The Cyber Chronicles VI - Warrior Breed (20 page)

For several
minutes, the battle raged without either side giving a centimetre,
until the sheer numbers that poured from the boarding tube forced
the Eagle Clan warriors back. Atrel stepped forward, looking
concerned, then returned to Sabre's side, frowning. Sabre hefted
the sword to test its balance and found it good. The only way of
distinguishing between the two clans was the fact that the Eagle
Clan all wore feathers somewhere about their person, while the
enemy, the Wolf Clan, all wore a bit of grey fur. The warriors
fought as individuals, and the result was a chaotic melee. Sabre
lowered his sword and rested the tip on the floor, leaning on it.
Pre-combat adrenalin made his hands shake, and warmth coursed
through him in a soft tide, filling him with energy. He found
himself profoundly reluctant to enter yet another battle, however.
He was weary of it.

"I'm so sick
of this," he muttered.

Atrel glanced
at him. "Do you intend to fight?"

"Do I have a
choice?"

"The men need
to see you fight, Commander. It’s expected."

Sabre sighed.
"Why do I always get into these situations?"

"If we lose,
non-coms become slaves, and sometimes they’re put to death, but
they're never traded."

"Right." Sabre
raised his sword. "Time to unleash the killing machine. Take some
advice, and stay the hell out of my way."

Atrel nodded,
looking bemused as Sabre strode forward. The first Wolf Clan
warrior he encountered lost his head in a single sword slash, and
the next he almost cut in half. The third lost an arm at the
shoulder, the blade slicing clean through his armour. The cyber
unit was in full combat mode, its strategies adjusted for
sharp-edged weaponry. Sabre allowed it to guide him with the
perfect timing and fluid efficiency of a machine. His mind was cold
and dispassionate, unmoved by spraying blood, the stench of gore,
the red pools that made the footing treacherous or the screams of
dying men.

A sword
glanced off his armour while his weapon was wedged in a man's
ribcage, preventing him from deflecting it, and the enemy warrior
died with Atrel's sword in his throat. Sabre jerked his blade free
and used it to hack into a man's leg, severed the artery and
released a little fountain of blood. Bodies impeded him, and he
moved forward, hacking down any man who confronted him. Warriors
rushed at him, slashing and hacking, attracted by the golden torc
around his neck, Sabre surmised. A skilful blade evaded his guard
and found a chink in his armour. It sliced into his flank, but the
barrinium mesh deflected it.

An Eagle Clan
officer went down, his throat severed. Rodar reeled back, his hand
sliced off at the wrist. Warm blood sprayed over Sabre as he
slashed and lunged at the wall of armoured, sword-wielding brawn,
deflected blades and sliced into muscular bodies. A sword glanced
off his shoulder armour, and another bounced off the side of his
neck, staggering him. He used his full strength, noting his
bio-status dropping from eighty to seventy-eight per cent. Blood
ran down his chest and ribs, mingling with the blood of those he
killed and the sweat that poured off him. Absently he noted that
his heart rate was two hundred and thirty and his temperature was a
hundred and four. His sword moved in a blur as it disembowelled one
man and lopped off the arm of another.

Sabre
approached the doors, forced back the wall of warriors and cut down
any who did not retreat fast enough. A man died with a gargling
scream as Sabre's blade sliced through his throat, and he jerked it
up to deflect a descending spiked club. The sword shattered, and he
dropped it, drove his foot into the club-wielder's shin and smashed
the bone with a dull crack. The club glanced off Sabre's shoulder
when the man fell, and the cyber scooped up a fallen sword without
pausing and drove it into the enemy warrior's chest. Jerking it
free, he stepped forward, only to find that the wall of brawn had
moved away, and no weapons threatened him. The Wolf Clan warriors
retreated into the boarding tube, and a roar of triumph went up
from the Eagle Clan as it rushed after them.

Aboard the
enemy ship, another brief, fierce battle ended after only a few
minutes as the enemy dead piled up around Sabre. The Wolf Clan
warriors backed away and lowered their swords, their faces grim.
Sabre jumped when a hand clasped his shoulder, swinging around with
his sword raised. Atrel stepped back, looking wary, and Sabre
lowered the weapon, frowning.

