Grayson Sontang in Space Ch. 04

Hendon put his napkin on his plate and pushed back from the table, ever on the defensive. "The yacht," he said.

"Small transport ship designed to carry passengers in relative luxury," she defined when he paused overlong.

"It was headed out of sector," he continued.

"Why? Siriuns hate the rest of us poor slobs." She eyed him with all the disdain she could muster, given he was from the sector, if not the prime planet.

"The rebellion..."

"Civil war," she offered in correction.

"Fine. The civil war. Threats have been made against the monarchy."

"Imagine that. Guy proclaims himself emperor and sovereign people get upset. Excuse me, allegedly sovereign."

Hendon sighed. "He's a figurehead king, he'd be a figurehead emperor. Do you want to hear about our issue, or Sirius'?"

"Fine," she said, mocking his previous tone.

"The yacht was taking the prince and others to a safe refuge until things settle down."

"Still don't get it. Why can't this transport that's meeting us take them instead."

"Camouflage," he replied.

"Excuse me? Isn't that for deserts and jungles and stuff?"

"It's for appearances. The rebels will believe that the entire group is returning on the transport. The Prince will be safe with us on a non-descript trader."

"Non-descript! I'll non-descript your ass. Wait. You're setting that transport and those people up to be massacred."

"Not exactly. More like bait."

"Oh, yeah. No way they'll figure that out."

"Either the rebels will show and walk into a trap, or they won't and the transport will arrive safely."

"Or they'll kamikaze it."

"What?" Hendon asked.

"Suicide attack, die smashing their ship into the transport."

"You said that was impossible."

"Nearly impossible. For someone like me, walk in the park," she said with a wave. "Well, if it was a really small park. You know, like a parking orbit around Sirius Prime. Just saying that's what I would do, if I was a rebel. Okay, not personally. I'd find some fool stupid enough to die for an inane cause."

He looked thoughtful. "Why not drone or computer driven?"

"Can't control a drone with supralight because of the time warping. Can't control it with lightspeed transmissions because of the lag, unless you were right next to it, which sort of defeats the purpose. You'd need to make superfast corrections, because you'd have to assume your target is going to take evasive action."

"Then a computer like Hal."

"I'd never risk Hal's life," she said loudly for the computer's benefit. "Computers, even with advanced AI, still aren't good at making decisions. You can program solutions to contingencies into them until your fingers bleed, and they can feed you endless contingencies. Maybe you hit on the one you actually need. Maybe you don't. But think about it. You're a rebel. You send an empty ship careening toward a planet. Whether it hits its target or not, people on that planet are going to know you've put them at risk. The rain of ship parts falling on their heads will be all the evidence they need. Even ones who might have been sympathetic before are going to be real pissed at you. On the other hand, you find someone fanatical enough to die trying to end the monarchy, that's inspirational. Recruiting material. At least off world."

He seemed to shake himself. "I'll pass your concerns on to the admirals. In the meantime, as I said, back to our issue."

Grayson scowled. She'd been trying to keep him off of 'our issue.' "Your issue," she said.

"And yours. I'm afraid your term of service has been extended. Your ship is needed to deliver the prince to safety."

"You want me to haul that brat around even longer!" she exclaimed.

"Grayson, I know that 'brat' is your son." She glowered at him but offered no denial. What good would it do? "Come on," he said. "It doesn't take someone of my brilliance to put it together. The princess goes into seclusion for the duration of her 'allegedly' difficult pregnancy. It's announced she won't be able to have any more children. There have been rumors floating around for years that the kid is illegitimate."

"Not my fault if your king screws up trying to con his people the same way he screws up proclaiming himself emperor. I kept my end of the bargain."

"And you were well paid."

She glanced at him. "I said I was, didn't I?"

"You did. What was the exchange rate, by the way?"

"What?"

"Between the value of the jewels you stole and what you fenced them for?"

She stared at him. "I'm sure I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Grayson Sontang doesn't, maybe. But the mystery thief that got away with some of the royal jewels and was never caught? One of the all-time great unsolved cases in the sector. We all learn about it at the academy. Even back then, it perplexed me why the monarchy put so little effort, relatively speaking, into finding the thief. You know, they never even demanded that the government put their people on it. Just tried to solve the case with their own royal police. Then, when I was working freighters, undercover, I heard rumors."

