Page 32 of Star Champion

“I need my blindfold inspected.”

He glanced over at Sea Kestrel’s voice. “Yonson, take a look at Raff’s blindfold. I’ll see to Kes.” He walked over to the amateur and cinched the blindfold tighter. To check for snugness, he ran his fingertips along the edge where it followed the contours of the player’s head: nape, temples, and cheekbones.

Sea Kestrel went rigid. Klark paused. It was clear the young player was averse to being touched, even in such a benign way. If beatings were a part of his life, it was understandable. The idea of someone manhandling Sea Kestrel rekindled his anger upon seeing the faint fingerprint-shaped bruises, again conjuring protective instincts he never knew he had. Kes might not feel like sharing the details, but Klark would learn what they were. He would know everything about Sea Kestrel in due time.

He finished up. “All seems to be in order, Kes. I don’t feel gaps anywhere.”

Only when he removed his hands and stepped back did Sea Kestrel’s gloves come up to recheck the blindfold. “Aye. That feels right.”

“Excellent,” Klark said above the music. “Usually we say ‘lights’ when we want a match to start. In this case, I’ll say ‘commence’ when it’s time to begin. Or, rather, I’ll shout it.”

“This is hardly noise, sir.”

“The others here might disagree, including me. It does give you an advantage over Raff Xirri, something few bajha players in the galaxy can boast. Don’t let him intimidate you. Try to last as long as you can. That’s all I ask.”

Kes seemed to stand a little taller. “That’s what Nico told me the night I played against Black Hole. My first match.”

“You never played before that?” It did not seem plausible. Surely he had misheard.

“Not in any kind of competition, no.” A shrug. “But I’ve practiced bajha almost all my life. My Da taught me.”

Incredible, Klark thought. That much talent in raw material form, begging for him to refine it. He could not wait to get started, and hoped the fates gave him the opportunity.

Skeet gave Klark a pointed index finger upward to signal that he had secured Xirri’s blindfold. At least the player now wore a cocky grin in reaction to the situation into which Klark had thrown him.

Xirri moved closer to Sea Kestrel. “Nervous?” Klark overheard his player asking the amateur.

“Aye. A bit.”

“I won’t be too hard on you,” Xirri said kindly, but the edge in the pro’s tone told Klark the true story. Xirri had a lot of talent and a passion to win that no make-believe street bajha match had a chance of extinguishing. Kes would have to be able to handle anything he dished out. Weakness had no place in the pro circuit.

“Let’s hear some noise!” To the pounding beat, Skeet walked around the arena, waving his hands, goading Klark’s starship crew into cheers and applause—and to stomp their feet to the thumping music. “Come on, folks. Is that the best you can do?”

The crew gave a weak imitation of a real Baréshti crowd, and the music was more annoying than loud, but there was enough disturbance to simulate a street bajha match. Without the gods-awful stink.

“Players!” Klark raised his fist. The noise ebbed some in anticipation of what was to come. Both Xirri and Sea Kestrel lifted their sens-swords a few inches above the playing surface, their boots placed at shoulder width. Their bodies might be motionless, poised, but they were reaching out with their minds, already beginning the hunt, even though the match had not yet formally begun. The pause seemed to last forever and carry with it the weight of destiny, of fate. Then he arced his fist downward. “Commence!”

CHAPTER9

In the firstseconds of the match something hit Jemm on the shoulder. Other items showered her, bouncing off her with the airiness of wadded-up paper. Something crunched under her boot with the consistency of a disposable cup. The crew was lobbing trash into the ring.

In a real fight club, throwing anything into the ring would get a spectator in trouble, likely booted from the audience and beaten up out back, but these off-worlders deserved credit for trying so hard to imitate a street bajha match.

“They’re throwing stuff,” she heard Xirri complain. “Skeet is a dead man. I’ll tell you that.” But, with the match underway, she was not of the mind to chitchat.

She glided backward and away. The regulation playing floor was spongy, distracting her for a moment, but she willed her pulse to slow, and her breathing followed suit. With her sens-sword gripped in steady hands, she let her awareness fan out. Out, out…farther and farther…swirling like a net cast over the surface of an infinite sea.

Like Da had taught her.

Xirri’s annoyance at the debris pelting them lingered along with his irritation at the cheers and clapping, but then he vanished also.

Panic sparked as she searched for him.Quiet your mind. He’ll sense you.Step by sidestep, she circled the pro, pushing everything else out of her mind that was not directly related to this match, this opponent. This moment.

She reached out, searching for him. Xirri was good—lightyears better than any of her challengers in the clubs. No wonder he was a pro.

Suddenly, he lunged at her from an unexpected direction. She whirled away, her back arching, as Xirri passed by all too close. And then he was gone.

Another barrage of trash flew into the ring. Xirri did not like the flying garbage, and most of it was aimed at him. She had never endured a trash shower while playing, but she was used to tuning out distractions. Not so Raff Xirri. A ball of paper ricocheted off his body, hitting her in the chin, letting her know he was close by. His exasperation sputtered like the glowing end of a vape in a dark cave.

---