Page 15 of Star Champion

Klark held up three fingers at a bar server. “Ale, please.”

Half listening to Skeet and Xirri, he perused the surroundings as they stood at the table to await the commencement of the evening’s sport. He noted details that were important to surviving a visit to Barésh or anywhere else.Be vigilant in all things.The tables were bolted to the floor. There were no chairs whatsoever. They were undoubtedly viewed more as potential weapons in a bar fight than a comfortable landing spot for anyone’s rear-end. A makeshift bajha ring served double duty as a dance floor. Electronic music boomed, a relentless pounding, like a bad headache; yet a few drunken souls were moving to the beat. He tried to fathom what it must be like to compete in bajha in the midst of all the noise.

“He usually plays on Eighthnights only, fellas,” someone said from directly behind him. “But tonight’s your lucky night.”

Klark pivoted toward the voice. “Are you speaking to me?”

“Aye. All three of you. It’s why ya came here, right? To bet on Sea Kestrel.”

Their silence did not deter the man a whit. He called out to other nearby patrons. “He’s a-comin’. Don’t ya fear. Stay right where ya are.” He splayed his hands as if that might dissuade anyone from walking out, although the rowdy crowd showed little sign of desiring to do so. “Running a little behind schedule, he is, aye, but go on—all of you—drink up while ya wait!”

Perfectly timed, the drinks arrived. Klark lifted a plastic cup to take a sip of his ale (that was actually surprisingly good) as he observed the man chatter on. He appeared younger than Klark and the players, but something in his eyes looked far older. A ragged scar bisected his left eyebrow on an otherwise pleasant face. An easy grin made him seem even more approachable, and within moments he struck up a warm rapport with several tables of revelers. Like Skeet, this man knew how to get by on his charm.

There was little else he was getting by on, judging by the shabby clothes on his back. A thick woolen sweater with hacked-off sleeves covered a shirt with a collar limned with grime. Both garments were patched more than they were whole, but each and every repair was sewn with small, careful stitches. His fingerless gloves revealed scabbed and swollen knuckles on his right hand. He had been in a recent fight. Yet, here he was, coaxing them to purchase drinks while clearly still sober himself. “Have ya tried the ale yet?” the man was saying to anyone still willing to listen to him. “Tastiest in the colony. Go on, you won’t be disappointed.”

“Do you work for the club?” Xirri asked somewhat doubtfully.

“No. I’m here for Sea Kestrel, like you.”

Klark gestured to a spot between him and Xirri. “Join us.” The chap had several things going for him: he was friendly, he did not stink, and someone cared enough about him to mend his clothes. “Allow me to buy you an ale.”

Having a local with them would provide further camouflage as to their intentions here. The man wavered, an inner battle seeming to contort his brow as he contemplated the cups of ale. He wanted it, but he gave his head a shake. “I thank you, but I’ve gotta meet an associate here very soon.” He lowered his voice, winking conspiratorially. “But take my advice—for sure money, there ain’t none better than Sea Kestrel. Go on and wager all you’ve got, fellas. You won’t lose.” His eyes radiated a glint of hunger, a certain desperation, as he once again tried to will them into staying put.

“We have no intention of going anywhere,” Klark assured him. “Nor do I expect to lose.” His wager was one of a very different sort, however: betting Sea Kestrel would not turn down the opportunity to train if it meant a chance of playing professionally. The manager might prove a harder shell to crack, however, especially if faced with losing a player who had proved to be a great moneymaker. In that, Klark’s limitless wealth would have to do the talking.

“To a successful evening,” he said and turned back to his players. They clinked their cups together in anticipation of the match to come.

When Jemm finally arrived at the fight club, she found Nico waiting for her in the back alley. Her knit cap was pulled tight over her hair, covering her ears and eyebrows. Her bajha gear was stowed in the bag she wore slung crosswise over her body by its strap. She was still dressed in her leathers, but her sidearm was under lock and key back at the processing plant. Working-class Baréshtis were not allowed to carry guns.

Before she could say a word, Nico launched into scolding her. “I started out waiting for you at home, like we planned. Ma wasn’t happy you didn’t show for dinner.”

Her stomach grumbled at the thought of food. “Did ya bring any leftovers?”

His double blink told her he had not thought of it.

Nothing she could do about it now. She was almost too tired to care. While she prided herself on her fitness, the result of years of pitching in to help load her trailer with ore, the drama on the plains had knocked the stuffing out of her. She had to drain the heavy canister of trill so she could drag it back into the trailer solo. Then she scraped up the spilled ore, handful by gloved handful, loading everything back where it belonged, all while racing against time and keeping an eye out for more brigands.

“Sorry, Nic. It couldn’t be helped. I was beset upon by scurries.” Stiffly, she lifted the gear bag over her head. The bruise on her upper arm fired out blasts of pain with each beat of her heart. At first it had been isolated to her upper arm, and numb where the rock had struck flesh, but now the pain radiated down the bone clear to her wrist. She flexed her hand, working her fingers. Icing the wound was the answer, but while the frozen chips were not as dear as chips of trill, she would have to throw good money away to buy some. Besides, there was no time for that now, anyway. She would live. “Stinking little grubs made off with a quarter canister of ore.”

“You came in short? Ah, Jemm. Now what? We can’t afford any trouble. We’ve got obligations now.”

She almost snorted. As if obligations did not already rule her life. “Don’t get your pants in a wad, Nico. No one at the processor noticed. They were unloading the trailer before I shut down the tug.”

“What am I supposed to tell Migel Arran if ya get thrown in the brig?” he asked as if he had not heard her, punching one hand inside the other as he stalked back and forth. “He’s not the only one, Jemm. Half the club owners I know are begging me to arrange matches in their bars. If Sea Kestrel can’t be relied on, soon no one will want to talk to me, and there goes our money. Poof! Gone.”

“Listen to ya! You’re not fretting because I had to battle pirates, or even that I might be fired. No, you’re worried because in the brig I wouldn’t be able to play bajha. What a rotten inconvenience that would be, losing your only player.”

“You ain’t my only player no more,” he shot back just as angrily.

The moment went as silent as a moment could be on Barésh. In the background, Jemm could hear the muted hubbub from inside the bar and, from somewhere farther away, a shriek of pleasure or pain. But loudest of all was the thump of her heart kicking in outrage against her ribs.

“Aye, I’ve added another player to my roster, and soon I’ll add another,” Nico said, puffing up some. “Now that I’ve got the silvers to spend on training them.”

“The last I checked we didn’t have so much money that we could afford to be giving it away.” Her chilly tone swept past him without ruffling a hair on his pretty little head. He was too busy sharing his ambitious plans to become the most sought-after manager in the colony.

“I’ve got to invest back in the company, Jemm. I’m a businessman now. Don’t ya worry; there’ll be more coming in for us both, and it’ll keep on coming because you’ll keep on winning. Soon we’ll be trill rats no more.” At that, his eyes shone, and his smile sparkled.

The sight of him so cheerful sucked the fury out of her. “You dozer,” she muttered. He had gone and done it again, wrenching her heart by summoning the Nico Aves of old. The Nico she and Ma had missed and grieved for years and thought was gone for good.

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