“He had no orders from me,” the Praetor said.
“It was from him that I learned to come to the Gymnasium.”
The Praetor appeared surprised. “I left a note on my door. Perhaps he read it and took it upon himself to deliver the message.”
“Ah,” said Lycon.
“He spoke with you?”
“The Chief Monitor hailed me.”
“Without correct address?” the Praetor asked.
Lycon nodded.
“He will be punished.”
Lycon rubbed his jaw. “He touched me. He grabbed my arm to stop me.”
The Praetor blinked. “You can verify this?”
Lycon hid his anger at being asked such a question. “I struck him for this outrage. Unfortunately, my blow killed.”
“You killed my Chief Monitor?”
Lycon pulled out his recorder. “If you would care to replay this…”
The Praetor accepted the slender recorder and listened to the premen. “You acted correctly,” he said later, returning the recorder.
“It was not my wish to kill him,” said Lycon.
“Next time I won’t select a fool for a Chief Monitor. I hold no ill will, Training Master.”
Lycon dipped his head.
“Now, come with me.” The Praetor strode toward the wall.
Lycon was puzzled but said nothing. He was relieved the Praetor had taken the Chief Monitor’s death so well. Some Highborn became attached to their premen.
The Praetor strode to the wall, glanced about—no one seemed to be watching—and spoke sharply. A section of wall slid open. The Praetor hurried through and Lycon followed.
Behind them, the wall section slid shut. Lights snapped on. They stood in a small changing room, complete with lockers and benches. The Praetor marched to the farthest bench and opened a locker, taking out leather garments.
“Yours are in the next one,” said the Praetor.
Lycon hesitated.
The Praetor, perhaps alert for this, asked, “Is something wrong, Training Master?”
“I don’t understand the meaning of this.”
“Exercise.”
“I have plenty of it while training the shock troops.”
“I’m certain of that, Training Master. But I have so many chores and tasks that often I’m forced to skip physical activity. Also, you’re an infantry specialist. So I wanted your opinion, and how better than to actually engage in it.”
“It, Praetor?”
“Oh, do leave me my surprises, Training Master. It’s finally ready and you’re the first beside me to run through it.”
Highborn prided themselves on snap decisions. Lycon wasn’t any different. “Yes, of course,” he said.
He disrobed, folding his blue uniform. Beside him, the Praetor did likewise. Both were highly muscled and perfectly toned. Flab appeared nowhere on the Praetor, despite his protests of lack of exercise. Lycon was thinner and leaner, although compared to a preman he was massive and thick. Both donned skin-suits and went barefoot.
“You’ll have to leave your sidearm behind,” the Praetor said.
Lycon set his big gun on top of his uniform. Then he put them in a locker.
“Take this,” said the Praetor.
Lycon accepted gauntlets with small iron knobs on the knuckles. He watched the Praetor slip on his own pair.
“Are we to spar?” asked Lycon.
The Praetor’s weird pink eyes seemed to glitter. “Does such a prospect worry an infantry specialist?”
“Only a fool ignores the odds,” Lycon said. “I do not like to think of myself as a fool.”
“Well said, Training Master. No, it is not my wish to spar today. Rather, we hunt.”
“What?”
“That is an interesting question,” the Praetor said. “I haven’t yet thought of a formal name. Perhaps after today you can name them for me.”
Lycon liked this less and less. He followed the Praetor out the locker room and through another sliding wall.
14.
They entered a huge room unlike any other in the Sun Works Factory, a former zoological area. It seemed endless. Sand, tall cacti and sagebrush was everywhere, together with rolling dunes and rust-colored boulders. Overhead, an undeterminable distance away, shined what seemed to be a sun. A breeze blew. Birds called.
“Observe,” said the Praetor, pointing.
Lycon frowned. A vulture wheeled overhead. “Is it real?”
“A holo-image, but very convincing. Yes?”
“Are there any real animals here?”
“Most certainly.”
“The ones we are to hunt?” asked Lycon.
The Praetor said, “Perhaps hunt isn’t the correct word. Perhaps it is we who are the prey.” He slapped the wall. “We can’t get out this way. We have to cross the dunes to the other side.”
Lycon dared put a hand on the Praetor’s forearm. “Am I to believe that you would allow yourself to be hunted, the Praetor of the Sun Works Factory, the Fourth Highest among us?”
The Praetor stared haughtily at the hand.
Lycon removed it.
The Praetor considered the dunes as he expanded his massive chest. He exuded power and rank and something the Highborn referred to as excellence. “Yes. I allow myself to be hunted.”
“Why? “To prove a point.”
“Which is?”
“Walk with me,” the Praetor said, with a harder tone.
Lycon moved on the balls of his feet, listening, watching and ready for some insane beast, a wolf-tiger hybrid or some other monstrosity, to leap out and attack.
The Praetor also watched, his head swiveling like a lion, his pink eyes alert and alive.
“It would help if I knew what to look for,” Lycon said.
“I will pose a question. How can two million Highborn conquer the Solar System?”
Was this a complaint against the Grand Admiral’s strategy? Lycon didn’t think so, but…
“Earth alone holds forty billion premen,” the Praetor said.
“Our conquest of the Inner Planets moves strictly according to the Grand Admiral’s scheme,” said Lycon
“Ah,” the Praetor said. “Therein is your reluctance, eh? Rest assured that I am not asking in a seditious manner. No. Think of it as a… as a philosophical question.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
The Praetor froze. His nostrils widened. Tension coiled with unbelievable urgency. Although motionless, a frenzy seemed to have gripped him.
