Ryan smiled, taking the seat Haley had vacated. "It's good to see you feeling well again, Prince, and able to converse. So we are Terrans, are we?"
Medart nodded, pleased by the clan-chief's calm reaction. "Yes." Then he raised an eyebrow, grinning, and said, "You knew, didn't you? That emphasis on the first 'are' was a giveaway."
"We—the clan-chiefs—have known for centuries." Ryan sobered. "Or strongly suspected, at least; all the evidence pointed in that direction."
"So why in Chaos haven't you done anything about it?" Medart demanded.
Ryan shrugged. "You know we aren't as powerful as your nobles, Prince. We can only lead our people where they want to go—and that hasn't been into the Empire."
"But you could have told them, at least!"
"Not and lived," Ryan retorted. "You, of all people, must know how deeply unacceptable that particular truth is to most of us. Coming from you it's bad enough; coming from us, it would trigger a reaction I prefer not to think about."
Medart nodded, reluctantly. "I think I can understand that. What's going to happen now that I've spilled the beans?"
"The warriors' hall was full when Haley gave me the news; I'd imagine it's spreading as quickly as people can get to commsets or cast the necessary spells." Ryan looked serious. "I should contact the clan-chiefs as well. Prince James, would it upset you to speak to all the chiefs through me?"
"Not a bit—I'd jump at the opportunity."
"A moment, then, while I cast the spell. And some will need a few more moments to wake up."
"Go ahead." This wasn't anything he could have expected, Medart thought, and he had no idea what effect it would have. A drastic one, he was sure; Sandemans weren't known for moderation in their reactions, especially to strong stimuli, and this was one of the strongest possible. If he lost the duel, it could easily send them back into combat with the determination to eliminate every trace of the Shapers and their kin. If he won, their reaction was less predictable. They wouldn't continue the war; honor wouldn't permit that. But that still left two possibilities. They might pull back and refuse all further contact, or—Medart's earnest hope—they might decide to give the Empire the benefit of their improvements, and join it. Here, they'd be a full Sector—probably the biggest one, Medart thought, and certainly the strongest.
"Ready," Ryan said. "I'm linked to all the clan-chiefs and Warleaders available, Prince James. They see and hear what I do, and can speak through me if I permit. Would you summarize what you told the lady Kelly and the student warrior Haley?"
"Gladly." Medart did so, thinking that he preferred something like the Mjolnir Conference, where he could see that he was talking to a group. This was like talking to a camera, he supposed—but it felt decidedly peculiar, speaking to one person and knowing hundreds of others were watching and listening through that person's eyes and ears.
"That's it," he said at last. "Now what?"
"Now what, indeed," Ryan said. "I think that determination will be primarily up to you, Highness. Bryan of Alanna wishes to speak to you." His eyes lost focus for a second; when they regained it, Medart knew it was the Alanna addressing him.
"I am Bryan of Alanna," Ryan said, confirming that. "Are you aware that we have been following your training, Highness, as one of the most important events in this sphere?"
"I've been too preoccupied to give any consideration to my news value," Medart said. He didn't particularly enjoy being on public display, even after a lifetime of it—especially when he was at his worst. But he'd been there before, and if he survived he'd be there again; he could handle it. "I suppose it does make sense, though. What about it?"
"Your efforts have done you great honor, and earned you more regard than I can recall being given any other Terran. We understand your motive is to win our friendship or alliance as well as peace—but do you really believe one person can achieve that after three years of war?"
"I don't know," Medart admitted. "All I can do is try my best and hope. I know you from my universe, remember, and I achieved it once, even though the circumstances were drastically different."
"Dell, of Raynor," Ryan said, his voice changing as another chief spoke. "Why did none of this universe's Terrans make such an effort?"
"You didn't give them a chance. They know you the way we knew the Traiti—as ferocious, bloodthirsty killers. It took the Traiti asking one of my colleagues to take their Ordeal of Honor for him—and later the rest of us—to learn about them as they really are. I know that about you from home, so naturally I'm willing to take the same sort of chance to give you and this Empire the opportunity to become friends."
"Gareth, of Levva," was the next introduction. "I believe your acceptance of such a risk, and your willingness to endure such painful training, have earned that opportunity; win your duel, and Clan Levva will send a delegation to investigate the desirability of acknowledging the citizenship you say is ours by right."
Medart let his relief show. "That's all I ask, Clan-chief." Sandemans thought a lot more alike than their standard-human cousins; if one was willing to make such a concession, most others would too. And the few that wouldn't immediately would probably change their minds as soon as they saw the benefits of Imperial citizenship. Of course, that still left him with the problem of winning the duel …
If he had to fight a duel, Medart thought, at least he had a good day for it. The weather at Vader clanhome was clear and sunny, the temperature a comfortable twenty degrees as he stood waiting for his opponent in the outdoor practice arena. And he was in uniform; Ryan had brought one from his courier ship—even had it tailored for his weight loss—in case he needed it as his ceremonials.