"I told you to
stay out of my way."

"We've won,
Commander. It's over. They've surrendered."

Sabre glanced
around. "Good."

Dropping the
sword with a clang, he turned and marched back into the boarding
tube, shoving aside any who did not get out of his way fast
enough.

****

Atrel gazed
after him, then glanced at Viorn as the third lieutenant came to
his side.

"He's a
strange one, that's for sure. I've never seen anyone fight as well
as him."

Atrel nodded.
"I suspect, Viorn, that you never will again."

"I will never
call him small again." Viorn paused, looking pensive. "He could be
the one our legends speak of. The one who will unite the clans and
end the wars forever. He could be the Supreme Warrior."

"He
could."

"He must have
killed fifty men here today."

"More."

A grizzled,
badly scarred blond man wearing a gold torc approached them, his
pale green eyes filled with impotent rage. He stopped in front of
Atrel and eyed him, noting his silver torc.

"Where's your
commander?"

Atrel
shrugged. "He left."

"Why does he
not accept the honour of my surrender? Does he insult me?"

"I think he's
a bit pissed off right now, but I'm sure he'll accept it
later."

"You were
outnumbered three to one. How did you win?"

"Our
commander... did a lot of damage."

The enemy
commander drew himself up. "I will not surrender my sword to you.
Fetch your commander at once."

"I don't think
he wants to be fetched, so you can keep it until he's ready to
accept it."

Atrel gestured
to his men, and they collected the defeated warriors' weapons.
Enemy non-coms cleared away the corpses, loading them into the
nearest disposal chute. The Wolf Clan commander glared at Atrel,
caressing the hilt of his sword as if he longed to draw it and
slice off Atrel's head. He had the look of a veteran of many
battles, a big man even by Trykon standards. Atrel wondered what he
would think of Sabre, and smiled at the prospect of their meeting.
Although some things about his new commander still mystified him,
he had grown to respect the smaller man deeply.

****

Sabre marched
along the corridor to his cabin, ignoring the men who stepped from
his path. He wiped away the blood that ran down his face with a
shaking hand. Unbuckling his armour, he dropped it. He wanted to
wash off the gore more than anything. The cabin door opened, and he
headed for the washroom. Tassin and Tarl sat on the couch, where
they had evidently been waiting for him to return from the battle.
Tassin jumped up with a cry of horror, running to him.

"Are you all
right? Sabre?"

He stopped
when she grabbed his arm, but stared ahead. "I'm fine. It's not my
blood."

"What
happened?"

"The ship was
boarded. There was a battle. We won. I need a shower."

"You're not
hurt?"

"Not much."
Sabre pried her hand off his arm. "Let me go."

Tassin opened
her mouth to protest his rudeness, but Tarl, who had risen from the
sofa and followed her, took her arm and drew her away.

"Leave him
now. Let him wash."

Tassin turned
to him as the washroom door slid shut behind Sabre. "What's wrong
with him?"

"He's a bit
hyped up. He'll be fine, just let him wash off the blood and calm
down."

"What do you
mean, 'hyped up'?"

Tarl drew her
over to a chair and persuaded her to sit. "He's just been in a
battle. He's full of adrenalin, his nerves are on edge, and he's
not in a very good mood."

"What can I
do?"

"For now,
leave him alone."

Tassin
fidgeted, chewing her lip. Since the boarding alarm had gone off,
what seemed like hours ago, she had been in a state of high
tension, her concern for Sabre gnawing at her gut. Only Tarl's
rather forceful insistence had made her remain in the cabin,
otherwise she would have gone to make sure Sabre was all right. The
brief glimpse of him had not satisfied her hunger for his presence,
and after a few minutes she could bear the waiting no more. Jumping
up, she headed for the washroom.

"I need to see
him."

"Hey, you
can't go in there."

Tassin slipped
through the door and shut it in Tarl's face. Steam filled the room,
and water ran in the tortured glass cubical. She made out a shape
on the floor.

"Sabre?"