"About who did it?"

"No, actually. Even among the spacers, and you know how they love a good rumor. They seemed as mystified as the monarchy. But it wasn't for lack of talk about it. It seems the rumor was that the king, he'd been coronated by then, of course, had offered a huge reward. For the body of the culprit."

"The body?"

"Wanted: Dead, not alive. Surely you heard those rumors?"

She shook her head. "I limped home in a junker. Fixed it up so I could start trading."

"And fixed up a new identity at the same time?"

"So you say. I am Grayson Sontang. I had ambition. I've always had ambition. I didn't want that name associated with working freighters."

He simply gave that grin that she'd grown to hate. She was well trained in martial arts, capable even of deadly force. So why did this man always make her want to give him a girlish slap. She made a fist just to keep her hand from taking action on its own. "So you think you can blackmail me with these suppositions of yours?"

He shrugged. "What do I care? I work for the government, not the monarchy, and, as I said, they never approached the government about solving the mystery."

"And you're not interested in 'huge' rewards?"

"Not to produce dead bodies. I have a thing about justice, due process, all that good stuff."

"Then why the Sherlock Holmes routine?"

"Testing a theory. About your tells. In case we ever play poker again." She gave him a puzzled frown. "I know I'm right. You know I'm right. Yet your face gives nothing away. And I suspect that fist you made is for some entirely different reason." He grinned again.

Grayson pointed to her face. "I'm Asian. That means I'm inscrutable."

"I assume by 'Asian' you are referring to a racial type concomitant with those features you are currently sporting, which you wouldn't have been sporting to pass as a Deneb, and which your son certainly doesn't sport, and so probably weren't the features you were born with. As far as being inscrutable, you are most certainly scrutable when playing poker, just not in any useful way."

"Then what the hell are we talking about?" she said in exasperation.

"There's poker. And then, there's... Poker."

"Huh?"

"Let me rephrase. There's poker, and there is real life."

"Oh, that clears everything up," she exclaimed sarcastically.

"In poker, you hide good hands and bluffs behind exaggerated, flamboyant and multitudinous responses."

"Thank you."

"In real life, you hide things that matter to you behind over-reactions or inscrutability. I am beginning to suspect that the more they matter to you, the more inscrutable you become. The racing bots mattered to you in that they were part of your ship, so you yell profanities and make a dramatic if foolish leap over the railing to the bottom level. But about your son, and about your persona, you became inscrutable."

"If I remember correctly, I was throwing books about my son's life being in danger."

Not when others were around. And, after you came face to face with him, you weren't drinking when others were around. Only when you were alone."

"I think it's past my bedtime," she said, glancing at her wrist where a watch might have been but wasn't.

He reached out and took hold of that wrist. "You're being inscrutable now, and it's because I'm asking you to take responsibility for your son's safety. So why not just admit that it matters to you and be agreeable?"

"Because he's my son." She tried to shake him loose but he tightened his grip. She sighed. "I vowed to stay away from him. Never even went back to that sector, let alone Sirius."

"It's not your fault he's here."

"But now he's here, I want to teach him to fly, I want to teach him how to properly bypass door controls and take over bots. I want to teach him how to fight, and how to play poker and how to outsmart Feds. When I was a spacer, I couldn't give him anything. Now I can give him worlds," she said gesturing at the starscape on the monitor. "How am I supposed to let him go?"

He sat back. "Thank you for that honesty."

"You're welcome. Got an answer?"

He shook his head ruefully. "No."

"Then thank you for your honesty." She started to rise.

"One more thing," he said.

Grayson plopped back into the chair with a groan. "If it isn't about sex, I don't think I'm interested."

"What's the next best thing to sex?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes. "I don't know. A good bar fight?"

"My thoughts exactly."

She gaped at him. "Have you been in my Tantalean brandy?"

"Things have been getting tense with the passengers. Cooped up together, sleeping in turns on cots..."

"Not my problem," she said with a dismissive wave.

"No, but you could be part of the solution."

"Okay, I'm officially, totally lost."

"Friday night fights. Only more organized than a bar fight."

"Are you nuts?"

"Maybe, but I found some sparring equipment in the rec room."

"Sparring equipment?" She really was going to have to do an inventory soon.