He'd taken the drugs that would bring him as close as possible for a standard human to the Sandeman battleprepped state. He was keyed up, unnaturally alert, sensitive to every movement around him, and eager to get on with the duel. It was mildly amusing to see that the Sandemans gave him the same cautious respect he'd give a battleprepped warrior; maybe the drugs brought him closer to that state than he'd thought.
It seemed like hours before he heard, then saw, the boxy transport null-grav craft bringing his opponent. That, in his edgy condition, was more of a relief than the threat he'd expected to feel. The transport landed outside the arena, too far away for him to recognize the clan-arms, and he briefly regretted not asking who he was going to be fighting. Not that the information would have been much help, he thought; he'd prepared as much as he could, whoever it was.
The group of warriors escorting his opponent entered the arena through the gate at the far end from where Medart stood with a group from Vader, and stopped. "Now," Medart heard Ryan say.
He stepped forward, accompanied by Ryan and Kelly, at the same time a trio of the newcomers did the same. They were to meet in the center of the arena for formal introductions, then separate to about three meters for the duel itself—but Medart came to a shocked halt as soon as he was close enough to recognize the central member of the other party. The Sandeman's familiar tattoo of a black-barred violet flower was missing from his cheek, but Medart knew him well enough to recognize him easily without it. "Oh, shit," he said, involuntarily. "Nevan!"
"Keep going," Ryan urged. As the three began moving again, he asked quietly, "What's wrong? You know him?"
"Too damn well," Medart said. "Nevan-Corina DarLeras and I have been battle-companions for the last century, since we fought together defending the Palace in the last battle of the White Order revolt. I know intellectually that this isn't the same person, but dammit, it's going to feel like I'm trying to hurt a friend." Thank all the gods, Sandeman duels were to disablement or conclusive advantage; he didn't think he'd be capable of killing—or trying to kill—a man he knew as one of the Empire's best defenders.
"This one is Nevan only," Ryan agreed. "His face shows he has never sworn personal fealty or won the right to use his thakur's name. While it would be dishonorable for you to fight a battle-companion, he is not truly such—though I agree the resemblance will make this duel more difficult."
"Yeah. Don't say anything, though, okay? At least till it's over."
"As you wish, James."
The last few steps to introduction distance were silent. Medart used them to study his opponent, apprehension growing. He knew precisely how good Nevan was at both conventional and psionic combat; since he'd been chosen as the Sandeman champion for this duel, there was every reason to believe he was just as good at magical combat. And Medart could remember thinking, the first time he saw Nevan battleprepped, how much he'd hate to be on the receiving end of the younger man's skills. Now that he was about to be, that opinion was even stronger.
But Medart had motivation of his own, and his pain and weakness were masked by the medications he'd taken. He exchanged bows and introductions with his opponent, then stepped back and began working the spells he'd been taught.
He could feel immediately that this was one of his strong days. The power flowed into and through him, part surrounding him in a silvery glow, part erupting from his hands like emerald blaster bolts.
The bolts flared off Nevan's shield, blending in with his counterattack. Medart's shield blazed scarlet, held—but he gasped as all-too-familiar pain shot through him. The quidine couldn't withstand active magic, it seemed; he could only hope the rest of his meds would.
So far they were, and he'd had two months' practice working in spite of pain; he could keep going. He couldn't do it for long, though. He felt all right thanks to the meds, but he knew his stamina was only a fraction of what it should be; a few more exchanges, and he'd lose by simple attrition.
He struck again, glad that Sandeman magic was simpler than in the books and TreasureTunnel game; he'd never have been able to remember, much less use, the complicated spells in those. Hit and defend was about all he could manage through the growing agony. He lost awareness of his surroundings, even of his opponent, in the effort to channel all his power into defense and, more importantly, attack.
What broke his concentration was the insistent repetition of his name. "James! James! It's over—stop! James, Jim—no more! You've won!"
"Huh?" It was Ryan's voice, Medart realized as the power ebbed from him and he slumped to his knees with his head drooped, overwhelmed by pain and exhaustion. "Won—I didn't kill him, did I?"
"No." The voice this time was unfamiliar; one of Nevan's seconds, Medart thought. "He is injured and unconscious, but he will recover."
"With your permission, James?" That was Kelly, kneeling in front of him and extending her hands.
"Yeah, whatever." She touched him, murmured briefly with no effect he could notice. Moisture trickled down his face and he felt tightness in his throat; he coughed, then vomited, seeing and tasting blood. Major internal damage, obviously, and Sandeman medicine here not much better than Imperial first aid … He fought to raise his head. "Any chance?" he asked.
