Star Trek: 5.
Movements of the Unseen Hand
by Charles Hackney
2370 AD
(Four months later)
Smythe entered the arena with a swagger. The surrounding stands were packed with paying customers of various species. He turned around as he activated his amplifier and spoke, addressing the crowd. "Ladies and gentlebeings, I, Harcourt Smythe, manager of Toth's Arena, welcome you all! Here in the Orion Free Zone, unencumbered by the meddling of Federation do-gooders, we are able to bring you the absolute best in full-contact competition. Fighters from all corners of the Alpha quadrant come here, some by their free will and some as professional fighting slaves, to see who is the best! Once the fighters are in the arena and the contest starts, we have only one rule: THERE ARE NO RULES!" At this, the crowd erupted in riotous cheering.
Smythe continued. "Tonight, our first contest features a new challenger and an old favorite of ours. In this corner, direct from the planet Triskellon, comes a seasoned professional in the realm of combat. For centuries, the Triskellons have maintained a tradition of high-quality fighting slaves in their Drill Thralls. Although slavery was recently abolished on Triskellon, the tradition of arena combat continues. Here, fighting as a free citizen of Triskellon, Sova the Thrall!" Sova stepped into the ring, a massive man clad in the skimpy combat togs of his people. He wore the Thrall slave collar, though it was non-functional and used for traditional and ceremonial purposes only. Mounted on the gate in his corner was a camera, beaming images back to Triskellon where his patrons, the "Gamemasters," disembodied brains who were obsessed with gambling, watched and wagered on the outcome.
Smythe turned, indicating the other corner. "And in this corner, a visitor from the savage past! Cryogenically frozen in the late twentieth century, this master of the ancient Human martial arts was thawed out and legally enslaved four months ago. He's here now to do or die for your entertainment. Ladies and gentlebeings, I give you�Arthur 'The Son of Thunder' David!" Arthur stepped into the ring to thunderous applause. He had done well these past months, and was a crowd favorite. He was dressed in a simple black loosely-fitting jumpsuit, the sleeves removed to display his tattoos for the crowd, and a pair of utilitarian black boots.
That first night, Smythe and his orion partners had simply thrown him in a cell and enslaved him. After an incident in which Arthur had crippled an Orion guard, Smythe had decided that, rather than standard slave labor shipped off to some remote mining colony or dreary subterranean factory, Arthur might be a hit in the arena. He had been right. Arthur had so far defeated every opponent thrown at him (although there had been some close calls), and seemed to have come to accept, even enjoy, his new status as a fighting slave.
In truth, he did enjoy it. An avid martial artist (though hardly the "master" Smythe hailed him to be), Arthur relished the chance to test his skill against fighters from various alien races, discovering what techniques worked with what species, what techniques had no effect, and what techniques produced entirely unexpected results when applied to extraterrestrial physiologies. Smythe had on occasion provided Arthur with information about alien fighting styles and some basic anatomical texts on various alien races, and he studied them for comparisons and weak points. Smythe had not, however, been very forthcoming with information concerning the state of the Human race, so Arthur knew little of the galaxy beyond Tesla IV. Smythe provided him with food, clothing, a small subdermal implant containing a universal translator, and after some digging (The fact that it took some digging was a source of distress to Arthur) a Bible. Arthur's routine was pretty simple: eat, sleep, fight, work out. He had put on some extra muscle and shed some of his unloved fat, which made him quite happy, and he spent his evenings reading his Bible and chatting with the Orions who guarded his cell (even now, he was not trusted).
He never fully accepted his role as a slave, though. As an American, a proud and fiercely independent people, he revolted against the notion that slavery would still exist 350 years in the future. He considered it evidence that human (to use the word loosely) nature did not advance, but instead never outgrew its sinful self-centeredness. In the meantime, however, he fought his hardest for himself and his masters, spoke often with his captors about matters of Faith, and stayed on the lookout for an opportunity to regain his freedom. He considered this to be in accordance with the Bible's admonition for slaves to obey their masters as they do the Lord, but to gain their freedom if they could.
He surveyed the Thrall opposite him with a practiced eye. Physically, Sova seemed identical in anatomy to a Human, but the resemblance probably ended there. Larger than Arthur. Stronger. However, Sova carried himself in a manner not usually seen in a fighter with much technical mastery. He seemed more a brute who crushed his opponents rather than outmaneuvering them. Good, Arthur thought, this should make for a short fight.
