Battle of the Ring (11 page)

“You would be hard-pressed to entertain yourself two days in this
place, much less two weeks,” Lenna continued briskly. “You need
someone to show you around. What do you say?”

“I might agree,” Velmeran replied. “If you tell me what
happened to your accent.”

“Ah, but my local tongue’s just to show my clients,” she
said, the accent back and thicker than ever. “Said I was of Trader stock.
Born and bred on a freighter, so I was. But I’ve lived here half of my
twenty-five years.”

He resorted to a fairly standard question. “Do you enjoy your
work?”

“The truth is, I fly a freight shuttle for the Trade Association, and
I love flying too well to give it up. I’d leave here in an instant to go
back to the Traders, but that isn’t likely.”

“Why not?”

“No formal training,” she said bitterly. “My father saw to
that.”

Before Velmeran could question that, Lenna directed him into a small
restaurant, hardly more than an indoor cafe, and sat him at a table by the front
window while she went to get drinks for the two of them.

“My father was local,” she began as she sat down. “But he
had no land and no herd, and there’s not much else you can do in this
place. But our treaty allows us to hire on in their military as civilian
technicians. Got his training that way, in drive mechanics. He stayed with
them four years, then came back here, married, and had a son. But the money
he’d saved soon ran out and his first wife left him. Then it happened
that an independent freighter came in and got stranded at port for want of
repairs her crew could not do, so he fixed her up. Being Kanian, he could take
G’s better than most, so they gave him a contract. Soon it looked like he
was settled in to stay.

“Then, one day, their ship was rammed by a tender as they were coming
in to station. Damage was slight, but my mother was gone. And my father was
very bitter about it. He flew back here and did his best to forget about
space... which was hard enough with me around, looking like a Trader. I was too
young to understand, and it seemed to me like he brought me here just to make
me miserable. Especially once my older brother came to live with us.”

“You could get the training you needed, just like your father
did,” he suggested hopefully.

Lenna shook her head sadly. “You have to be twenty-one to get Union
training, but you can’t travel off-world without parental permission
until you are twenty-one. Naturally, my father wouldn’t sign. I did get
flight training locally, enough to convince the Trade Association to hire
me on as an apprentice for a year until the old pilot retired.”

“Surely your father’s old texts... ?”

“Do you really think my father kept his books?” she asked.
“I was able to get the texts for helm and navigation, and I taught myself.
I know enough to get a ship from here to there. I’m certainly ready for
an apprenticeship on a Trader.”

Velmeran pointedly refused to answer that, for he knew only too well what
she was asking him. She thought him to be a Trader; in his rich dress and manner,
perhaps a senior officer or even a Captain. She was desperate, and she hoped
that he would give her what she wanted. And Velmeran felt guilty, since there
was little he could do to help her.

“Treck is back in town,” someone behind him said suddenly.

Velmeran had no idea what that could mean, but Lenna obviously did. Her
eyes widened and her face turned from lightly tan to chalky white. Whatever
else it might mean, it was obviously a threat and intended as one.

“So what’s that to me?” Lenna demanded.

A pair of rangers, fresh from the highlands, appeared from behind Velmeran
to stand at either side of the table. They were young and a matched pair of
second-rate bullies, the one to his left short, stocky, and stupid, while the
other, the speaker, was tall and lean. They were ragged, dirty, and fairly
rank. Kelvessan had no sense of smell, but he could guess that part. But
they must have something of a reputation, judging by the way the rest of the
patrons were slowly retreating.

“You know the answer to that,” the tall one said, sneering.
“Treck Lesries has put his name on you, and he doesn’t like for his
girls to run around on him.”

“I’m not afraid of Treck Lesries,” Lenna declared.

“No, I’m sure you’re not. It’s your little friend
here who’ll get his neck broke,” the tall one said, his threat now
aimed at Velmeran. He put a hand on the Starwolf’s shoulder and did his
best to knead the muscle painfully.

