Once Broken, Chapter 16 (Patreon)

“Gun?” Rig’Irik asked, as he did every time he and the others came for training.

Alex had twenty-seven trainees, young men and women, naked. It was down from the close to forty he had the week before, when some of the older warriors took part, which was up from the zero he’d had before that.

It took Rig’Irik and Sartas almost two weeks to convince anyone to take part in this, and Alex had the impression that those who’d come did so to humor an old woman.

Alex had started with unarmed fighting, showing them proper posture, how to block and parry. He’d lost the warriors before that day was done. The youth seemed to feel this was more a game than something serious.

And Rig’Irik asked about the guns, as if they were the important thing in a fight.

“Not today,” Alex replied. “They should be here soon, in a few days at most.” He looked beyond the Samalians assembled before him to Tristan. He was sitting on the ground among scattered stones, holding his knees and rocking. He was having a bad day, and Alex was angry because he wanted to go comfort him.

Rig’Irik pointed to the gun Alex had at his belt. “Use that.”

Alex shook his head. “I can’t teach just one of you to shoot. It isn’t something the others learn by watching. Now take position.”

The Samalian crossed his arms over his chest. “Here to learn to fight attackers, not tussle.” The others watched them. Rig’Irik was the nominal leader of this group. Alex had yet to work out how he’d achieve the position.

“You might know how to tussle,” Alex said, “but that isn’t going to let you survive a fight against a serious opponent. A gun is also not what will let you survive a fight.”

Rig’Irik said something in Samalian that had the other laughing before turning and heading away.

Alex watched them. Was this because they were kids? Or because they actually thought they could win a fight? With a sigh he took the gun out of his holster, removed the powerpack, and called to the Samalian.

Rig’Irik turned and Alex lobbed the gun at him. “Shoot me down before I gut you.” He unsheathed a knife as the Samalian fumbled to get a proper grip on the gun. Alex walked toward him once he was holding it close to proper.

With a smirk, Rig’Irik raised the gun and pulled the trigger. A second and third time, his expression becoming perplexed. He turned the gun in his hand and adjusted the power setting before trying to shoot Alex again.

The Samalian didn’t get another try.

Alex slashed, and Rig’Irik stepped back. Alex pressed with a stab at the man’s stomach. It was deflected. Alex punched Rig’Irik’s side, and he snarled. He tried to claw Alex back, but his finger got tangled in the gun’s trigger guard. Alex used the distraction to try to open Rig’Irik’s side, but the Samalian stepped out of the way, throwing the gun away. He came at Alex with claws out, growling.

Alex dropped the knife, caught Rig’Irik’s arm, turned and pulled. With a yelp that sounded like a surprised dog, the Samalian flew over him and landed on his back. Alex was straddling his chest, another knife in hand—laser blade by the weight—and remembered this wasn’t an enemy. He pressed the deactivated knife to the Samalian’s throat.

“You’re dead,” Alex said flatly. Rig’Irik tensed under him. “Don’t.” He put more strength on the knife. “The only thing trying to get out of this will do is spill your blood over the ground. You had a gun, you’re still dead.”

“Cheated,” Rig’Irik said.

Alex snorted and bent forward, lowering his voice. “Of course I cheated. That’s how you win. This isn’t a tussle, it’s a fight. You don’t give your opponent a chance to gain the advantage, you take him down as quickly and as permanently as you can.”

A bark made him look up, then more, and he located Sartas, standing among the circle that had formed around him and Rig’Irik. She was laughing.

She said something in Samalian and Rig’Irik growled a response, tensing. Alex reflexively dug the knife in harder. And the Samalian stopped moving.

She noticed it and sobered. “Will you kill any student who fails you?”

Alex looked at the knife. Even without a sharp edge, he was pressing it hard enough blood was beading along the length. He wouldn’t cut any deeper—the two protective bones stopped him—but he hadn’t realized just how hard he’d been pressing.

