“I think that you are getting the hang of it, Kren. Put some safety goggles on, and we’ll spar for a few rounds.”
“As you wish, madam.”
“Forget the ‘madam’ stuff. Around here, I’m just ‘coach,’ and outside, I’m just ‘Dik.’ ”
“Thank you, Coach.”
“Good. On guard!”
Dik was smooth and fast. In twelve minutes, she got six legal touches on Kren while being hit two times herself. Kren also got eight cuts on Dik, which of course didn’t count.
In sporting slang, a “touch” was to hit your opponent with the point of your sword, while a “cut” was to hit her with the edge, in military parlance. However, with the épée used, the point was blunt and the edge was nonexistent.
“I’m sorry, Coach. I keep forgetting that I’m not allowed to cut. It’s habit, I suppose.”
“We’ll get you over it. That’s what training’s for.”
The director had been watching for six minutes.
“Well, Dik. What do you think of him?”
“You were watching, sir.”
“First string varsity?”
“Absolutely.”
“That will put him in fencing and all four javelin events,” The director said.
“That’s quite a load to dump on a freshman.”
“He can handle it.”
“You’re the boss.”
“Right. Okay, Kren, you’ve done well. Go get a rubdown, and then see my secretary about that branding shop. Take two days off to heal, and then come back here on Monday, the first day of classes. Seven o’clock, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dol, who had been watching the whole thing, followed Kren into the rubdown room. Finding two masseurs on duty, and no other athletes present, she simply stripped down and got onto one of the tables. The masseur, assuming that she was supposed to be there, started working on her. Kren got on another table.
Dol said, “I was really amazed by your performance. Do you realize that you are the first person to get a touch off of Dik in over three years?”
“No, I wasn’t aware of that. The standards here seem to be a little different from those in the military. Also, the rewards here appear to be considerably greater,” Kren said, referring to the pleasure of the rubdown, something that he had never experienced before.
Following the secretary’s directions, they got to the branding shop within a half hour.
“The director’s secretary said that this was a rush job, and that you wanted something fancy. I’ve taken the liberty of sketching up three possibilities for you,” the brander said.
Kren looked them over, but didn’t feel qualified to make an artistic judgment.
“What do you think, Dol?”
“Take the one in the middle, definitely. It has excellent form and balance, and is intricate enough to completely hide the old scars.”
“Very well. The middle one it is.”
The brander immediately started carving the design into a plate of soft, dry clay. It was done to her satisfaction in an hour, at which time she placed the plate in a small ceramic tray and poured some sort of metallic powder over it.
“What is that stuff?” Kren asked.
“A special powdered metallurgical alloy. Its exact composition is a company secret. All I can say about it is that it sinters nicely.”
“What do you mean, ‘sinters’?”
“When you heat this stuff up to the right temperature, the grains weld together without quite melting. It makes for a clear, sharp impression, without bubbles, warping or shrinking.”
“I see,” Kren said.
“The director will be paying for this branding plate and the branding itself, but he doesn’t pay for anesthetics. He likes his players to be tough.”
“Very well. And what would this anesthetic cost me?”
“A mere twelve Ke. It will be effective for four days, until the worst of it is over,” the brander said.
“Then, by all means, I’ll pay for the anesthetic.”
“Most players do, the smart ones, anyway.”
Kren was given a hypodermic shot, and then a second anesthetic, an oil, was rubbed over his upper arms.
A ceramic lid was placed over the powder, and the tray was placed in a small induction oven. In moments, it was glowing red hot, and was removed to cool a bit.
Kren was strapped into a chair that held his body, and especially his upper arms, immobile.
“Some customers can’t help flinching, and that messes up the brand,” the brander said.
The ceramic tray was then broken open, revealing that the powder had been converted into a solid metal plate with the carved design embossed on it. Using long pliers, the brander put the still glowing plate into a mechanical arrangement that would put the brand in the proper position.
Without a bit of warning, she forced the red hot plate into Kren’s left arm, while Kren struggled to keep from crying out with pain. After letting it burn for three seconds, the plate was moved to the other arm and again burned in, this time for four seconds.
“It’s really best to just get it over with,” the brander said with a smile. “Anticipation only makes it worse.”
“That is difficult to imagine. Being worse, I mean,” Kren gasped.
“You’ve never tried it without the anesthetic,” the brander said. “Now, then. They said that you would like those burns to stay bright red?”
“The director recommended that, yes.”
“Then we’ve got just the stuff for it.”
A bright red powder was dusted on the wounds, and rubbed into them. Instead of hurting, it was actually soothing. Then Kren was unstrapped from the chair, and bandages were placed around his upper arms, not because there was any danger of infection on this sterile planet, but to keep the red powder in place, and to protect his new cloak from staining.
By then the plate had cooled, and the brander removed it from the machine.
“This is your property now. You can take it with you, and keep it for when you need a new body, or we can keep it here in our vault at no charge, and do the next branding for you.”
“You keep it for me,” Kren said, getting ready to leave.
“Very good, sir. And, uh, there was a matter of the twelve Ke that you owe me?”
Kren was not at all sure that he had actually received any anesthetics, but with no way of proving anything, he paid the brander with his credit card and left.
CHAPTER TWENTY
FROM CAPTURED HISTORY TAPES,
FILE 1846583A ca. 1832 a.d.
BUT CONCERNING EVENTS OF UP TO
2000 YEARS EARLIER
An Attack in the Afternoon
Kren slept poorly that night, kept awake by the pain in his arms. In the morning, he was half dozing, sitting upright in his suite when Bronki came in.
“Kren, I’ve been thinking. It appears that it will be impossible to find you a standard, undergraduate room anywhere in the city for this semester. Also, certain business associates of mine have been acting in an unpleasant fashion lately, and while I think that it would be very unlikely for them to actually do anything physical, I would find it very comforting to have a real warrior living with me. What would you think of making this room your own, say, for the next year?”
“I’ve yet to see a standard undergraduate room, but I cannot imagine that one would be as large, or as beautifully appointed as this suite is. Yes, I would accept your offer eagerly.”
“Then we will consider it done. And if I were to need your martial aid, you would come?”
“Yes, but in the unlikely event that this should prove necessary, I think that it would be appropriate that I should be rewarded for my efforts. Shall we say, a thousand Ke?” Kren said.
“That seems like a large amount for a few minutes’ work, but very well. I long ago had an alarm system put in. It sounds like my voice, telling where you would be needed.”
“When I hear it, I will come, and I will do what is necessary. And while the hourly rate might be high, the typical job does not require one to risk his life.”
A few hours later, Kren was again half dozing while considering sending out for a small juvenal to eat. Perhaps that might ease the pain in his arms.
Suddenly, an unseen speaker was shouting in Bronki’s voice, “I need help in my bedroom! I need help in my bedroom!”
Already wearing his sword out of habit, he picked up his spear and ran toward Bronki’s room.
There were four Mitchegai in the living room, wearing not cloaks, but formfitting dark green garments of a sort that he’d never seen before. Mentally, Kren thought of them as being the Greenies.
On seeing Kren, one of them pulled out a throwing knife, and was preparing to hurl it at him when a military standard spear went through her throat and out the back of her neck. The Greenie standing behind her had tried to jump up and to the side, but wasn’t nearly fast enough. The spear next went through her shoulder and pinned her to the wall with her toes inches above the floor. It ruined a beautiful painting in the process.