Michael Hudson: Thieves of Light

Deep within a great space station orbiting a tiny blue-white star, a warrior labored at a task warriors despised. Perched on a special stool that safely supported his massive bulk yet let his thick, leathery tail swing freely, he sat at his work station and stared at a display screen.

The brownish-green skin of his forehead, almost invisible above a protruding snout that would have been at home on a Komodo dragon, was furrowed with frustration. His jaws parted, revealing a dozen smaller teeth to go with the six upper canines that showed even when his mouth was closed. He lashed the air with his tongue.

"Eheheh," the warrior growled. "There's never any end of combat reports." Then he resumed punching at the data entry keys with thick fingers.

His name was Nar-lex-ko-li-hon, which meant To-cowards-their-due in the language of his people. His people called themselves the Qeth-the Chosen-and their world Bree-nech-Peaceful Morning.

As first in a litter of six, Nar-lex-ko-li-hon had the right to carry his father's name, Fo-bek-tin-Glories-of-night. A poet's name, appropriate to the poet's spirit Nar-lex-ko-li-hon had inherited.

But the world into which he was born eighty-two cycles ago was gripped by a savage internecine war, and his destiny from birth had been to train as a soldier of the West and take up arms against the armies of the East. The times, rather than tradition, had dictated his naming.

It was the most pointless and brutal of wars, Qeth against Qeth, foot soldier against foot soldier, eventually costing both sides far more than complete surrender possibly could have. In the course of twenty-six cycles of fighting, the better part of two generations of nestlings were slain on the battlefield. The territorial boundary moved eight hundred miles east, twelve hundred miles west, and ended up a hundred miles from where it had been when war began.

At last a third generation rebelled against the ongoing slaughter and forced peace on the ruling classes of East and West alike. None was more glad than Nar-lex-ko-li-hon when the armistice came, for none had seen more clearly or closely the terrible price of the war.

On Union Day, as unfertilized eggs were exchanged between the First Breeders of the East and the West- symbolic hostages to guarantee the peace-he vowed never to fight again. From that day on, he considered his name an anachronism, and chose to be called only Li-hon-meaning Destiny.

But now, many years removed from that vow and a long way from Qeth, Li-hon was caught up in a much more far-reaching war. This time, he was not fighting over Qeth, but for it. This time, the enemy was not beings like himself, but demons out of a nestling's nightmare. This time, peace was not an option. This time, the only choices were death or victory.

The work station chirruped at Li-hon, and the display he had been working on faded away to black. "What is it?" he demanded of the communicator.

He was answered by the dulcet voice of the space station's central machine intelligence, formally known as the First Guardian. Though the computer itself was sexless, its voice and visualizations were unmistakably female, even maternal. "Recruitment alert, Nar-lex-ko-li-hon. A prospective candidate for the Guardians has been identified by the Monitor at Center 8053."

Li-hon craned his head ceilingward, flexing the cramped muscles of his massive neck. "That's on Earth," he said without much enthusiasm. "What's the candidate's name?"

"Christopher Jarvis. Within the Center he uses an alternate identity, Bhodi Li. The meaning of the alternate identity is unknown."

"Bo-di-li," Li-hon repeated. "In Qeth it would mean Battle-child."

"It is a meaningless coincidence," she rebuked him. "The individual in question is a young adult human-"

"Let me see the monitor tapes," Li-hon interrupted.

The screen brightened. As though he were a spider on the ceiling, Li-hon looked down into a large arena where a dozen helmeted figures skulked behind the cover of barricades, raced up ramps, and hid in tunnels, clutching infrared pistols in their hands.

"That one," the First Guardian said as a bright red spotting circle enclosed one of the players.

Li-hon did not need help identifying Jarvis. In the brief time he had been watching, the Terran had scored against three of his opponents with what seemed impulsive and ill-considered charges. He was now poised to make a thrust toward the base goal, located in an alcove near the top of a ramp. Two of Jarvis's opponents lurked in hiding near the goal, ready to defend it.

"There is a certain recklessness to this one," the First Guardian observed.

"There is also an intensity not often found in humans."

Li-hon said. "What projection do you make for his success?"

"The value approaches one that he will achieve the threshold score very shortly," she said. "The probability he could meet our requirements and become a Guardian of the Light is considerably less, perhaps no more than point-three-eight."

"He interests me."

"He is yours for claiming, though I would recommend against it. The species is ill-suited to the challenges of this war. Parcival is an exception."

"I claim him nonetheless. Is Parcival on station?"

"He is."

"Then will you have a scoutship readied for us?"

"As you wish," the First Guardian said disapprovingly. "Even though I suspect you of feigning interest in Jarvis in order to avoid timely completion of your logwork."

It's not out of the question, Li-hon thought. But this time at least, I have other reasons.

"My interest is real," he said, rising from the stool to his full seven-foot height. "This one I want to see myself."

The doodle in the margin of Christopher Jarvis's notepad was quickly growing to epic proportions.

It had started out as a caricature of the President, then mutated into a creature that would have done a special-effects magician proud. Finally it dissolved into a mass of whorls and curlicues that climbed up the side margin and spilled out like an ink tsunami onto the white space at the top of the page.

The whole business had occupied him for the better part of ten minutes. By any standard, it was a success. That was ten minutes less he had to listen to Mrs. Martini drone on about the phylum Bryophyta, ten minutes closer to the end of the period and Friday's final bell.

"Christopher-"

It took Jarvis several heartbeats to realize that he had been caught. His pen stopped moving. His greenish-blue eyes flicked upward from the paper. At last he raised his head and looked toward the front of the classroom. The look on Mrs. Martini's face said that she'd been waiting for some time for him to respond. An amused titter, female-variety, confirmed it.

Though his gaze never wandered from Mrs. Martini's face, Jarvis knew the titter came from Denise Barrows, two rows to the right and one seat forward. It was not just that he knew her voice. He was aware of everything she did and everything about her-the way her long black hair fell across one eye as she worked at her desk, the way she carried her books on one hip as she moved past him in the corridor, the half smile that always preceded her easy laugh.

Jarvis liked her laugh-except when it was at his expense. Which it stood a good chance of being before Mrs. Martini was done with him.

"Yes, Mrs. Martini?" he said with studied innocence.

"I had asked you a question."

"I know," he said. "I didn't understand it."

Raising an eyebrow questioningly, the petite biology teacher repeated, "I had asked you to explain what hornworts are?"

Conscious of Denise, Jarvis did not want to admit he didn't know. But there were other options.