He stood and offered his hand to the Samalian. Rig’Irik eyed him without anger. The emotions were mixed in his eyes, and Alex didn’t know him well enough to make them all out, but he thought there was respect somewhere in there.

Rig’Irik grabbed his hand and Alex pulled as hard as he could. Rig’Irik touched his neck once he was up and rubbed the blood between his fingers. Alex watched his eyes to avoid looking down. He could see how excited this had made him in his peripheral vision, and if there was one thing he’d noticed over a week of making them fight, it was that they didn’t stare at each other when they were hard.

Alex was so happy he’d started wearing pants again for this; he wasn’t displaying his own excitement for them to see. Rig’Irik sniffed the air between them.

No, he didn’t have to show anything for it to be on display, Alex reminded himself. He turned and walked to Sartas. “Transla—” He stopped. He had no business ordering her about. He took a breath to calm himself. “Can you translate for me?”

She nodded.

“Thank you.” He turned to his trainees and waited until they stopped talking among each other, to Rig’Irik, who was watching Alex with a look he thought was more than respect now.

“You wanted a lesson about guns, so here is the first one.” He took the powerpack out of the pocket while Sartas translated. “Never accept a weapon from someone you aren’t entirely sure is an ally, and even then, check it before trying to use it. I could have set the gun to blow up when Rig’Irik tried to use it, not just taken the power out of it.”

He indicated the gun on the ground. “That doesn’t win a fight. It’s just a tool. If you’re counting on it to win, you’re already dead. You have to want to win before you use this. You have to treat fights as a matter of life and death, not as a game to play, otherwise you’re dead.”

He went to it and picked the gun up, sliding the pack in before holstering it. “You’re going to learn how to use guns, don’t worry about it, but you need to be able to win a fight without one first. I’m slimmer than Rig’Irik, less massive, nowhere near as strong. I still killed him. I won. I won because to me this isn’t a game, it isn’t a tussle. I won because to lose means to die, and I will not die.”

They watched him intently as Sartas finished speaking. No one said anything, but ears were flicking in the affirmative. “If you’re here because you thought this would be fun, because it gets you out of chores or I don’t know why, but it isn’t because you want to win, go back to town.”

Sartas finished. No one moved.

A deeper voice spoke behind him. A handful of the adults had joined them. The one speaking had been among the warriors who had welcomed him with Hea’Las.

Alex looked at Sartas.

“She is telling them there is more to a fight than the size of your claws. That a fight can be won by thinking faster and harder than your opponent. That an opponent can be stronger than they look. That they need to learn how to judge their opponent before taking on the fight.”

“Pair up,” Alex said, “fight to win. Not to have fun.”

The two warriors joined the training, and Alex was surprised at the lack of posturing as they fought.

Had he ever been like that as a kid? Honest about what he did and didn’t know? He didn’t think so. He remembered getting in trouble because he’d claimed to be better than his brother or sisters at something, and then had to prove it, and failed.

He’d become the best at coercion so he hadn’t had to put on an act, but as he learned, he never admitted to knowing less than he did. Once he’d decided to take fighting seriously, he’d been the same. He hadn’t been willing to show he was weaker than he was. It had served him; posturing played a part in surviving among pirates, but watching the Samalians fight hard, but honestly, was a reminder that it was possible to be respected even if he wasn’t the best.

Rig’Irik was the only problem in the group. He’d take down his partner harder than he had to and then come to Alex, growling when he was assigned another partner, only to take him down harder than needed, to the point where no one wanted to fight him.

This was beyond fighting to win; the Samalian was trying to prove something.

“What’s your problem?” Alex snapped. “You think you’re too good for them?”

“Fight you.”

Alex snarled internally as he realized he’d misread the look. It hadn’t been respect. “I don’t have time for grudges. You’re here to—”

“Teach me.”

Alex paused. “I’m going to beat you every time. You’d be better off learning from one of the older warriors.”

“I learn from you.”

