Many hundreds of light years away, Vanbrook found himself also contemplating his relationship with Raivyn. He was pining to get back to the woman he loved, and the time away had been difficult for him. The jump from Typhidnia to Hest had given him plenty of time to consider, and he had come to the conclusion that, if he could get back to her, he wouldn’t voluntarily leave her side again.

  "Good evening, folks," said Drixen in an exaggerated and ecstatic tone. "Welcome to the first ever Wingspan Duel Night. Tonight, we have two of Griffonia's favorite sons battling it out in this small ring you see behind me."

  "In this corner," he said, gesturing to Vanbrook, "we have the Rattl’r." A roar of cheering erupted before Drixen could continue. "And in this corner," he said, gesturing to Darvik, who stood fully garbed in armor similar to Vanbrook's, "the Rancher. It’s a best-of-three bout. The first duelist to rack up two victories wins it all!”

  Both duelists lifted their visors and waved to the crowd, receiving an explosion of applause and cheering in return.

  "With a rivalry that dates back years and a friendship that dates back even longer, this is the first time in years that these two will be in the ring together."

  Vanbrook winced at the comment and was glad that he had shut the visor on his helmet once again. He had been unsure about committing to the fight, given the dicey nature of his relationship with the other duelist. But ultimately, helping Hunt keep the crew entertained seemed a worthy enough goal for him to take the risk.

  "And so," continued Drixen, "fighters, are you ready?"

  They both raised their sabers high and gave each other a stiff bow.

  "Wingspan, are you ready?" The crowd cheered once more, interspersed with hollering and whistling.

  Drixen grinned ear to ear, clearly enjoying his role. "Begin!" he shouted.

  A wolfish grin spread behind Vanbrook’s visor as he stepped towards Darvik. Their swords met in friendly competition for the first time in many years. What followed was a whirling dance of steel and power as the two gifted swordsmen thrust and parried, each watching for weaknesses in the other's form.

  Vanbrook had always fared best against Darvik when there was some form of hazard or terrain. A straight duel on a flat surface tended to favor Darvik. However, Vanbrook was much more accustomed to moving around and even fighting while wearing mag boots, giving him a significant advantage.

  Darvik's footwork was uncharacteristically sloppy as he tried to grow accustomed to using a sword in a zero-gravity environment. Vanbrook pressed his advantage, forcing Darvik to try to step backwards, and his poor footwork translated to poor parries. Vanbrook slipped past Darvik's defenses. The blunted point of his dueling saber was planted directly over Darvik's heart.

  A buzzer sounded and the two fighters shuffled away from each other to their respective corners.

  "Duelists ready?" asked Drixen. They raised their sabers in salute and gave one another a stiff bow.

  "Begin!" cried Drixen for the second round.

  Vanbrook immediately set about implementing the same strategy again. But Darvik had learned from his mistakes and, while still somewhat sloppy, his footwork was moderately improved. He made a few bad steps and Vanbrook swept in to take advantage, only to have his blow parried, leaving him little time to deflect the incoming strike with his shield, which he barely managed.

  Vanbrook's smile grew once again as he narrowly escaped the trap. However, he was never able to win back the initiative as Darvik redoubled his efforts, pushing Vanbrook back and slashing and defending with vicious intensity. Vanbrook parried a blow too hard and wasn’t able to bring his shield around quick enough. Darvik’s blade glanced off the buckler and scraped across Vanbrook’s knee, sounding the buzzer.

  The two duelists took to their corners once more, and once more Drixen made the call. “Final round!”

  The two rushed each other once more, their blades crossing in the center of the ring. Vanbrook knew that Darvik was at least a match for him, and that the circumstances had begun to favor his opponent. Seizing an opportunity, he made a wild strike that allowed him to retreat a short distance. He crouched to the ground, deactivated his mag boots, and launched himself towards the ceiling.

  With Vanbrook's powerfully athletic build and the lack of gravity, he landed on the roof of the auditorium some fifteen feet up, twisting as he went so that his mag boots were able to click onto the ceiling. The two men could have walked over top of one another with a few feet still between their forms with one on the ceiling and one on the floor, but with arms outstretched they could reach one another with their sabers. A bizarre duel ensued where Vanbrook from above and Darvik from below continued to strike and parry at an odd angle. The crowd erupted with cheers, their announcer included.

