A buzz ran through the crowd. Balanced on his powerful retrograde legs, his chitin shiny with oil, the Ramanthian was very imposing. There was the rasp of high grade steel as Horgo drew his weapon, slashed the air into four equal sections, and restored the blade to its scabbard. The odds changed again. The cabal and its champion were favored to win.
Maylo made an adjustment to her nose plugs and spoke to her uncle. The words had a nasal quality.
“That was impressive.”
“Ceremonial displays usually are,” the industrialist observed. “It’s what happens when blade meets blade that matters.”
The sun was hot, but Maylo shivered.
DomaSa looked strangely vulnerable as he entered the arena. His robe flapped around his knees, and he carried a bundle bound with twine. He paused, turned a long slow circle, and nodded as if satisfied. Then, with the care of a surgeon preparing her instruments, he gave a tug on the string, and flicked the roll toward the east. Dust spurted up around the edges of the fabric as the quilt-like material hit the orange-red dirt. Sunlight rippled along the surface of the thousand-year-old blade It was called Head Taker and had been handed down through DomaSa’s family the way all things of value were allocated: by force. Like all such weapons, it had two edges, one straight, one with razor-sharp teeth.
Another buzz ran through the crowd. Did the Hudathan know how to use the weapon? Why have such an implement if he didn’t? The odds turned and surged the other way. That’s when DomaSa dropped his robe, the audience watched his skin shift toward white, and realized how big he truly was. Leather crossstraps bulged where they sought to span his chest, muscles rippled along massive arms, and his legs looked like tree trunks. The diplomat bent to take the sword. Light danced the length of the blade and more bets were placed.
A robot named Harold had been designated to officiate the event. His day suit had been painted on. A hover cam appeared. Once shiny metal had been dulled by hard use. Maylo knew who the device belonged to. Though unwilling or unable to venture out onto the surface of their planet, the Arballazanies were interested nonetheless. Somewhere, far below, they watched as Harold made his way to the center of the arena.
Harold motioned the duelists forward. His voice was amplified. “Before the duel begins, before blood is shed, the President begs both parties to reconsider. The Confederacy is built on the rule of taw, not violence, and there are equitable ways in which to solve our differences. Will one or both parties yield to reason? No? Then let the contest begin.”
There was no salute, no words of respect, since neither one of the opponents was willing to honor the other’s traditions. They circled to the right. The Hudathan held his weapon in the onguard position, his torso turned slightly inward, his rear arm touching his hip.
The Ramanthian shuffled sideways, watching the way DomaSa held himself, and waited for the attack. Though too young to fight in the last war, Horgo had studied it, and drawn certain conclusions. Hudathans were aggressive, impatient, and overly reliant on brute force. All of which suggested that DomaSa would come to him.
DomaSa watched the sun, waited till his shadow pointed at his opponent’s feet, and launched a head cut.
The War Omo flicked his head to the right, waited for the moment of full extension, and made the forward lunge.
The Hudathan took note of the other being’s speed, parried the incoming blade, and recovered his ground.
Encouraged by the small retreat, the Ramanthian brought his left foot forward, and timed the chest cut to coincide with the end of the movement. Steel flashed past his face, something tugged at his air mask, and his lungs sucked hot thin air.
A murmur of approval ran through the crowd, and Senator Omo displayed the equivalent of a frown. Ambassador Ishimoto Seven and Senator Haf Noother stayed where they were, but others edged away. The combatants continued their slow deliberate dance. The War Omo found that it was hard to breathe. Time was running out. He backpedaled as if afraid, waited for DomaSa to commit, and opened his wings. The wind rushed in, his feet left the ground, and the Ramanthian was airborne. His sword fell, found the Hudathan’s shoulder, and cut to the bone. Blood flowed and Senator Omo whistled his shrill approval.
DomaSa cursed his own stupidity, shifted his sword from the right hand to the left, and parried the next blow. The bug could fly! How could he miss that? Gravel slipped out from under his boots as he fell. The Ramanthian beat his way forward—leg spurs at the ready. Shaped like claws, and razor sharp, they could rip through chitin. Still lying on his back, the Omo’s wings pushing air down into his face. the Hudathan slashed with his sword. Steel sliced through the outer surface of a leg, and the Ramanthian flinched.
This was the opportunity DomaSa had been waiting for. The bug couldn’t land—not and stand upright. That would keep him in the air... or so the diplomat hoped. He rocked forward, found his feet, and surged upwards.
The War Omo responded, or tried to, but discovered that his belly was exposed. Head Taker stabbed upwards, the Ramanthian screeched in agony, and Maylo closed her eyes. The War Omo fell, the Hudathan jerked his weapon free, and the body hit the dirt. A cloud of blood-red dust rose, the crowd fell silent, and the duel was over. Androids rushed to dress DomaSa’s wound and peers hurried to congratulate him.
Senator Omo felt a terrible sense of sorrow and shuffled his way forward. The War Omo and he had been hatched within seconds of each other, had courted the Egg Omo as a pair, and promised many things. Visions, dreams,