Velmeran reached up and took hold of the offending wrist, applying pressure
until both bones snapped loudly. The tall ranger gasped in pain and sank to his
knees, for Velmeran did not let go. “If you are Treck Lesries’s
messenger, then you can take him this message. Tell him to get out of
town.”

“Lesries can take care of you!” the ranger threatened, his voice
sharp with pain. “He’s half Starwolf, you know.”

Velmeran laughed aloud. “Do not be a complete idiot! No one can be
half Starwolf.”

“He’ll show you what he can do!” the other squealed.

Velmeran laughed again. “I have enemies that make your Treck Lesries
seem like a child. Now go.”

He squeezed the wrist until the ranger screamed in agony, then gave him a
shove. The stocky ranger caught him, taking him under the arms to half carry
his friend, nearly faint with pain, toward the door. Velmeran watched them until
they were gone, then saw that Lenna was staring at him.

“Do not be afraid of me,” he said. “I might not hesitate
to use violence, but only against those who ask for it.”

“You broke his damned wrist,” Lenna muttered in open awe.
“You took hold of it and it snapped. Sergei, you’ve got to get out
of here. Treck won’t take it well, not at all. He’ll kill you when
he finds you.”

“Would you explain what this is all about?” Velmeran said
firmly. “Why is a murderer like Treck Lesries and his misfits allowed to
walk around free?”

“Oh, Lesries is a Unioner,” she explained.
“Commando-trained in their military, trained to kill. Union supposedly
gave him permission to settle here, but he’s still Union. On detached
duty, as we see it, here to stir up all the trouble he can. Our treaty says
that we can’t touch him, and every time we file a complaint they say we
have no evidence. Him and his lackeys earn their bread and beer by poaching;
they sell langie pelts on the black market. Several times a year we find a ranger
dead, his neck broken, and nothing left of his herd but skinned carcasses.
That’s his trick. He breaks your neck with one swift kick. He’s
done that to about five of our boys here in town.”

Velmeran frowned. “What is this business about your being his girl?
You seem to think otherwise.”

Lenna nearly spat in anger. “He thinks he’s a stud! He names
certain girls to be his own, and if anyone goes near them he breaks their neck.
He’s not touched me yet, but he will come for me eventually. What happens
then, I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

She frowned regretfully. “My brother, Iyan, he’s port police,
and he hates Lesries with a passion. If Lesries does touch me, Iyan will go
after him. Either he’ll kill him and get himself into trouble, or get
himself killed. But first I’ll see what my Trader’s strength and a
few of my brother’s tricks can do against that kicking idiot.”

“You have nothing to worry about now,” Velmeran assured her
gently. “I will take care of Lesries before I leave.”

Lenna stared at him. “Sergei, this isn’t your problem.”

“It is now,” he said. “Lenna, I am not a Trader like you
know. I have fought the Union all my life. I have killed before, and I will
again. And I can certainly handle this Unioner. Getting rid of him is one
loose end I can tie up while I am waiting for more important matters.”

“You mean to kill him?” she asked.

“He means to kill me. Besides, if he is pretending to be half
Starwolf, I owe it to him. Most of my friends are Starwolves. How did he come
up with that, anyway?”

“He’s a heavy worlder,” Lenna explained. “Growing up
in two and a half G’s left him as strong as a bull langie.”

Velmeran laughed. “Charming fellow! I believe that we should just
wander around until your friend does make his appearance. Then we will
really celebrate.”

Velmeran forgot all about the matter of Treck Lesries after the first hour.
As the Kanians already suspected, Lesries was no doubt a Union agent, not so
much a spy or subversive as an embarrassment and a nuisance. He was a wolf in
the fold, and the Kanians were unable to protect themselves from him for fear
of creating an incident with the Union. The only ‘safe’ way to
remove this annoyance was for him to provoke a fatal incident with a
Starwolf... and Velmeran was the perfect bait for that trap, a Starwolf in
sheep’s clothing.

He was still unsure of just where he stood with Lenna Makayen. She was
quietly but obviously in awe of him for how easily he had dealt with
Lesries’s henchmen and his apparent disdain for their leader; he
suspected that, in spite of her initial interest in him, she had also dismissed
him as the skinny little off-worlder he appeared to be. Whether she was
conscious of it or not, she did see him as the key to getting what she had
always wanted. Either she was mercenary enough to try to seduce him, or
else she was trying to force herself to love him because she thought she
should.

