One of the women threw Horza a pair of shorts. He put them on. The suit had been lifted from the deck, and the shuttle rolled
a couple of
meters sideways until it clanged against the hull on the far side of the hangar. Zallin had finally risen from
the deck and gone back to the others.
Somebody sprayed anesthetic on his genitals.
Thank goodness for non-retractables,
Horza thought. He was resting against the bulkhead,
watching the group of people. Zallin was taller than any of them. His
arms seemed to reach to his knees and they were as thick as Horza’s
thighs.
Horza saw the captain nod toward him, and one of the women walked over. She had a small, hard-looking face. Her skin was dark,
and she
had spiky fair hair. Her whole body looked slim and hard; she walked, Horza thought, like a man. As she got closer
Horza saw she was lightly
furred on her face, legs and arms, which the long shirt she wore revealed. She stopped in front
of him and looked at him, from his feet to his
eyes.
“I’m your second," she said, “whatever good that’s supposed to do you."
She was the one with the nice voice. Horza was disappointed, even through his fear. He waved one hand. “My name’s Horza. Thanks
for
asking."
Idiot!
he told himself.
Tell them your real name, that’s it. Why not tell them you’re a Changer as well. Fool.
“Yalson," the woman said abruptly, and stuck her hand out. Horza wasn’t sure if the word was a greeting or her name. He was
angry with
himself. As though he didn’t have enough problems, he’d tricked himself into giving his real name. Probably it
wouldn’t matter, but he knew too
well that it was the small slips, the seemingly inconsequential mistakes, that often made
the difference between success and failure, even life
and death. He reached out and clasped the woman’s hand when he realized
that was what he was supposed to do. Her hand was dry and cool,
and strong. She squeezed his. She let go before he had time
to squeeze back. He had no idea where she came from, so he didn’t read too
much into it. Where he came from that would have
been a fairly specific sort of invitation.
“Horza, eh." She nodded and put her hands on her hips in the same way as the captain had done. “Well, good luck, Horza. I
believe
Kraiklyn thinks Zallin’s the most expendable member of the crew, so he probably won’t mind if you win." She looked
down at his slackskinned
paunch and rib-skinny chest, and her brow furrowed. “
If
you win," she repeated.
“Thanks a lot," Horza said, trying to suck in his belly and push out his chest. He gestured over to the others. “They taking
bets over there."
He tried to grin.
“Only on how long you’ll last."
Horza let the attempt at a grin fade. He looked away from the woman and said, “You know, I could probably get this depressed
even without
your help. Don’t let me stop you if you want to go and put some money down." He looked back at the woman’s face.
He could see no
compassion or even sympathy in it. She looked him up and down again, then nodded, turned on her heel and went
back to the others. Horza
swore.
“Right!" Kraiklyn clapped his gloved hands together. The group of people split up and moved around the sides of the hangar,
lining two of
them. Zallin was standing glaring at Horza from the far end of the cleared space. Horza pushed himself away
from the bulkhead and shook
himself, trying to loosen up and get ready.
“So, it’s to the death, both of you," Kraiklyn announced, smiling. “No weapons, but I don’t see any referees, so… anything
goes. OK—
begin."
Horza made a little more room between himself and the bulkhead. Zallin was coming toward him, crouched, arms out like a pair
of
oversized mandibles on some enormous insect. Horza knew that if he used all his built-in weapons (and if he had them all;
he had to keep
reminding himself they’d taken out his venom-teeth on Sorpen), he could probably win without too much trouble,
unless Zallin landed a lucky
blow. But he was equally sure that if he did use the only effective weapon he had left—the poison
glands under his fingernails—the others would
guess what he was and he’d be dead anyway. He might have got away with using
his teeth somehow and biting Zallin. The poison affected the
central nervous system, and Zallin would have slowed down gradually;
probably nobody would guess. But scratching him would be fatal for both
of them. The poison contained in the sacs under Horza’s
nails paralyzed muscles sequentially from the point of entry, and it would be obvious
Zallin had been scratched by something
other than ordinary nails. Even if the other mercenaries didn’t regard this as cheating, there would be a
good chance the
Man, Kraiklyn, would guess Horza was a Changer, and have him killed.
A Changer was a threat to anybody who ruled by force, either of will or of arms. Amahain-Frolk had known that, and so would
Kraiklyn.
There was also a degree of human-basic revulsion reserved for Horza’s species. Not only were they much altered from
their original genetic
stock, they were a threat to identity, a challenge to the individualism even of those they were never
likely to impersonate. It had nothing to do
with souls or physical or spiritual possession; it was, as the Idirans well understood,
the behavioristic copying of another which revolted.
Individuality, the thing which most humans held more precious than anything
else about themselves, was somehow cheapened by the ease with
which a Changer could ignore it as a limitation and use it as
a disguise.
He had Changed into an old man, and that legacy still lay with him. Zallin was getting very close.
The youth lunged, using his huge arms like pincers and making an ungainly grab for Horza. Horza ducked and jumped to one side,
faster
than Zallin had anticipated. Before he could follow Horza round, the Changer had landed a kick on the youth’s shoulder
which had been aimed
at his head. Zallin swore. So did Horza. He’d hurt his foot.
Rubbing his shoulder, the youth came forward again, almost casually at first, then suddenly swinging one long arm out, hand
fisted, and very
nearly catching Horza’s face. The Changer felt the wind of the scything swing on his cheek. If the blow had
landed, it would have finished the
fight. Horza dummied one way, then leapt in the other direction, pivoting on one heel and
lashing out again with a foot aimed between the
youth’s legs. It landed, but Zallin just smiled painfully and grabbed at Horza
again. The spray must have deadened all feeling.
Horza circled the youth. Zallin was staring at him with a look of intense concentration on his face. His arms were still bowed
out in front of
him like pincers, and at their ends his fingers flexed every now and again, as though desperate for the feel
of Horza’s throat. Horza was hardly
aware of the people standing around him, or the lights and fittings of the hangar. All
he could see was the crouched, ready young man in front of
him, with his massive arms and silvery hair, his frayed T-shirt
and light shoes. The shoes squeaked on the metal deck as Zallin lunged again.
Horza spun and flicked out with his right foot.
It caught Zallin across his right ear, and the youth pranced away, rubbing his ear.
Horza knew he was breathing hard again. He was using up too much energy just staying at maximum tension, ready for the next
attack, and
in the meantime he just wasn’t hurting Zallin enough. At this rate the youth would soon wear him down, even without
coming at him. Zallin spread
his arms again and advanced. Horza skipped to one side, his old muscles complaining. Zallin swiveled.
Horza leaped forward, pivoting again
on one foot and swinging the other heel at the youth’s midriff. It connected with a satisfying
thump, and Horza started to jump away, then
realized his foot was caught. Zallin was holding it. Horza fell to the deck.
Zallin was swaying, one hand down at the base of his ribcage. He was gasping, almost doubled up, and staggering—Horza suspected
he’d
cracked a rib—but he held Horza’s foot with the other hand. Twist and pull as he might, Horza couldn’t loosen the grip.
He tried a sweat-pulse in his lower right leg. He hadn’t done that since single-combat exercise in the Academy in Heibohre,
but it was worth
a try; anything was, if it had a chance of loosening that grip. It didn’t work. Perhaps he had forgotten
how to do it properly, or perhaps his
artificially aged sweat glands were incapable of reacting that fast, but either way
he was still trapped in the youth’s grip. Zallin was recovering
now from the blow Horza had landed. He shook his head, the
hangar lights reflecting on his hair; then he took hold of Horza’s foot with his other
hand.