Red/Shift
By
Geoffrey Thorne
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2005 Geoffrey Thorne
He watched them as they arrived– Breminsky, his second, a small retinue consisting of a couple of females, petty ‘ristos, a monkey and some sort of medical ‘bot to clean things up after. One of the females, the silver haired one with the champagne flute figure, tittered nervously, whispering something to the other in that weird dialect the young of this region used.
"Ookan nom tis plaz?" she said. The other female, smaller, duskier and with more inviting curves, shook her head and drew her wrap tighter around her shoulders.
Not surprising that she wouldn't know. There'd been no use for cemeteries in these parts for a good century. Baldwin's Rest had been pretty much forgotten. Cremation or burial in space were the current methods of corpse disposal.
He liked the bleak and dreary atmosphere that still hung on the place. It, more than any other locale on Mars, reminded him of home and of better times long ago.
It also made the ‘ristos nervous.
After another bit of waiting, Breminsky's wiry blond stick of a Second stepped forward and said, "Reevel thyself, o'forfeit.” The quaver in his voice was slight but it was there.
All right. All right. Enough preamble.
He stepped out from behind one of the larger tombs, his jacket and waistcoat a bright scarlet counter to his enemies' metallics and black. He bowed and stepped forward. A little breeze kicked up as he advanced, lifting his cloak like a sail behind him.
The females were impressed. They always were. It was one of the perks of his condition, one of the many. Indeed it was the attentions of one of Breminsky's females that had brought the challenge in the first place.
This Breminsky fancied himself a cavalier and so kept a small harem. For some offworld bravo, one with no proper introduction to his caste, to even touch one of his females, was the height of presumption. That this one had done so and, further, had scrupled to draw one of them out, across a dance hall, right in front of Breminsky and his crew was quite beyond the pale.
The interloper had danced with her, turned her head with wine and talk and flicked her back to Breminsky like some too small salmon from an ancient Earthly stream. The affront was obvious and could not be ignored. Breminsky had challenged him right there in the hall.
It was a mistake.
As challenger, Breminsky relinquished choice of field and of weapon. Breminsky had gained local fame for his skill with the klef; a sort of long handled, triangular cleaver with a notch at the business end.
The challenged suggested rapiers.
Duels were generally fought in zero g, a hold-over from the settlers' spacer days, in an omnasium.
The challenged suggested Baldwin's Rest in the lee of Elysium Mons at full grav. Breminsky couldn't refuse without losing face amongst his peers.
The customary time for such an event was midnight, "halfdark" as the Martians called it.
No, not Mars anymore, he reminded himself. Ares. They had renamed the place for some capricious reason or other. It wouldn't do to forget that. It would be impolite.
"Thee numer duze?" said the Second.
"No need," was the response, in Standard. They understood, even if they chose not to use, the language of their elders. What possible use would he have for a Second?
Breminsky sipped the last of his wine and muttered something.
The Second pulled a small cutter from his belt and used its laser to carve a wide circle in the turf. The arena.
"Position," said the Second.
The combatants took their places at opposite ends of the circle and waited.
"Terms?" said the Second.
Breminsky held up three fingers, eliciting a gasp from several members of his party. Third blood. Breminsky would only be satisfied by mortally wounding the challenged. The female who'd been the object of the dispute had been one of his favorites.
His opponent smiled and held up his own three.
"'Cepted," said The Second.
The Second recited the rules of the game. They hadn't changed much over the centuries. There would be three passes, each ending when one or both duelists had drawn blood. At each juncture they would be asked if they wished to go on. Since both of them had accepted Third Blood the medicus was adjusted to accommodate punctured lungs or severed jugulars.
"Stand," said the Second.
The combatants raised their steel in obligatory salute.
"Proceed."
***
The snitchboard had said he'd be at Castle this evening. It was an anonymous tip but with enough detail that she was persuaded. She hastily threw on her fluxmesh, holstered her stunner and hopped the next tube for the rim.
A little after halfdark, the tipster had said.
She was tracking a duelist, a new one. He was good and he was careful. Multiple duels, multiple victories, growing notoriety yet complete anonymity. Or nearly complete. He'd been central in the disappearances of a few petty ‘ristos- at least five so far- though no one could pin anything to him, as no bodies ever turned up post the vanishings. Nor had any ransoms been requested for their safe return.
Hell, no one could even agree on his name.
Cerise, someone had thought, or Ruby.
They were funny names for a duelist, especially one this successful. There had been little beyond the rumored blade artistry and the odd nicknames, nothing in fact.
Well, she'd collared worse with less. And she could use the overtime.
Castle was a dual platform club; part VR and part actual. Since it was a floater, connected to the tower only by gaffrods and optic cables, the owners had a lot of discretion as to permits and clientele. It was an anything-goes kind of place where one could find just about anything one wanted if one was willing to pay.
She flashed her creds at the doorbot and was immediately ushered inside.
“Welcome to Castle, Officer Elzin”, said a voice at her left.
