Zachary Jernigan - No Return

Unable to sleep, he touched himself through his suit. Facing the tent wall, separated from reveling brothers and sisters by a thin sheet of nearly translucent cloth at his back, he knew what he did was ordinary, unremarkable, but as the erection grew under his hand he fought the irrational fear of being observed. Peering over his shoulder, he half expected to find her waiting for him. Smiling so that the gap in her teeth showed. Bending over, peeling leather pants from muscular hips. Running her hands up her backside, lifting her skirt.

Strangely, the paranoia coupled with fantasy produced the most intense orgasm he had experienced in some time. His legs shook and he curled in around the sensation, seeking to hold it in. He gasped unintentionally. A moan escaped his lips.

The sadness thereafter seemed inevitable, an aftereffect of wishing too hard. The cavity he had opened by giving vent to his longing now threatened to consume him. The immensity of the void constricted his chest, stung his eyes. He marveled at all the things he had never experienced, all the things he had never allowed as possibilities.

Traveling with Churls, having her close, had opened the world around him, yet he still struggled to give his desire a voice.

Yes... Yes. Without a doubt he wanted her.

He wanted her for more than sex—more than mere friendship or respect.

Suddenly, the thought of winning the tournament, of returning to his apartment in the abbey and reassuming his routine, seemed an awful fate.

‡

A squat White Suit came out of the crowd. The opposition’s official. “You’re due,” he said.

Vedas raised his arms and spread his feet for the weapons inspection. He closed his eyes as hard hands flowed over his sculpted body, uncomfortable lest he meet the stares of his brothers and sisters. They would smile, nod encouragement. One or two might spit at the official’s feet or say something foul. Vedas needed none of that at the moment. Best he avoid all distraction, go into the fight feeling as little as possible.

Emotion slows reaction , Abse had always said. Anger just as much as fear. Vedas thought of Churls one last time, resigning himself to the woman’s absence before banishing her from his mind—a blessedly simple action now that the fight was nearly begun. Familiar sensations flooded his system, focusing his awareness. His pulse expanded to fill his body, drumming a simple beat from head to toe. His suit tightened around him. He did not feel so much as a twinge as his broken finger curled in with the others to make a fist.

The official put his hand between Vedas’s legs, ran the tip of a finger along his perineum. He cupped Vedas’s genitals, squeezed lightly, and then stood.

“Finished. Let’s go.”

The crowd parted for them. Vedas looked neither left nor right, and kept his eyes on the floor. He touched no outstretched fingers for luck. His brothers and sisters forgave such things, apparently, for they cheered as he stepped into the packed earth ring:

“Vedas!”

“Vedas!”

“Vedas!”

The bass throb of a drum underscored the two-syllable chant, though it could easily have been meant for the opposition, who shouted the name of their champion just as loudly. To Vedas, the words lost all clarity and became a simple rhythm.

Opposing factions, shouting with a single voice.

Vedas tipped his head from side to side, loosening his neck. Though no material boundary kept the Black Suits and the Whites from mixing, to either side an arrow-straight line separated them. Once in a while a hand shot out with a rude gesture from one side and someone from the other slapped at it, but this was the extent of their interaction.

Afterwards, however—maybe then someone would push at the border.

And what about the others, the ones who stood behind the gathered orders? Onlookers, gamblers, Adrashi and Anadrashi of a hundred kinds. What would they do if he won, if he lost? And then there were the others waiting outside the tent. The entire population of Danoor, waiting for word of the outcome. The Tomen, encamped in the hills...

Enough , Vedas told himself. Concentrate on the task at hand.

He lifted his head and looked at his opponent for the first time. What he saw surprised him, but his features remained blank. Knowing how much even a glance revealed to a smart fighter, he took in details of build and stance without moving his eyes.

She did the same.

For some reason, he had not imagined a woman. Perhaps he had not thought a woman capable of making it all the way to the final bout, but this did not ring true. More likely, he had simply gone with the odds. Sisters comprised less than a quarter of the combatants.

Grey stood an inch or two taller than Vedas, and outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. Her breasts were large, but so flattened by the stiffness of her suit that they looked like immense pectoral muscles. Her gut was a tight drum, her legs barrels of smooth muscle. Her shoulders sloped like a bear’s, and her hands were massive. They alone moved, alternating fists opening and closing. Vedas looked last at her face, which was large but not at all unattractive. Together with the build, her unlined olive complexion revealed her as a native of northern Dareth Hlum, a close relative of the Vunni, perhaps.

The head official of the tournament, an impartial representative from the city council, stepped between the two combatants. He reached inside his robes and produced a vial, which he dropped and then broke under the butt of his staff. Vedas’s ears popped.

“Silence, please,” the official said, voice amplified so that all could hear. “This will be the final bout of this tournament, the final bout of the year. Tonight marks the last day of the half-millennium, and tomorrow the city will begin hosting celebratory games. Whatever the outcome tonight, you will end it peaceably and not sully the merrymaking.”

Boos sounded from both sides.

The official frowned. “Battalions are stationed in this camp, at the coliseum, and within the city itself. No leniency will be shown to rioters, regardless of race, class, place of birth, or faith.”

“What of the Tomen?” someone shouted.

The official’s frown deepened. “A battalion is stationed below them. Another two companies are arriving as we speak. Ample men to quash any violence the Tomen may intend.” He bowed to Grey and Vedas. “Good fight.”

Vedas’s hood flowed to cover his face. Grey did not mask her face completely, but caused her suit to form bars that rose from her chin to the armored bridge of her nose. Shelf-like eyebrow ridges formed and the eldercloth thickened visibly over her ears.

Transformations complete, they bowed to one another.

The fight began.

‡

Vedas was the first to move.

Grey merely widened her stance, turning to follow him as he circled. He kept his distance, watching her smoothly shift weight from foot to foot. She had lowered her center of gravity without bending her back, as if she were squatting over a latrine hole. Though he could not rely upon it as fact, nine times out of ten this posture communicated an unwillingness to reach farther than arm’s length for an opponent.

She would wait for him to bridge the gap between them. From there she would try to take him to the floor, counting on her bulk to overcome him. She had probably caused her suit to texture, especially along the forearms and inner thighs, creating a gripping surface to counter the smoothness of her opponent’s suit. A conservative strategy, sound but ultimately limiting: Her suit and thick build granted her a great deal of protection against close range attacks, but unless she proved faster than Vedas she would be unable to get a grip on him.