"Yeah. We set up some matches, get the passengers involved, let 'em bet, let the kids sit ringside."

"Don't see how all that involves me."

"You love to fight."

"Brawl. Doesn't lend itself to Marquess of Queensberry rules. And since we're being perfectly honest, what I love is to start it then sit back and watch the show."

"You could referee," he suggested.

"What do I know from refereeing? What I know is the last one standing wins."

"There's a note in your file that says you were professionally trained. That you are to be approached at all times as if armed."

"What? Who put that in there?"

"Apparently, someone who had you under observation on some planet where you started a number of fights, and may or may not have been peddling Tantalean brandy."

"Well, there you go. Why would I draw attention to myself if I was selling contraband?"

He shrugged. "Since you weren't arrested, it's presumably a moot point. So, you don't want to be involved in this?"

"The only way I'd want to be involved is if I got to kick your ass."

"Done. Tomorrow afternoon on the lower level."

"Wait, what?"

He grinned. "You and me. Grudge match. I'm favored by the way."

"You've got to be kidding!"

"Did I mention I spotted you five contacts. I assumed you'd want to go full contact, right?"

"You're out of your fucking mind!"

He frowned. "You need me to spot you more?"

"I don't need you to spot me anything."

"Oh. Okay, then. I'll let Het and Sip know."

"What?"

"They're holding the bets. If you want to get in on it, you need to do so by noon. Oh, and you can't bet against yourself."

She stood up and glared down at him. "How much did you bet?"

He shrugged. "Twenty."

She leaned over him, bracing her hands on the table. "Add two zeros."

He grinned. "Deal."

****

Bogart was trying to get Grayson to stand still long enough that he could put gloves and headgear on her, like Evans was doing for a much more cooperative Hendon. Every time Bogart tried to put the headgear on her, he got her hair pushed forward into her face until she finally took it from him and strapped it on herself. She was barefoot, wearing a tight tank top and loose silk pants. She was relieved to see Hendon kick off his space boots, but when he had peeled off his tee shirt, she had cringed inwardly, not from the toned muscles that he'd revealed, but from the potential distraction all that bare, space-pale skin presented. She could think of all kinds of things she'd rather be doing to that chest than trying to bounce punches and kicks off it.

A ring had been taped on the lower level floor. The children and a few others had been allowed to watch from that level, but most of the people were above on the bridgework. Grayson was only vaguely pleased that the girls had picked her side of the ring to stand on. She was pacing and swearing in a more colorful way than the children standing nearby should have been exposed to. She was beyond irritated, both at Hendon for tricking her into this spectacle and because the protective equipment made it feel all too much like eight years ago on Earth when she'd set out to learn ways of fighting where her size wasn't a deficit. Basically, it had amounted to almost a year's worth of getting the crap beat out of her on a regular basis, and then being scolded for not following instructions, or dropping her guard, or whatever had allowed the sensei to knock her on her butt yet again.

When Bogart tried to block the path of her pacing in order to get gloves on her, she pushed at him impatiently. "I don't need gloves, damnit."

From across the ring, Hendon called out, "Put the gloves on, Sontang. I don't want to break your fingers with my jaw." Laughter echoed around the metallic room even as Bogart managed to corner her against a wall and pull one glove partway on.

"You're supposed to make a fist after the glove is on," he muttered. "Not before."

"Sorry you drew the short straw, now?" she asked.

He grinned at her. "I bet on you. I want my money back." He leaned toward her to whisper in her ear. "I'll split the winnings with you if you knock him on his ass."

She rolled her eyes, but allowed him to get the gloves on her finally. "How does he fight?" she asked.

Bogart shrugged. "Never seen him have to. He just stands there and intimidates people."

"Gonna be a hell of a dull fight then. Come on, help me out. What do they teach at the academy?"

"How to use a blaster." Grayson scowled at him, and he relented. "In non-lethal situations, they teach you how to restrain, more like wrestling than hitting. Don't let him get hold of you and you'll be fine."

"Swell. His arms are, like, twice as long as mine, but I'm supposed to stay out of his reach?" She looked over at him. "He's worked freighters, so he must know how to brawl."

Bogart nodded. "He came back in one piece, so I think that's a safe assumption."

