Page 10 of Star Champion

“I do,” she breathed.

Klark rolled his eyes. “Go ahead.”

The image switched to a shaky, poorly lit feed of two men without headgear gripping sens-swords. They were playing blindfolded in what looked to be a bar with no barrier separating the audience from the players. The masses were practically in the ring with them, making all manner of vulgar noises, the lit ends of hallucivapes twinkling like blue stars in the stands.

He tried to cover Katjian’s eyes, but she ducked, staring in half-horrified, half-delighted wonder. What had he done, letting her stay and watch? “This is what amateur street bajha looks like, Kat. Back-door bar betting in its lowest, most inglorious form. It’s an absolute insult to the game, and not what I play or what our league plays.” He angrily swiveled back to Skeet. “Why am I being subjected to this slop—?” His question died in his throat. “Never mind…”

It was suddenly obvious why Yonson Skeet had blown through protocol to show him this vid. In an incongruous scene, an amateur wearing a cap instead of safety headgear and cloaked in a comically baggy bajha suit displayed elegant poise and damn-near perfect moves while engaging his opponent. Somehow this player was able to exhibit the highest standards of the sport, despite being in the epicenter of a revolting tempest of drunken madness.

Skeet’s voice came over vid’s noise. “Pretty unexpected, yes?”

“Indeed.” Klark leaned over his desk, hands flat on the surface to better watch the amateur track and dispense with his opponent, all with a pro’s confidence and humility. It was highly unusual to see the latter in a street player. Arrogance had no place in the sport, but in the street leagues it was known to be celebrated. “What focus he must have, what discipline, to be able to play so well in such utterly appalling conditions.”

All too soon guards came at the camera, batons waving, and the feed went black. “Tell me how you came by this footage, Yonson.”

“A buddy of mine is a freighter pilot. He and his crew were on-surface for an overnight. They go out for a few drinks, and there’s this bajha match going on. Street bajha. You know the kind, crazy back-alley stuff. But there’s this player—and he’s good, really good. Apparently, a couple of weeks ago, this same kid took down the reigning champ in less time than you can throw back a shot of Mandarian whiskey. My friend figured I’d be entertained by the whole thing so he recorded as much as he could before security put a stop to it.” Skeet shot a glance behind him then lowered his voice. “It’s gone viral here on tour. All the coaches are buzzing about it. They’re saying that amateur ought to be drafted right out of the bar into the pros. How about Team Eireya, Prince Klark?”

“I can’t deny that’s an intriguing proposal. But you know commoners aren’t raised playing bajha the way we are. And a street player?” Klark shook his head. “It’s usually doomed to fail.” Transitioning from competing in bars and impromptu arenas to the lightproof, soundproof arenas of the pros most often proved insurmountable, although the mid-leagues did sign such amateurs on occasion. “Perhaps a single commoner every one or two generations is capable of competing at the lofty level of the galactic league, Skeet.”

“Maybe he’s one of them.”

“Hmm.” Klark rubbed his index finger across his chin and played the vid again, watching this time without a thick veil of skepticism coloring his judgment. The amateur looked even better the second time around. A tingle curled up his spine. What if this player was a true diamond in the rough, and Klark was the one to polish that gem to greatness? What if such an addition generated much-needed excitement and grassroots support and pushed Team Eireya up over the last hurdle to winning the Galactic Cup. Was there a better way to buff his family’s reputation back to its once-glorious shine?

Then he reminded himself this was a street-bajha player.

Klark pushed up from the desk. “What else, if anything, is known about him?”

“Only that he came out of nowhere a few weeks back. Goes by the ring name Sea Kestrel.”

“Sea Kestrel, eh?” His favorite creature. If that wasn’t a sign, what was?

“Since you can’t travel, sir, I can have the tour ship make a temporary stop. I’ll track the kid down, invite him on board, and play a few practice matches with him. I’ll let you know what I think.”

“Actually, my travel ban is lifted. Regardless, I will not have one of my top players traipsing around grubby bars choking on hallucivape smoke. I’ll send a couple of scouts.”

Skeet visibly deflated. Then, like the tenacious athlete he was, he rallied. “With all due respect, sir, I think a pro should accompany the scouts. It’s still preseason. The tour schedule has slack built in. I’ve got the time. Besides, who cares about a little smoke or a grubby bar? I’m not made of glass, you know.” He smiled, and that smile was not aimed at Klark alone.

Klark noted with dismay the effect Skeet’s infamous charm was having on his sister. Her expression had gone soft, her eyes dreamy. He shot her a warning glance, which she completely disregarded, but Skeet noticed. His focus snapped back to Klark and stayed there this time. “What do you say, sir? Can I go?”

Klark exhaled. “It’s a harmless boondoggle, I suppose. It makes sense to see how the amateur performs against a top-tier player before going through all the expense and bother of transporting him off-world. Since you had the initiative to bring this to my attention, you might as well bear some responsibility for seeing if this Sea Kestrel has any ability beyond looking good on camera.”

“With pleasure, sir.” Skeet appeared eager for the adventure.

Klark rather envied him. “Where is this ghastly establishment by the way?”

“Out in the frontier. On one of the fringe-world mining colonies. Barésh, they call it.”

Klark choked down a curse to keep it from reaching his sister’s ears. Barésh? Of all places. “Yes, I know it. I was there once, I’m sorry to say.” While on an ill-fated scheme that not only cost him his freedom but damaged his family’s formerly stellar reputation. “You don’t want to go to that reeking space rock, Yonson. Trust me on that. I’ll allow you to back out gracefully. Just say the word.”

The man laughed. “All I hear in those words is the challenge.”

“That you would, wouldn’t you?” Klark glanced at the frozen image of the amateur, on one knee, head bowed. He felt that tingle again, his gut telling him to pursue this. Moreover, there would be no lasting harm sending Skeet to check out the amateur. He was already out and about traveling on tour. “Very well. It appears that Mission Sea Kestrel is on.”

After sending his sister on her way, Klark settled into his routine of having his luncheon brought to his balcony to be served alfresco. Today the chef prepared plump, lavender prawns with minced sea spirals in a spicy fish broth, served with triangles of flat bread that were baked perfectly with soft puffy centers and crispy edges. It was one of his favorite dishes, yet he consumed it almost robotically, purely out of habit, while he reviewed Skeet’s vid that he had uploaded to his tablet. The more he watched, the more he saw the potential in the street player’s raw talent and the less he felt like delegating the recruitment process to others.

What if there were complications? Yonson may not be made of glass, as he liked to put it, but street bajha had a corrupt and violent underside. There were tales of bar owners and managers who went to great lengths to protect and keep their best players, conspiring to hide them from anyone else who might woo them away. More, although Skeet assumed that their rivals hadn’t gotten wind of any details, Klark could not assume scouts representing other teams would stay away once word leaked out. The mere thought got his competitive juices flowing. If that long-shot amateur was capable of competing at the professional level, it would be for Klark’s team and no other. But how could he guarantee that if he stayed home?

On the other hand, he was supposed to be on his best behavior and exercising good judgment until his wrongdoings faded in everyone’s memories. Returning to one of the more notorious locales of his aborted scheme was not the best decision.

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