Later that night, after they had taken in several hours of music at a Ranger
pub, Lenna suggested that they should spend the night together at the port inn.
Velmeran skillfully maneuvered his way out of that one, explaining that he
had to report back to his ship for the night. Lenna arranged to meet him for
late breakfast at the same restaurant; she had downed enough of the local beer
to know that she would not be able to drag out very early. Velmeran desperately
needed a few hours to himself. For one thing, he needed to eat; he had been
dining on portions suitable for a human his size, which was hardly adequate. He
did need to check on the members of his pack. And he simply needed a rest from
Lenna’s dauntless exuberance.

By morning Velmeran clearly sensed that this would be his last full day of
port leave. He arrived at the appointed meeting place well ahead of time to
give himself an early start on that late breakfast, in the hope that two
breakfasts and one lunch would be enough to last him until night. He had just
finished when he became aware that trouble had arrived.

“I got your message, little one,” someone said behind him,
someone who lacked the thick native accent. Velmeran rose calmly and turned to
face his enemy. The first thing the Kel-vessa saw was a chest and shoulders at
least twice as broad as his own. Lesries had the hard looks to match his
reputation, with a high, hooked nose and small, penetrating eyes made all the
harder by a perpetual squint.

Treck, seeing his own adversary more clearly, laughed scornfully.
“You are a little fellow, aren’t you? No matter. You know what I
am?”

“I know what you are not,” Velmeran answered calmly.

“And what’s that?”

“You are not half Starwolf, since there is no such thing. And you are
not going to leave this place alive.”

Treck laughed again. “My brave little man! And what are you that you
think that you can take me?”

“More than I seem, I assure you.”

“Prove it, then!”

Whatever Lesries thought of his tiny adversary, he still did not intend to
fight fair. He struck with a lightning swiftness meant to catch his enemy off
guard, launching himself with remarkable grace to deliver a fatal kick to the
base of the neck. His martial cry of attack turned to one of surprise when he
felt himself plucked out of the air. He found himself suspended like a doll,
two hands holding his wrists while two more held his ankles.

“Oh, shit!” he muttered in quiet despair as he realized his
mistake. It was his last conscious thought.

Iyan Makayen stepped aside as medics hurried out of the room with the body,
then turned back to survey the damage. He had seen some very strange things in
his short career, but this was surely the strangest. It was inconceivable that
this tiny off-worlder had thrown Treck Lesries across the length of the room,
through an inner wall of the restaurant, across a second room, and halfway
through the outer wall. And Lesries might well have gone through that second
wall, except that it had a solid brick outer facing. Heavy wooden studs were
scattered like matchsticks, and a fine, white powder from shattered plasterboard
covered everything.

Den Ohlera, proprietor of the pub and owner of these shattered walls,
also stared in disbelief, but it was the disbelief of an almost childlike
delight. “A bull langie couldn’t have knocked him harder. Look at
the hole he left! Just as neat as neat.”

“You’ll have a bit of a mess to tidy up, that’s for
sure,” Makayen said.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ohlera speculated. “Thought I
might leave that one hole. Give the gang something to talk about, how that
little off-worlder damn near pitched Treck Lesries into orbit. A regular
conversation piece, as they say. He was bad for business in life, the way folks
would scatter when he walked in. In death, he might be uncommonly good for
business.”

“What about the damages, all the same?” Makayen asked.

“Oh, he made good on that right away,” the proprietor said,
displaying a piece of jewelry worth at least twice the costs of repairs.
“Surely you’ll not be arresting him for this. If you do, I’ll
be the first to hire him a lawyer.”

“And I’ll be the second,” Makayen agreed. “I
don’t expect I’ll have to, as long as he can give me fair answers
to a couple of questions.”

They returned to the adjoining room, where Velmeran was sitting at a table
with a cold drink, looking unconcerned.