The Flames Of The Phoenix (The Chronicles of Sélanados Book 1) - Adam K. Watts

The Flames Of The Phoenix (The Chronicles of Sélanados Book 1) by Adam K. Watts

Book excerpt

The sweat flowed freely down his trim, compact body and dark patches showed where it soaked through his shirt and the waistband of his shorts. The sting of salt in his eyes did not intrude upon his awareness. Nothing could distract him from his precise variations of thrust and parry. What had started as a simple practice match—first point wins—had gone on for over forty minutes. As a student, and later as sensei, Riley Stuart often practiced for hours at a time. This development of body and mind inured him to fatigue.

All other movement on the practice floor had long since ceased, as every face turned in silent awe at the movement of the slim, wooden Japanese-style practice swords. Swordsmanship was a rare skill in modern times. They knew Major Braithewaite to be the best swordsman on Astral-One, and the fact that he had failed to score on his opponent for forty minutes, despite the advantage of height and reach, made them look curiously at the new man.

Upon first meeting the major, Riley decided he did not like the man; not his haughty contempt for others, nor the way he enjoyed belittling people. He was a bully, plain and simple. When this opportunity presented itself for a match, on only his second day at the facility, he gladly took it, intending to work out his annoyance by besting Braithewaite where the major stored most of his pride. Normally good-natured and considerate of others, Riley did occasionally provide those who were less than considerate with an ample dose of their own medicine. Turn-about being, after all, fair play.

When Riley entered the martial arts practice area and saw Major Braithewaite abusing a young mercenary who was obviously a novice, he reacted automatically. He provided the major with a new target—himself.

“Try me,” he suggested after watching Braithewaite brutally knock the man down for the fourth time. Surprised, the major had turned his mocking tone on him.

“You can use a sword?”

Riley shrugged. “First point wins?”

“Just one point?” The major laughed. “This should be quick.”

As it turned out, the major handled a sword quite well. But he was not sensei—he was not a master. However, years and experience taught Riley to never underestimate his opponent and the rash bravado of youth had long since been tempered to a hard yet flexible approach, like the forging of a samurai sword. Riley could have won the match quickly, yet he prolonged the outcome; not scoring. He touched arms and legs but avoided the scoring areas.

Riley watched Braithewaite closely and saw the frustration build, saw him struggling to control himself as his injured pride goaded his volatile nature and threatened to loose a blind rage. The major’s movements became forced and frantic as he began to tire. Riley guessed that it had been so long since the major had found a real challenge that the man could not accept the possibility that anyone could beat him. He had obviously never learned rule number one: never take anything for granted. Riley gave silent thanks to the Japanese sensei that had ingrained that lesson in his own mind through his years of study. Sensing that the major’s inner struggle had reached its peak, Riley decided it was time to push him over the edge.

“You’re not bad at all,” he said with no deviation from his fluid movements. “But you’re slowing down. You need to work on your endurance a little.”

“You’ll instruct me?” the major exploded, his eyes wide in shock. He launched himself at Riley in a wild and uncontrolled attack.

Little more than a blur, Riley’s weapon was suddenly everywhere at once. His first strike obliquely separated Braithewaite from his weapon. The second smacked him across the chest, bringing him to a full stop. Then in one swooping motion, he struck the back of the major’s knees to land him on his back, out of wind, with the wooden sword point against his throat.

Riley stepped back. “Sure, I’ll instruct you,” he said, grinning amiably down at him as though agreeing to a request. “Or anyone else for that matter. All you had to do was ask. That’s what I usually end up doing, you know,” he added mildly, “giving instruction to those of lesser skill.”

The major rose, his expression livid. Hatred burned bright in his eyes as he glared at Riley. Turning wordlessly, he left the practice floor. The door echoed as it closed behind him.

Not a bad day, Riley thought, I'm glad I got up this morning after all.

A voice broke the silence, “Did you really mean that? You'll teach anyone?”

“With pleasure,” Riley replied as he turned to face the bruised young mercenary who had spoken. “Hand-to-hand, blades, guns, lasers, and a few other things, mostly mixed martial arts. Or I can teach you any number of styles.” He glanced around at the faces. Speaking louder he said, “I'm new around here, can anybody tell me where I can get a beer?”

The men responded with mixed laughter as the room began to breathe again for the first time in over forty minutes. Some went back to their drills, others headed for the showers.

There was no beer on Astral-One.

Brian Elliott’s feet ached. He climbed the dark stairs to his second-story apartment as though in a fog and fumbled the keys at the lock. He hated his job. Still, he was lucky to have one. If he got too sick of restaurant work he could always go the route most had gone after the big computer crash had left companies too frightened to rely on such vulnerable technology. He could always enlist.

Brian only occasionally wondered why he had not been drafted along with all the other healthy male seventeen- to twenty-five-year-olds. He had filed the registration forms as required and that had been the end of it. It was probably just another cluster of data that had been left useless in the aftermath of the computer virus wars. Brian felt little disappointment or curiosity. He had long since ceased caring about the insane political and economic struggles of the world beyond the scope of his own meager paycheck.

Brian got the door open and stepped inside. Closing it, he flipped the light switch, frowning when the light failed to respond. He recalled the dark stairs and that the lights had been out on the street as well.

He hated showering in the dark. He wanted to be free of the kitchen grime but was too tired to bother with it. Especially in the dark. It was time to wash the sheets again, anyway. Returning the switch to the “off” position so he wouldn’t be woken if the power returned while he was sleeping, he made his way cautiously across the darkened room when the phone rang.

Groping for the phone, almost dropping it, he answered, “Yeah?”

“Brian? It’s me.”

The soft contralto belonged to Kristiana Morrow, the one bright spot in his life; the only thing that made him question his lot in life and yearn for something more. They had been seeing each other for over a year. He wanted to marry her, but they had not spoken of it. He wanted to have something to show—something to offer her besides being married to a cook at an all-night diner.

“I wasn’t sure when you’d be in,” she said. “I thought you might have to stay longer again with the blackout and all.”

“Nah, I lucked out. It must have hit right after I left. I just walked in the door.” The last time there had been a blackout, Brian had been asked to watch the place and then clean up everything once power was back.

“How about some breakfast tomorrow?” she asked.

“Breakfast?” The thought of an early rise made Brian wince.

“Yeah, breakfast. You know,” she teased, “it’s that meal that people eat in the morning?”

“Oh, yeah. I think I’ve heard about that. How about lunch instead?”

“That’ll work.”

“Something up?” he asked her.

“Well, I’ve got some news I wanted to talk to you about.”

“You can’t tell me about it now?”

“Nope. Not over the phone,” she said cheerfully. “You’ll just have to wait.”

“Alright,” Brian sighed. “What time do you want me to come by?”

“How about noon?” she suggested.

“How about one?” he asked hopefully.

“You must be pretty tired.”

“Yeah, these twelve-hour shifts are starting to get to me. I'm falling asleep right now.”

“Okay,” she relented, “I'll compromise. Twelve-thirty.”

“How about one-thirty?” Silence. “No, huh?”

“No, huh.” The amusement had evaporated from her voice.

“Okay,” he said. “I'll see you tomorrow at twelve-thirty.”

“I love you.”

“Me too.”

“You love you too?”

“No. Me love you too. Now stop tormenting me and let me go to sleep.”

“Oh, all right. Get some sleep.”

“Thank you. G'night.”