawn!” Her word. Ancient Oriental, like her fighting style. Neither was widely known and rarely practiced, which was why she chose them. Her sword literally sang from its scabbard— shiiinggg!— a result of the friction of twin blade sharpeners employed within her case. It wasn’t impossible to buy such a scabbard but they were known only to the elite.
His sword, she noticed made a sound like shuuunk. No sharpeners. He might be a prima donna but he wasn’t in her league.
She stepped in immediately, not wasting time, with a deliberately slowed English shoulder thrust, sacrificing style now to see what he could do. He parried nicely—anyone could have—but still, his movements were quite dexterous, even admirable. She pivoted next, went low and tried a Cyrnian volupe to the solar plexus. Again he blocked with ease, adding a quick counter slice when he leapt lightly back that was supposed to put her off balance. It didn’t, of course, but he was above average, definitely.
She played with him for a time, letting him get in some false scores until she knew his every strength and weakness. And, although the latter far outnumbered the former, she found him an exceptional swordsman with the potential to be even better—if he stopped spending all his time in the beauty salon. It would be a pity, she decided, to waste someone who could be an asset to Fleet.
She stepped back, clicked her heels together, and pointed her sword stiffly at the forest floor to her right. It mean either, I yield or Let’s reconsider. “You’re a fine swordsman. I don’t wish you
She strode politely if confidently up to the man and took in his bearing in a single sweep of her lovely green eyes: tall, husky, yellow Fleet stripe on his arm (like hers), buccaneer pants and boots (very vogue these days), tank top, series seven sword, no stunner, unnaturally curly hair. This last item was egocentric. Any man who had his hair set regularly was obviously glued on himself; this one was probably into an Errol Flynn thing (also very vogue these days). It could be merely swagger, but then she was flamboyant as well—and she was good! It was always prudent to test, even when you were the best.
“Station?” It was the expected universal greeting.
“Colony Twelve.”
She didn’t like the way he said it: snobbish, self-important. She didn’t like what his mouth did when it formed the words. But she was on official business, in a hurry. She’d give him the benefit of the doubt. “I’m Sheffield, Colony Six. On Fleet Apprehension Orders. Do you wish to assist?”
“No.”
It was the way he said it again. Ohh, this one was a smartass all right. That conceited, jutting chin, patronizing air. Probably a sexist to boot. She knew she should get about her business, leave this jerk to himself, but she couldn’t help adding one last item. “Are you aware that this planet is restricted to Colony Six personnel?”
“Is that a fact?”
“What is your business here?”
“I came to bag a Rhunk. With my sword.”
With his sword. Cute. Stuck on at the end to let her know he didn’t need a stunner to kill a Rhunk. Ohh, a real smartass all right. She knew what reaction her next words would elicit and she said them anyway.
“That’s against Fleet law.”
He smiled, widening the smarmy conceit, and his hand touched his sword hilt as she knew it would. “And you’re going to report me,” he filled-in for her.
“Yes.”
“Klete!” It was what she expected, one of the universal words for ‘on guard’ always followed by the swift unsheathing of the challenger’s sword. There were other words, but “Klete’ was the most widely used. Either she followed suit now or faced ridicule.
“Hawn!” Her word. Ancient Oriental, like her fighting style. Neither was widely known and rarely practiced, which was why she chose them. Her sword literally sang from its scabbard— shiiinggg!— a result of the friction of twin blade sharpeners employed within her case. It wasn’t impossible to buy such a scabbard but they were known only to the elite.
His sword, she noticed made a sound like shuuunk. No sharpeners. He might be a prima donna but he wasn’t in her league.
She stepped in immediately, not wasting time, with a deliberately slowed English shoulder thrust, sacrificing style now to see what he could do. He parried nicely—anyone could have—but still, his movements were quite dexterous, even admirable. She pivoted next, went low and tried a Cyrnian volupe to the solar plexus. Again he blocked with ease, adding a quick counter slice when he leapt lightly back that was supposed to put her off balance. It didn’t, of course, but he was above average, definitely.
She played with him for a time, letting him get in some false scores until she knew his every strength and weakness. And, although the latter far outnumbered the former, she found him an exceptional swordsman with the potential to be even better—if he stopped spending all his time in the beauty salon. It would be a pity, she decided, to waste someone who could be an asset to Fleet.
She stepped back, clicked her heels together, and pointed her sword stiffly at the forest floor to her right. It mean either, I yield or Let’s reconsider. “You’re a fine swordsman. I don’t wish you
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