Matt frowned. “That’s okay, Boats. I’ll give ’em a show, whatever they think.”
“That’s the spirit, sir! You’ve been in worse scrapes before.”
Matt nodded thoughtfully. He had. “Who’d you bet on?”
“You, of course.” He glared at Jenks. “Penny-pinchin’ devil didn’t give me enough money to do it up right, and he demanded fifty percent of my winnings too!”
“It was a risky wager,” Jenks reminded him. He paused. “The good thing is, your opponent will likely ‘stretch it out.’ He’s a ‘professional,’ and makes his living at this. He’ll want to make it look good; provide a ‘spectacle.’ That should give you plenty of time to practice your new, ‘predictable’ style against him.” He stopped. “Please excuse me,” he said, stepping away to meet his wife, waiting behind the rope line. They saw him cradle her chin with his hand.
“Weird duck,” Stites pronounced, fiddling with a tarp-covered crate they’d sent up the day before. “All of ’em. Weird ducks. Treat wimmen like pets, or worse, but Jenks does love that gal. I wonder if he ‘bought’ her.”
“I sorta loved a dog once,” Gray grumbled. “Damn fine bitch. Even so, my mother woulda cased me out if I treated a woman like I did that dog.” He paused. “Skipper, are we even sure this is our fight? We got women now- though I ain’t personally-and a hell of a fight all our own, a long way from here. I know we wanna save our girls, and even Silva, but… well, you know as well as I do that’s… probably out of our hands.” It was the closest anyone had come to actually saying the hostages were probably lost with Ajax. “We still need to kill the Company and that’s a fact, but… this is a lot bigger than that now.”
Matt looked at the Bosun, but for an instant he was seeing the face of Don Hernan, and remembering that… twisted interview. He was personally convinced that the “Blood Cardinal” was up to his neck in whatever was going on, though he still didn’t know how.
“You’re right,” he said. “This is way bigger than that. But it is our fight because we’re here.” He snorted. “Hell, Boats, that’s what we’ve been doing for the last two years, since Pearl Harbor: fighting the war we’re at. I’m not saying we need another war, or even that I like this Imperial setup much, but I have started to like the people. Some of ’em. Right now I think they need us… and damn it, we need them. That Don Hernan gives me the creeps worse than the first Griks I ever saw. In a way, he and his Dominion strike me as even worse than the Grik because they’re people that act the way they do. And this Reed and the Company…” He shook his head in exasperation. “Hell, I don’t even try to calculate ‘shades of gray’ anymore. There’s just too many. All we can do is try to look underneath them all to see if we can find the basic black or white, good or bad. Maybe I’m a sucker, but I can’t help feeling that if we quit trying to find good folks on this world, even if we run into more bad ones while we’re at it, we might as well steam back to Baalkpan and wait for the Grik to return and finish us off.”
Gray nodded slowly, staring out at the dueling ground. “Aye, sir. Maybe so. I sure would like to get me one of them gals and spend a year or two retired before I croak, though.”
Stites rolled his eyes. “S.B., if you ever ‘retired,’ we’d be buryin’ you from boredom in a week.”
Horns sounded, and the combatants moved to face one another across the field. It had been decided that the contests would be simultaneous. Despite the gladiatorial atmosphere, the layout of the dueling ground itself reminded Matt of a football stadium in a forest. The architecture was surprisingly familiar, and the thick woods of Imperial Park surrounding the grounds were unlike anything Matt had ever seen on the “old” islands. They looked more like pines. The spectators on one side occupied an expansive set of wooden bleachers, built around the Imperial viewing box. The Governor-Emperor stood in his box with Andrew and a number of military officers. All were dressed in their Sunday best and wore impassive expressions, but it was clear whose side they were on. The bleachers around them thundered with noise, the accumulated effect of perhaps four thousand voices talking at once.