Alex didn’t look down, but he could still see how the idea of fighting him excited Rig’Irik. Alex had stopped thinking of him that way after that first meeting, once he’d realized he was just like the others here. But now, the idea of shaping him, molding him, making him dangerous caused a tingle to travel to his groin. If not for Tristan, he could do some truly amazing things to this man.

“I won’t be gentle.”

An affirmative flick of the ears. “I learn.” He motioned to the harness. “Use claws.”

“You’re going to bleed if I use one of them, there’s no avoiding it.” Another flick of the ears.

Alex nodded. Yes, if he wasn’t already dedicated to Tristan, he could have fallen for a man willing to take the kind of punishment Alex was going to inflict to become a better killer.

When he took the jacket and harness off, Rig’Irik looked at his chest. There was no flinching in his gaze. He took in the scars, and the ears flicked in the affirmative again. He was definitely happy to learn from Alex.

Alex smiled, definitely happy to teach him. He took two polycarbon knives and readied himself. Rig’Irik sniffed the air and smiled before launching himself at Alex.

* * * * *

The bloody lines on his body felt good. He’d missed the pain of claws raking his body as he fought, of the impact of a fist, the sensation of his knife digging into flesh, hearing his opponent hiss at his own pain.

Rig’Irik wasn’t Tristan. He’d never give the kind of fight Alex craved, the ones where he was pushed beyond what he could endure. But simply by being stronger than Alex was, and as he became better at fighting, Rig’Irik was giving him a taste of what he’d get again soon.

He helped Rig’Irik up, and the Samalian favored his left leg. Alex hadn’t held back when he’d kick it out from under him. Samalians didn’t hold back. They had an energy they weren’t afraid to display, be it in fighting, arguing, or loving.

After every training, some of the Samalians left together in pairs, or larger groups, and soon after, if things were quiet, he could hear their passion. He’d looked to Tristan, who was back building the wall, and he’d hurt.

It hurt that he couldn’t get the little he used to. He’d never call what they’d shared passion, but it had felt like intimacy, for the little time it lasted.

“Alright,” Alex called, as three men walked among the trainees carrying jars of green unguents. “See to your injuries, and then we’re done for the day.”

One of the men stopped before a Samalian and offered her the jar, head bowed. She took it, spoke words, and then applied it to her cuts.

The ritual was repeated any time one of the men stopped by someone with cuts.

Hea’Las made the unguent in her home, and the men were acolytes, if Alex understood the House’s hierarchy. A man with a jar walked by Alex and offered it to Rig’Irik. The ritual was repeated. On the first day it had been offered to Alex, who hadn’t known about the ritual, and Rig’Irik had taken it, then offered to put it on Alex’s wounds. Other trainees did the same with those they fought against—or friends, Alex figured.

The unguent felt cool on his cuts when Rig’Irik applied it. The Samalian’s touch was gentle, as if he felt he had to make amends for the injuries. Alex had explained he didn’t have to worry about it, but Rig’Irik hadn’t changed.

Three older Samalians joined them—two women, Tarel and Terolsast, and a man, Grekri’Ol. Rig’Irik had introduced them the first day they came to watch as part of the town’s council. They had talked with him regarding how to protect the town, beyond training the youths, and now they were here to let him know who was willing to be a sentry.

Alex didn’t have as many as he liked; no one saw a point in keeping watch for shuttles that might not show up for months. Those who had agreed tended to be the more solitary of the Samalians. His trainees had all volunteered, and he added them to the pool, but only two or three at a time, so most of them could train.

Every day Rig’Irik tried to convince more of the older warriors to take part in protecting the town, but every morning he informed Alex they weren’t going to do it. Alex told him to stop, but the Samalian didn’t listen.

When they had agreed on who would be on watch for the night, the older Samalians headed back to the town, along with most of the trainees.

Rig’Irik indicated the town. “Come?”

Alex shook his head. “I don’t drink, I explained that.” He didn’t drink alcohol because he didn’t trust himself not to do something utterly stupid with the Samalian as a way of coping with how much he missed Tristan.

“Come talk, don’t be alone.” With the amount of translating he’d done over the last weeks, Rig’Irik had become better with Standard.