It was a short fight. Most of his fights were short, as Arthur's chosen art focused on beating an opponent as quickly and efficiently as possible rather than point scoring or flashy acrobatics, but Sova's lack of finesse made it a very short fight. As the fight commenced, Arthur, who could often be heard speaking to himself in scraps of scripture and old songs, whispered "It is God who arms me with strength and makes my way perfect." As the Thrall charged, arms flexing, Arthur stepped in a drove his first two fingers into the hollow below Sova's throat. The Thrall bellowed in pain and fell backward, tripping over his own feet. Clumsy, thought Arthur. Good. As the Thrall tried to stand, Arthur stepped forward and kicked him in the temple. Sova collapsed, and Arthur turned and left the arena as the crowd cheered and laughed at Sova's unconscious form, softly quoting to himself "Praise be to the Lord my Rock, who trains my hands for war, my fingers for battle. You have given me your shield of victory, and your right hand sustains me; you stoop down to make me great."
As Arthur returned to his cell, Toth, the Orion owner and general manager of the Arena, watched the replay of the fight in his office with a stocky Talarian standing alongside him. The Talarians, though a bit behind the rest of the spacefaring galaxy technologically, were warriors who prided themselves almost as much on their aptitude at personal combat as they did on their sense of honor. As tradition dictated, the Talarian, whose name was Ekkabo, wore black gloves so he would never have to touch an alien. Ekkabo found the individuals with whom he was forced to deal on Tesla IV most disagreeable, but few more so than the uncouth wretch before him.
Toth, like most Orions, was large and massively muscled, but he had been seduced by his wealth into a life of sloth, and his once firm body now swelled and sagged with rolls of fat. He rarely bathed, causing a rank odor to surround him, and food stains dotted his expensive clothes, which were stretched too tightly across his distended gut. He chuckled as he watched Arthur drop the Triskellon with such ease. Interestingly enough, his stomach actually shook like a bowl full of jelly. "What'd I tell you, eh? The best I've had in a long time."
"That may be," replied Ekkabo, "but this man will not be match for Endar. He is a captain in our space fleet and a former instructor in hand-to-hand combat at the Keltorian Stellar Academy on Talar."
"It sounds like we've got a fight, then. How soon do you think you can get Endar here?"
"That will not be possible. Endar is a very busy man, and can only spare a short amount of time to deal with this match. We do, however, have very excellent facilities at the Keltorian Academy. The match can be held there with a minimal disruption of Endar's schedule."
"No." The Orion was adamant. "All the revenue I receive from these fights come from ticket sales and gambling on fighters. My customers won't make the journey to see the fight, so neither will my fighter. No way."
"I anticipated this possibility. In order to demonstrate the superiority of the Talarian warrior, the Academy is prepared to classify Mr. David as a guest lecturer in the area of hand-to-hand combat, and I am authorized to offer the sum of two bricks of gold-pressed latinum as a 'speaking fee'."
Toth pondered this. In his experience, taking his fighters on the road almost always proved to be more trouble than it was worth. There were travelling expenses, the slaves often thought of freedom at times like that, and his junior partners always seemed to screw something up without him to oversee them.
But that was quite a bit of money.
Hassles.
Two bricks of latinum.
Hassles.
Two bricks of latinum.
Two bricks of latinum.
Hassles.
Two bricks of latinum.
"Fine," said Toth. "Two bricks of gold-pressed latinum should just cover the loss of revenue and the travelling expenses." And then some, he thought. "I can have the Human to Talar in�" quick mental calculations� "five days. Pay half up front and half after the fight."
"Very good." Ekkabo stood. "The down payment will be transferred to your account within the hour." He moved toward the door, then paused and turned. "Out of curiosity, is he really from the far past?"
"He claims it's true, and Smythe seems to believe him." Toth grinned. "I think he's just insane. Either way, he's a hell of a fighter, huh?"
"Yes. Either way." Ekkabo left. Toth began making preparations. Rather than himself, Smythe would be making the trip. It saved Toth the trouble, and this way he could stay where he was and make sure his partners didn't screw things up.