There was a stark contrast between that and the “opposing” bleachers. Don Hernan occupied that box, surrounded by a phalanx of priests and a few local clergy. Matt was surprised to learn that the Empire allowed Blood Priests of the Holy Dominion to preach on its soil, but it did. Only those of the English Church enjoyed full citizenship, but vestiges of Hinduism and Mohammadism still lingered as well.
“Oh, that’s done it,” Jenks said aside to him as they strode forward. He sounded stunned.
“What?”
“Look there.” Jenks pointed. Joining Don Hernan in the opposing box was Harrison Reed himself, followed by a large entourage. Many of the spectators on that side hissed and grumbled and began to get up and leave, apparently outraged, making their way to the opposite bleachers. “Good God, we were right! Reed’s declared himself!”
“Why wouldn’t he be on that side?” Matt asked. “You represent the Governor-Emperor and your argument’s with Reed.”
“That may be how it seems, my friend, but that’s not exactly how it is. Technically, ‘on the field,’ I represent only myself. That’s why, close as we admittedly are, His Majesty has taken no official notice. Reed should be- normally would be-watching from the same box as the Governor-Emperor, pretending to be his very best friend. By standing with Don Hernan, he has made this a political fight. Worse, he’s declared himself against the Governor- Emperor and with Don Hernan! See? Even much of the Company baggage is clearing from the opposing stands! For the most part, nobody hates the Doms worse than the Company! Even Billingsley despised them! Called them ‘Roman Witches and Freaks.’ ”
“Then… I’m more confused than ever. Why work together? Why would Reed stand with them?”
“They work together for ‘the Trade,’ the commerce in people that you hate so much. It’s the Dominion’s cheapest, most plentiful resource and the Company’s most lucrative commodity. Otherwise, the Company and the Dominion couldn’t be further apart-I see you don’t understand, but we don’t have time to go into economics. Suffice to say for now that they hate one another. Up ’til now, they needed one another more.”
“What’s changed? Why would Reed show his hand?”
“ Everything’s changed. We were right, it will be today. Reed has chosen his side and thinks he’s safe to do so. Stop here.”
“Well… that’s nuts. Won’t he be arrested, for treason or something?”
“Just as soon as our little ‘entertainment’ is over,” Jenks swore.
They’d reached the center of the field and the now much larger “home” crowd cheered lustily. An announcer was introducing them with a speaking trumpet, but Matt couldn’t hear the words.
“And in This corner,” Matt muttered to himself as their opponents strode to meet them. The slick-haired man was dressed much as he’d been that night a week before. His lips still bore heavy scabs and his crooked grin was missing a couple of teeth. He moved like the professional he was, but his eyes glinted with hatred and anticipation-as though he expected to enjoy this chore.
“What?” Jenks asked.
“Skip it. Who’s your guy?”
“I’ve no idea. It doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t even know ‘my’ guy’s name. Will we say ‘hello,’ or just ‘come out swinging’?”
“We won’t say ‘hello.’ ”
“We’ll just start hacking away at each other, perfect strangers?”
Jenks sighed. “As soon as the Imperial Marshal inspects our weapons, reads the complaint, and gives the signal, yes. Now please stop distracting me and concentrate on what you must do!”
Matt smirked. He supposed he should be nervous, but his mind was already far beyond the moment, worrying about everything else going on. Somehow, he couldn’t escape the suspicion he was missing something. He knew he had to focus, or all that other stuff very shortly wouldn’t matter to him anymore. Like the others, he submitted his sword for inspection and half listened to the various complaints and the Rules of Combat. Jenks had gone over the rules with him pretty carefully. Finally, the marshal stepped back and held a kerchief high, fluttering in the morning breeze. There was a hush in the stands.
“What’s your name?” Matt blurted at the slick-haired man. He didn’t know why he did it. Maybe it was a final, subconscious attempt to think of him as a man. His opponent seemed taken aback, but sneered as best he could around his broken lips.
“Does it ’atter? You’ll soon be dead.”
Matt shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t after all.”
The kerchief dropped.