"His size, he'd be the sort to wade in," she said thoughtfully. "What about Karate?" she asked Bogart.

"What?"

"Judo? Taekwondo?"

"I don't know those words," he confessed. "Is that how you fight?"

She shrugged. "I trained. I was told I didn't have enough self-discipline to ever be any good at it."

"Now you tell me, after I bet a month's wages," he muttered, but with a smile. "Remember, it's for entertainment, just get a few good licks in."

Hackner, the security person from the poker game, walked into the center of the ring and raised his hands. "What's this?" Grayson asked.

"He's the referee," Bogart explained.

Grayson groaned. "The guy I took for all his money is the referee? The Siriun who works for the same government as Hendon?"

"Technically he works for the royals."

"Oh, that makes me feel way better."

"Let me explain the rules," Hackner called out and the crowd noised quieted.

"We don't need no stinking rules!" Grayson called over to Hendon across the ring. Laughter rang out and Hackner had to wait again for the noise, reverberating around the metal walls, to die down.

"The rules are simple," he continued. "The winner is whoever achieves an eight-count knock-out, five knockdowns or thirty solid contacts first." He looked over at Grayson. "As judged by me." Grayson glared at him. "Step outside the ring, your opponent will be credited with a contact," he continued. "Please touch gloves in the middle of the ring, return to your sides and we will begin."

Grayson strode to the center and bumped gloves with Hendon, strode back to the edge of the ring on her side, turned and bowed deeply, noting that Hendon belatedly copied her move. When Hackner gave the word to begin, she strode halfway back to the center and struck a ready pose, watching Hendon closely. She was sure he knew at least something about martial arts. The whole full contact business ruled out boxing or wrestling as the central context. But she was gambling that he didn't know enough about the martial arts she'd been trained in to defend against them. Bogart had confirmed he hadn't learned as a Confed and certainly not as a spacer. So let him think that was how she intended to fight. She was also gambling that his intent was to draw things out, let her get in some hits, provide entertainment as Bogart had said.

He waded in, as she had expected, though cautiously, his hands held in a boxing stance. She ducked under his left side and spun in a flying kick at his back, staggering him but only a couple of steps. She hit him far too close to his center of gravity; her small stature had been an advantage ducking under his side, but a deficit in hoping to topple him, though Hackner grudgingly credited her with a contact. Worse, Hendon was already adjusting his approach, arms held lower and closer to his sides. And he was grinning. Grayson shook herself and resumed her ready stance. He was baiting her with that grin. She could hear a sensei berating her for allowing the distraction. But then again, she'd quit listening to those voices seven years ago. They were very wise, but they hadn't spent time on freighters or in bars.

She made a come-hither motion as well as she could given the glove on her outstretched hand. Hendon's grin widened. His caution deepened, though. He moved to circle her, trying to figure out the significance of her pose. Grayson suddenly straightened with her hands on her hips. He followed suit, straightening, and she rolled a summersault on his right side and kicked out at his calf. If she couldn't hit above his center of gravity, she could certainly hit below. He went down on one knee. When he jumped back up and spun to face her, he wasn't grinning anymore. So she did. Grayson's young female cheering section was clapping and screaming for her.

"Cramping up?" she asked.

"Feeling fine," he answered. "Run out of acrobatics yet?"

"Let me check my instruction manual. I think there's a few left to try."

He suddenly rushed her, low with arms spread wide, and she realized she'd remained too close to the edge of the ring. She jumped back out of bounds and Hackner gleefully credited Hendon with a contact point. But Grayson now understood his plan was to pin her for the eight-count. It made sense. He'd used the same basic technique, successfully, on her before and it avoided the risk of injury that a kick or hit carried. Can't endanger your pilot, after all. He backed away, allowing her to reenter the ring, and she made for the center.

This time, he was within a couple of steps of the ring edge. Grayson took a deep breath and leapt. She knew if she thought too long about it, she'd chicken out. She hated getting knocked on her butt. And she hated it even worse if it occurred while she was midair. Still she figured she'd either be able to get a contact point or make him back out of the ring to avoid her flying foot. Her torso twisted and then her hips. As she had hoped, Hendon was reaching to bat away the wrong foot. When he realized his mistake, he pulled backward and his heel left the ring. Grayson rolled and leapt back to her feet in front of Hackner.