His silence
concerned her, and she slid open the door. Sabre sat staring across
the cubicle with empty eyes. Blood ran from a cut in his neck and
another across his ribs. Several smaller ones oozed red trickles
down his chest and back. Switching off the water, she took a towel
from the rack and climbed in with him, mopping the water and blood
from his face.

"You're
bleeding."

He closed his
eyes, his expressionless mien worrying her. "You shouldn't be in
here."

"We're going
to be married one day." She wiped his cheeks. "What's wrong?"

"I just killed
sixty-one men."

"You saved
us."

"I didn't want
to do it."

"You had no
choice. You were protecting us."

He shook his
head, covering his face. "I don't want to do this anymore. I don't
want to be a bloody killing machine!"

"You're not.
You're a brave man who fights to protect those who are weaker."

"I don't want
it. I hate it."

"You can stop
as soon as we get to Omega Five. Then you'll never have to hurt
anyone again, I promise."

His shoulders
hunched. "It was so easy... Tarl's right. This is all I'm good at,
and all I'm good for."

She longed to
embrace him; his anguish tore her heart. "No, he's wrong. You can
be much more. Anything you want. You have many skills. You know a
lot of things, and you're clever and gentle."

"I'm a
killer."

"Hey..." She
tried to tug his hands away from his face. "Look at me." He shook
his head, and she put her arms around him. "Don't do this to
yourself. Don't think like that. A killer has no conscience... Why
are you shaking?"

"Leave me
alone, please."

"No." She
moved closer and hugged him until his brow band hurt her shoulder,
stroking his wet hair. "I love you."

Shudders
racked him, and she looked down at him with growing concern. She
tried to pry away his hands again and growled in frustration when
her efforts proved futile.

"Move your
damned hands."

He let her
pull his hands away, and she studied his face. Moisture streaked
his cheeks, and for a moment she thought it was water, but it
overflowed his eyes. He had the look of a little boy lost and alone
in a dark forest. She wiped away his tears, her eyes stinging, and
kissed his cheek.

"It's all
right. I'm here. I'll never leave you."

His arms slid
around her, and he wept against her neck while she held him and
stroked his hair, murmuring meaningless words of comfort. The
cubicle cooled and the steam dispersed. Her jeans grew wet from the
water on floor, and still she held him while he wept. Thirty years
of pent-up anguish flooded out in a tide of misery so intense that
it shocked and dismayed her. She had not realised how much grief
and pain was dammed behind the wall of conditioning within him.
Emotional scars so deep that they cut to the core of his being
fuelled the tears that ran down his cheeks and the shuddering sobs
that racked him. She hoped that this outpouring would bring some
measure of healing to his wounded soul.

It seemed like
hours later when he raised his head.

She studied
his face. "Are you all right?"

He nodded,
rubbing one eye. "I feel numb."

"That's
good."

"It doesn't
feel so good."

"It is,
believe me." Tassin discovered that her sleeve was glued to the
side of his neck with drying blood and eased it free. "You should
let Tarl stitch your wounds."

"It can wait."
He leant his head against the wall and dragged the towel across his
lap.

"Then you
should rest. You must be exhausted."

He nodded.
"Drained. But I couldn't sleep now."

Tassin shifted
into a more comfortable position. "It's battle fatigue, I
think."

"Yeah. I'm
coming down from a chemical high."

"A what?"

"Never mind. I
keep seeing all those men..."

She took his
hand and held it. "If you hadn't killed them, they'd have killed
us, wouldn't they?"

"Probably."

"So what makes
you so much worse than them?"

"It's so easy
for me." He looked down at the hand she held. "Too easy."

"Just because
you're a great warrior doesn't mean you're any less human."

"So many men
died, and for what? Some stupid war that rages on forever."

"That's not
your fault. They chose to be like this."

He nodded.
"That doesn't make what I did any better."

"You protected
us, and for that I'm grateful. I'm proud of your abilities, and you
should be, too."

"Proud to be a
killer?"

"A warrior who
protects the weak."

"So now you're
weak? I thought -"

"I was talking
about Tarl and Kernan."