Kelly shook her head. "I'm sorry, James. The damage is too extensive. I cannot even ease what few hours you may have left."
Medart coughed again, then sighed. "In that case … I ask Last Gift."
"Granted," Ryan said. "And may the gods accept you as one of themselves." Almost immediately Medart felt the tip of a blade at the angle of his jaw behind his ear. There was an instant of pressure, and the pain was over.
Ryan accepted a cloth from one of his warriors to wipe his blade, then re-sheathed the knife and dropped the cloth without looking away from the Prince's body. He'd thought it would be easy to kill any Terran, but he'd been wrong; giving this one Last Gift had been as painful as giving it to one of his own. At last he rose, still looking down. "His body should be returned to his Empire, but we haven't the facilities. Kelly, would you see to preparing him for burial?"
"Of course, Chief. In our memorial garden?"
"He deserves it, yes—with the warrior caste. But keep out his saber and badge; I'm going to take them to this Empire and ask that the one who brought him here return them, along with a copy of the tape of this duel. His people should know how and why he died."
"Yes, they should."
Ryan turned at the unfamiliar voice, to see the warrior Nevan. He'd been healed, though his clothing still showed the effects of battle. "I'm pleased you agree, warrior. Now that the combat is over, I'm free to tell you he knew your avatar in his home universe, and claimed him as battle-companion of a century's standing."
Nevan smiled. "From what I learned of him during our duel, I would willingly acknowledge such a bond. I ask permission to accompany you on the mission to return his belongings to his people."
"Granted, warrior. Will you be Vader's guest until we leave?"
"I would be honored, Chief."
Ryan's battle cruiser entered Imperial space as Medart's little courier had entered Sandeman: all lights on, and broadcasting its identity. They were expected; after the second broadcast of the duel, Bryan of Alanna had declared peace and announced both Clan Levva's investigation of their Imperial heritage and Clan Vader's intention of returning Medart's effects. The reply had been a cautious welcome, along with the information that unless and until they did accept Imperial citizenship they would be met and escorted. That seemed reasonable, so the Sandemans had agreed; Ryan wasn't at all surprised that his ship was met by the IBC Emperor Barton, or that Ranger Ariel invited him and Nevan aboard.
The two went alone, without the escort that normally accompanied a clan-chief anywhere outside his clan's territory. Ryan had decided to use his cruiser because it seemed proper to return James' little courier ship as well as his personal belongings; when they landed the tiny Imperial vessel aboard its huge sister ship, they were met by an honor guard of Marines in what Medart had described as their "ceremonials," what they called dress blues. The Marines escorted them directly from the lander bay to a room with a semi-circular table facing a large viewscreen, where Ariel was waiting.
She rose to greet them. "Welcome to the Empire, gentles. I understand you came to return Ranger Medart's effects in person; that was considerate of you."
"We do so to honor Prince James," Ryan said. "And it would seem we grant him greater honor than you do. He owed this universe nothing, since he was pulled without consent from his own; he had every right to refuse you any service. Yet he endured much pain and finally lost his life in the effort to preserve you and give us new opportunities."
Ariel nodded, and Ryan was pleased to see she had the grace to look regretful. "We didn't want to draft anyone, but you were pushing us so hard we didn't see any alternative—you'd already cost us half our Rangers and best magicians."
"That's no excuse," Nevan said. "What if his own universe needed him, perhaps to fight the Ravagers he told us about? What if it needs him in the future, after you brought him here to his death?"
"If you're trying to make me feel guilty," Ariel said, "you're too late. As soon as I saw your broadcast of his duel and the mercy Clan-chief Ryan gave him, I contacted His Majesty; I'll be delivering Ranger Medart's belongings and your tape personally to his Emperor—and I will remain in Alpha Prime to take his place. It will be difficult functioning without magic, but most universes manage; I'll learn to cope."
Nevan bowed, his expression chagrined. "In that case I spoke too hastily, Highness. Will you accept my apology?"
"Of course, warrior." Ariel paused, then looked wistful. "Once I get there, I doubt very much I'll be able to find out what's going on back here—can you give me any idea whether or not the Sandemans here will accept citizenship?"
Nevan glanced at Ryan, then turned back to the Ranger. "I can't speak for anyone else, Highness, but James' actions in bringing peace, and now your willingness to take his place, have made my own decision easy. I wish to accept citizenship and apply for a position in whatever segment of your military is most likely to see combat."
Ryan nodded agreement. "My responsibilities as clan-chief prevent me from joining the military, but I concur with the warrior Nevan: I also wish to accept citizenship, and I will recommend to my clan and the other chiefs that they do so as well."
"Thank you both. That's a considerable relief." Ariel smiled at them. "I'm looking forward, now, to working with your counterparts in my new home. I have the transfer spells ready, and I'd prefer to get started without delay, so if you'll give me James' effects, I'll be on my way."
END