  Darvik tried to maneuver away from Vanbrook so that he could join him on the ceiling, but Vanbrook continued to match Darvik step for step, keeping him from being able to make a leap without leaving himself vulnerable. Seeing that the situation was not in his favor anymore, Darvik ducked down, deactivated his mag boots, and leapt to the side. He spiraled over to the back wall and tried to activate his mag boots on the polymer windshield that allowed a view of the aether from within the auditorium. The mag boots, of course, did not stick to this material and Vanbrook had his advantage.

  The two fought now at a 90-degree angle from one another, but Darvik was unsteady in the low gravity and Vanbrook was able to utilize a firm parry to spin him in place. Darvik's shield rushed to cover his vitals, but Vanbrook's strike was quick and true. The buzzer sounded and Darvik pushed himself back down to the floor, reactivating his mag boots and staring up at Vanbrook, who had taken his visor off to grin down at his opponent.

  Darvik tore his visor off and threw it at the floor, where it hit, bounced, and floated lazily away. Vanbrook grinned and Darvik scowled as they stared at one another as victor and vanquished.

  "That's cheating," said Darvik, jabbing an accusatory finger at Vanbrook.

  Vanbrook shrugged. "Well, if you thought that, you should have said so when I first did it, not after it worked."

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Darvik shrugged in reply. "You're not wrong," he said, the scowl melting into a self-deprecating grin.

  "There you have it, folks," said Drixen. "Vanbrook the Rattl’r is victorious in tonight's bout. Let's hear it for both our duelists."

  As the crowd cheered, Vanbrook leapt down from the ceiling, repeating his earlier maneuver to stand directly in front of Darvik. He thrust out a friendly hand, which Darvik shook vigorously.

  Reclan clapped from where she sat in the crowd. "Just like old times," she said to no one in particular. "Just like old times."

  ***

  The duel had been a great success from Admiral Hunt's perspective. It was the non-stop talk of the crew for days after. He knew the novelty would wear thin before long, but it had provided a much-needed boost to morale.

  He sat in his office, quietly filling out reports. It seemed a silly thing to do given the circumstances. But as much as possible, he wanted to make it easy for the inquiry that would certainly follow their return to Griffonia–if they returned to Griffonia. That meant completing all necessary paperwork and bookkeeping, even in the midst of an unauthorized mission that very well might put him in front of a firing squad. A call came through on his personal channel. He answered it.

  "Hello, Vanbrook," he said.

  "Admiral," said Vanbrook, "It's Fremig."

  A shot of worry burned through Hunt's nerves. "What about him?" He had had concerns from the get-go that, though the creature appeared to be tame, it could turn at a moment's notice back to his bestial, bloodthirsty, former self.

  "His Talpaertan has come along really nicely," said Vanbrook, "Between his apparent natural intelligence and Darvik communicating with him psychically, I think he might be better with my native tongue than I am. He says he's ready to share his story."

  Hunt felt a flood of relief. "That would be very welcome. If it suits Fremig, have him meet me in the conference room by my office. He may bring Talon Squad if it suits him to do so."

  A few minutes later, Talon Squad and Hunt were gathered in the conference room, sitting around the table. Fremig sat with an inscrutable expression on his face as everyone settled into their chairs.

  "There is so much to say," he said when everyone had settled down. "If you will forgive me a long speech, I will tell you the story of my people in this way: how the military functions, what the military believes, and the reality on Drakmundi. Up to now, your dealings have been with the Drakmundi military.

  “Through a combination of genetic engineering and cybernetics, the Drakmundi military has been crafted to be an overwhelming force. War trains captained by heralds are sent out in search of worlds worth conquering, worlds such as Griffonia. When a world is reached, the herald, who is slumbering aboard the war train, is awoken and begins to construct a dragon's maw. When the maw is completed he alerts the Council to his discovery and they send through an army of war trains carrying infantry and beast soldiers such as myself. The planet is conquered and resources are sent back through the maw to support life on Drakmundi, which remains dormant between the discovery of rich worlds.

  “You know some of this because you’ve seen it. Now, allow me to share what it is the military believes and then I will explain the true mysteries of the Drakmundi.

