Page 17 of Star Champion

In the gap between a pair of tattered purple-sequined curtains stood a young man engulfed in a patched, gray-with-age bajha suit too large for his slender body. Despite the crowd’s riotous whistling and cheering, Sea Kestrel’s attention remained fixed on the announcer. His face was almost ethereal, one could even say feminine—youth being the reason for that softness, of course.

“At last,” Klark said under his breath. His unknown, backwater, street-bajha gem in the rough.

“Yer drinks, fellas.” As a barmaid sloshed three more cups of ale onto the table, clearing away their empties, a man appeared at the amateur’s side with a blindfold, fastening it around his hood while leaning in close to confer with the player. It was none other than the friendly chap who had coaxed them to stay and drink up earlier. He was Sea Kestrel’s manager! Klark let out a surprised chuckle.

“And now, lassies and fellas, Narrow Margin, home of the best bajha under the dome, presents the indomitable, the incredible, the rising star…Sea Kestrel!”

As the announcer bellowed out the introduction and the crowd reacted with foot-stomping cheers, Sea Kestrel did not storm the ring like the rest of the amateurs had done before him. Instead, he bowed his head, appearing to reach inside for calm as he gripped his sens-sword in two hands. Seconds ticked by before he finally strode with mature and measured confidence into the ring.

A tingle along Klark’s spine argued that this gamble would not be for naught, that something could—and would—come of it. This moment heralded a new beginning, which was something he sorely needed.

“He’s injured,” Skeet said.

Klark jerked his head around. “How can you tell?”

“Watch his right arm. He’s favoring it.”

Sea Kestrel and his opponent submitted to the ref’s inspection of their blindfolds and sens-sword settings before they took their positions in the ring. Based on Skeet’s observation, Klark took note of how Sea Kestrel wielded his sens-sword. He had seen enough injuries in bajha players to know that Skeet had called this one correctly. Sure enough, the amateur was using his left arm to take some of the load off his right, the elbow of which he kept tucked close to his rib cage like a broken wing.

Klark had pondered solutions to various contingencies when going over this plan, but he had not considered anything happening to Sea Kestrel before he could get to him. It drove home the fact that nothing on Barésh was secure, particularly someone’s wellbeing. He took an extra deep swallow of ale.

Any evidence of injury melted away as the young amateur met his opponents one by one, allowing each of them the chance to engage him long enough to entertain the crowd—and, no doubt, as a show of mercy for the lesser players’ egos—before sending the fellows to their defeat. When it was over, Sea Kestrel dropped to one knee, head bowed humbly, as the last match was decided in his favor.

“Bravo,” Klark said, clapping.

Skeet was grinning from ear to ear. “So he was worth the trouble to come here, then.”

“Indeed. He certainly possesses an innate sense of showmanship. In fact, he reminds me a lot of you, Yonson.”

That the amateur had the strength and wits to do it while injured solidified Klark’s opinion that the player’s mental discipline was extraordinary. But would those considerable skills translate to the rules and expectations of the pros? That remained the million-credit question.

It was high time he found out the equally valuable answer.

“Gentlemen, let’s settle the bill and go introduce ourselves to our fine young player.” Klark gathered up his cloak and glanced toward the back of the club, where he hoped a pair of shabby, sequined drapes represented the last barrier to the culmination of his journey here.

CHAPTER5

Jemm peeredthrough the backstage curtains, hoping for a glimpse of the off-worlders. All she saw was smoke, strobe lights, and too many milling bodies. “How do we know they ain’t slavers, pretending to be scouts?” she had asked Nico after the match.

“They ain’t slavers,” he assured her.

“You don’t know for sure.”

“Aye, I do. I know how to judge a man. They offered to buy me a drink, and didn’t even know who I was.”

He was probably right. One thing was certain—she had sensed something out there under the spotlight that was new to her. Not the typical blunt-force attention of an audience or the intentions of an opponent, but the feeling of being observed with a nonthreatening focus as distinct and bright as a searchlight beam in the night. It confused her. It would have distracted her if she had let it.

Then she got hold of herself. If she had sensed anything at all, it was probably wishful thinking. Scouts for the galactic league, in Barésh City, in a bar on a Sixthnight, to see her? Anything that sounded that much like a fairy tale probably was.

She let the curtains fall together. “I’ve got another dawn run tomorrow. I need sleep, and I’m starving.” When she was this hungry, she got angry. “Hangry,” the loaders at work called it, and often tempted her with morsels from their food sacks to keep her from protesting too much about loading delays. “Wait—is that food ya got there?”

Nico came toward her, his arms full of supplies. “Aye. Or something like it.” He handed her a jug of water, a hand towel, and a protein stick, which she snatched out of his hand, tearing off a bite. “I watched them watch you the entire time. They’re keener for you than we are for them. I predict they’ll want to see more of ya. Now, wait here. I’ll go get our cut.” He frowned at her. “I mean it, Jemm. Stay right here. Don’t change clothes, anddo notgo home.” He held up a finger for emphasis.

“I want this as much as you do, Nico.”

Nodding, with a vape dangling from his lower lip, he stepped away to retrieve their winnings from Narrow Margin’s owner. He claimed her open distaste for the club owners was bad for business, so she had been letting him take care of it. She much preferred having a few solo moments to savor the inner peace left from bajha before it faded altogether.

Leaning against a wall, she pressed the towel to her face then looped it over her neck. It was stuffy backstage. Nico lighting up a vape had not helped any. By now her hair was drenched under her knit cap. Her exhaustion was so all-consuming she was tempted to curl up and sleep where she stood, despite the relentless pounding ache in her arm. Tipping her head back, she emptied the water jug with deep, greedy swallows.

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