She turned to see the host, or rather his holo, standing beside her.
“To what do we owe the pleasure, officer?” it said.
"I'm tracking a duelist," she said. "Recent arrival, possibly illegal."
She displayed the render for him. He didn't, or claimed he didn't, recognize the man. She'd expected as much. The few actual witnesses to The Duelist’s activities were less than helpful when it came to a description. Not tall, not short, not dark nor pale, not Spacer, not Aresian but certainly not an Earther. Not not not.
The only real agreement was on the Duelist’s manner of dress. More precisely the color.
Red.
From neck to heel The Duelist insisted on this uniformity of hue. Odd. Conspicuous. And yet, not. Again not.
She took a position in a corner which afforded an unobstructed view of the gate and settled down. She had time and the dancers were pretty if nothing much else. She ordered an ale and waited. An hour later her patience was rewarded with the arrival of a male figure, scarlet draped, and sporting a blade of archaic design.
She tossed back the last of her drink and moved in for a better look. She lost him for a second in the crowd only to catch a glimpse of crimson disappearing into the VIP chamber. Another doorbot blocked her momentarily when she went to follow but her APOL codes made short shrift of that.
This room was somewhat smaller than the other but no less jammed with patrons. The Duelist, like the rest of this party, was engaged in some sort of competition– a word game. A beautiful woman displaying the signet of Kazugi-Sheperton seemed to be in the position of judge. She gestured lazily and a bravo in purple and gold rose and stepped to the center of the crude ring formed by the crowd.
"Choose," said Kazugi-Sheperton through a mouth of soy powder.
"Rhyme," said the bravo.
"Form?"
"Riddle," was the reply.
"Challenge."
The bravo drew his sword, the more traditional klef, and pointed toward the Duelist. That one, for his part, simply rose and bowed.
"I am ready, sir," he said.
Elzin was transfixed. The man was beautiful. Tall and slender and elegant in a way that made his features seem more sculpted than organic. Her pulse actually quickened at the sight of him. How had this amazing specimen managed to maintain even a shred of anonymity?
The bravo cleared his throat and began to speak.
"My petal blooms in many rooms
In space it grows in splendor.
O2 it needs to fill its greed
but fission makes it render."
The Duelist smiled wanly. It was plain he’d expected something more challenging. "Fire," he said simply. "You are fire."
The bravo blanched a bit and nodded.
"Point," said Kazugi-Sheperton. "Second pass."
The Duelist replaced his opponent at the ring's center, nodded to the judges, and began.
"Blood is lovely. Blood is life, a rolling, boiling treasure. I walk in beauty, like a knife, to feed my hunger's pleasure," he said. "What am I?"
Elzin watched, amused, as embarrassment and pique fought for control of the young ‘risto‘s face. Eventually pique won out.
“Concession,“ he said with obvious difficulty.
“Point,“ said their judge through her giggles. “Trophy?“
The Duelist turned slowly, running a scrutinous eye over the crowd.
Elzin, not sure of the rules, had no idea what his choice might be. A broach? Someone’s cred codes? These baby ‘ristos were so flexy it could be nearly anything. She found her own pulse quickening as the Duelist’s pointing fingers swept over the crowd.
The hand stopped for a moment and seemed to be pointing directly at her. She felt herself gasp. It wasn’t loud. She doubted even the female next to her even heard it but...
The hand moved on.
Her heartbeat slowed to normal. Was it relief she felt or disappointment? What would she have done if the Duelist had chosen her? Uncomfortable with the thought she let it go and focused instead on the his new target. He had chosen, truly this time. His hand now pointed, unambiguously at a young female about two meters to her left.
Her signet and colors showed her to be a member of the Fisk-Okker family though Elzin couldn’t place the specific face.
A murmur ran through the crowd as it parted for him. They approved. Even the bristling males endorsed his choice if nothing else.
Elzin could see why. The girl was beautiful. Unlike many in her age caste she eschewed the obvious use of bodymod and tints. She had none of the porcelain doll quality that was the current vogue. She was tall and supple and curved in the traditional places. She bore genemarks of primarily Negroid origin but there was some Polynesian there and maybe some Asian. Beautiful.
Doe eyed, the female moved toward the Duelist like a fairy tale bride. As her hand joined his, he smiled and bowed to the crowd.
“No!” Before Elzin could move, there was a flash of bright silver on her right. One of the young bravos leaped forward, the notched blade of his klef just beginning its high and deadly arc toward the Duelist. Elzin’s sidearm was in her hand in an instant but she needn’t have bothered.
The Duelist’s torso swiveled at the hip. It wasn’t much but it was enough to remove him as a target.
The blade cut a harmless parabola through the air. Taking advantage of his attacker’s momentary loss of balance The Duelist spun, grasped the bravo’s neck and, using the accumulated forward momentum, slammed him to the floor.
The impact rendered the boy unconscious– at least unconscious. Elzin was sure she’d heard the sound of bones breaking.