“I don’t mind being alone, and if I go, you’re going to have to stick with me the entire time since I don’t understand anyone here.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I do. Go be with your friends, go enjoy your evening.”

“Alex, you—” Rig’Irik stopped as Alex heard someone shouting.

A Samalian was running toward them, black fur with bright red spots.

One of the daytime sentries. He pointed at the sky. “Ship!” he yelled.

Alex looked in the direction he was pointing, and after searching, found the dot that was the incoming ship over the treeline.

That would be Jacoby, Alex thought. It should be Jacoby, he corrected.

What if it wasn’t?

“Rig’Irik, get them all in the House.” He indicated the group that had only made it a few hundred feet. “I’ll make sure the hover lands here, so get everyone ready in case they’re here to attack.”

“You go alone?”

“You need to tell them what to do. Go!” 

“But—”

“Look, it’s probably just Jacoby returning with the guns, but we can’t take any chances. Get everyone under cover.”

A toothy smile grew on his face and he ran off, barking orders.

Alex grabbed his harness and put it on, then his gun belt, and then his jacket, and moved to stand in the middle of the clearing, in sight of anyone flying the hover. He checked that the powerpack had a full charge and turned the gun on, at full power, before putting it back in the holster. He relaxed and waited.

Once Alex could make out enough of the hover, he could tell it was flying in his direction. Either they saw him on scanner, or this was always their destination. As it came closer, he could make out the shape of the vacation hover Tristan had obtained.

It turned as it landed so the exit faced him, and he readied himself for a fight. If it wasn’t Jacoby as the door opened, or if there was anyone else with him, he’d fire in it and count on Jacoby throwing himself out of the way.

He shielded his eyes with a hand as the wind buffeted him about, but continued looking at the door. If it opened before the hover touched down, he’d fire.

It landed and powered down. A few seconds later, the door opened, with Jacoby standing there. Alex looked beyond him; no one. He looked for shadows cast by anyone standing out of the door’s way.

“How did it go?” he asked Jacoby.

The man glanced at Alex’s hand on the butt of his gun and raised an eyebrow. “It went fine. The job blowing up the building got your supplier friend watched by the corporation, but we worked around it. What you ordered is in the back.” He looked at Alex. “You’re wearing pants, what happened to going naked?”

“I decided I didn’t want to advertise how excited I get fighting.”

“I’m not going to ask. Where’s everyone? I thought they’d be here, clamoring to be let in and get their new toys.”

Jacoby was calm, relaxed, almost bored.

“Did you make sure none of the guns are tagged?”

“Scanned them, all clean. You’re going to want to clean them before using them. Some are rather old, and they don’t look like they were— Alex, you seem kind of tense.”

“A lot can happen in over three weeks.”

“Was there an attack?” Jacoby didn’t sound worried, or even like he cared if there had been one. It was how Alex expected him to behave.

Alex moved his hand off the gun. “No, I managed to convince them to start training. Now that you’re here, once we check the guns to make sure they’re safe to use, you can help me by showing them how to shoot.”

Jacoby crossed his arms over his chest. “The guns are yours, Alex. You paid for them. This little thing you have going has nothing to do with me. I’ll run errands, because it takes me away from here for a while, but that’s the extent of my involvement in whatever this is. Now, where do you want the guns?”

The defiance in the tone made Alex’s fingers twitch, and he closed them. Jacoby had a right not to be happy, and Alex still needed him; there might be other errands. “They’ll stay in the hover for now. I haven’t worked out where the shooting range is going to be, since I thought you’d be doing that.”

“Okay, then I’m going to move the hover back near the priestess’ house. Are you sure you don’t need me to go anywhere? Because once it’s shut down, I’m doing a proper maintenance on it. I got a bunch of spare parts.”

“That’s fine,” Alex said, fighting the urge to throw a knife in the man’s chest. He couldn’t wait for this to be over. For Tristan to be back to his old self and order him to kill Jacoby.