  “The military arm of the Drakmundi, including even the world serpents and the heralds and priestesses that serve them–they all believe that Drakmundi is a world of scarcity, and it is their solemn duty to provide resources to this planet and support life there.

  “They are also taught to despise their own flesh and to desire to become more and more machine. They make their way from an infantryman up to a herald, and finally, a world serpent, in which only their head remains organic matter. It is attached to the massive destroyer that we call the world serpent. They are told that the Council is made up of those who, having graduated from the stage of the world serpent, have uploaded their consciousness entirely into machinery, leaving behind the flesh, their souls bound into circuits. This is a lie." Fremig took a deep breath before continuing.

  "Now, I will explain the truth. The world of Drakmundi is a world of plenty, a world of plunder, and a world of lies. The people of Drakmundi live in luxury. However, they live under the dictatorship of the Council. However, while the Council controls the military and rules over the civilians, they are merely flesh-and-blood Drakmundi like the citizenry. This is why no member of the military is allowed to pass through a dragon's maw to Drakmund. Were they to visit and realize not only that Drakmund is a world of plenty but also that the Council is bound in flesh, they would no longer be governable. The opening of a dragon's maw to Drakmund is only for the purpose of communicating with the council.

  “And while it is true that those who live on Drakmund live in plenty, there are many who are taken away and forced into military service. Any who show signs of psychic abilities are taken off to a war world as young infants and raised to be members of the infantry. Some portion of them are mutated and mutilated to become beast soldiers–unthinking animals that serve as the shock troops of the Drakmundi military. Their bloodthirsty nature compels them to kill all life on a planet, leaving buildings and infrastructure intact rather than using crude bombs and destroying what could be useful items.

  “Some do not show signs of psychic ability until later in life. Such was true of me. However, it is devilishly hard to withhold one's psychic abilities from those around them on Drakmundi. You have seen that my people's symbol is a globe encircled by a serpent. This is no mere symbol, but a picture of our world. The globe, of course, represents Drakmund, with the serpent coiling around it. This is not simple symbolism–this image is a depiction of D'Kanihl, the great serpent that circles our world. It is what you call an aether beast. It drives psychics mad. I was once among the proudest and most respected of my people, but I suddenly became a pariah."

  "It was even suggested that I may one day be a member of the Council, but that was not to be. I became increasingly irrational, and my wife fretted over me until the day I began to chant D'Kanihl’s name. That sure sign of madness, caused by the aether beast himself, even caused my wife to turn on me. Before I became violent, I was arrested in my own house, dragged out my front door unceremoniously, and thrown into a craft that took me to a facility. This facility began the process of transforming me, a healthy Drakmundi male, into the creature you now see before you.

  "A beast soldier's faculties are locked down by an implant in their forehead, of which you now see the outermost part in the form of a broken crystal," he said, tapping his forehead.

  "Drakmundi infantry and their superiors have use of their mental faculties, but beast soldiers do not. That is why those who display their psychic ability later in life are turned into beast soldiers, so that they will have no memory of the easy living enjoyed on Drakmund.

  "In my final sane moments before my transformation, I grew embittered about our society, but it was too late. Now that I am freed from my mental bondage by what appears to have been a mere accident of psychic interaction, I wish to devote my life to dismantling the system that I once applauded.”

  There was a moment of silence as Admiral Hunt and Talon Squad took in Fremig’s story and the reality of the Drakmundi.

  Hunt was the first to break the silence. “I suppose this is where you can explain to us how we are going to be able to defeat them,” he noted.

  Fremig nodded. "You see, while only the beast soldiers are robbed of their sapience, all Drakmundi soldiers have implants capable of killing them at a simple command from a superior. Now, these systems are ever in place and can be communicated with across the stars using the dragon's maws. I hope that by taking the main citadel on Drakmund, we will be able to control this technology, free the soldiers, and inform them of the true nature of Drakmundi society.

  “Though not all will believe us, they will for the first time have doubt sewn throughout their ranks and have the knowledge that they cannot be killed with the mere push of a button. It will break the morale of the Drakmundi military immediately."

  Hunt drummed on the table with his fingers. "Would it not also allow us to kill the entire Drakmundi army outright?"

  Fremig looked at him stone-faced. "That it would, Admiral. That it would."