“I’ll never forget him.”
Omi grunted. “Stick and Turbo, they were loony, but good in a bad spot. Stick loved his knives. He was an artist with a blade. I never viewed knives as he did. They’re a tool. A gun is a better tool. But before I became a gunman, I used to cut people for Big Arni.”
“Surely Highborn knife-tactics are superior to whatever you did in Sydney.”
“Yeah,” Omi said. “But you always remember your first kill. It’s like laying your first girl. You never forget.”
Marten’s nostrils expanded. Omi was nervous, which was a bad sign. Osadar had been telling Omi about the myrmidons. Facing gene-improved killers didn’t sound like a life-extending action. But they’d killed Highborn before. He’d killed a shuttle-full of them through sneaky tactics. That would be the best way to kill the myrmidons. The problem was the myrmidons always expected trouble.
Marten blew out his cheeks as his stomach fluttered. It was a bad feeling. He tried to make himself angry. The myrmidons had collared him, allowing Octagon to shock him many times.
“Yeah,” Marten whispered, his grip tightening on the knife-handle.
“You say something?”
Marten shook his head.
They floated around a corner. Down the companionway, he could see the region of the ship with red and white hall colors. It made Marten’s stomach churn.
“Two on one,” he said. “They’re fast—”
“I know what to do,” Omi hissed. “Zero-G fighting, the crazy way.” He hefted his knife. “A gun would be better, or our needlers.”
“Octagon has them.”
Omi wiped the back of knife-hand across his mouth. Then he took out a small device, holding it in his free hand.
Marten signaled the three Jovians. They curled against the wall and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Marten pushed down to the floor, curling up in a fetal ball, trying to wedge himself at the junction of the wall and floor padding. Omi did the same thing. The Jovians were in position.
“Now,” Marten whispered.
Omi clicked the device.
Three seconds later, the meteor-ship’s engines engaged. After five seconds of thrust, the engines cut out, returning weightlessness to the Descartes.
“Let’s do it,” Marten said, shooting for the red and white part of the hall.
A klaxon rang. Yakov’s voice sounded over the ship’s intercoms. “All hands, report damage and injuries to the proper authorities. Then tighten yourselves for further ship maneuvering.”
Marten aimed an override unit at the door. It was one of Yakov’s achievements to have gained the needed code.
Nothing happened.
Marten scowled and tried again, clicking the button.
The door swished open. Omi shot through. Marten followed and the Jovians hurried to catch up. The chamber was three times the size of Yakov’s wardroom. It contained exercise pulleys and a sparing automaton. A myrmidon tore his arm out of a pulley’s wires, with blood welling and floating around him. He must have smashed into the wires during the short acceleration. There was no sign of the second myrmidon.
The squat man snarled as his dark eyes gleamed with murder-lust. Omi leapt. The Korean had always been the best at zero-G combat. With his free hand, Omi grabbed the myrmidon. The trick was to lock onto an enemy, anchoring for the knife thrust. If one just thrust, he cut minimally and ended up shoving himself away because of the third law of motion.
Omi tried for a leg lock. The bleeding myrmidon struck a savage blow, sending Omi spinning against a wall. Fortunately, the Korean kept hold of his knife and he stayed conscious.
“Attack together!” Marten shouted.
The Jovians flew at the myrmidon, with their free hands outstretched. Their knives were tucked protectively near their chests.
Three seconds later, Marten understood why everyone said myrmidons were unbeatable. The squat man had freed himself and moved with sublime grace. He used his long arms to grabble the first Jovian as he wrapped his legs around the Jovian’s torso. The myrmidon savagely twisted the man’s head. Neck bones snapped. Then the myrmidon was letting go as a knife slashed his side. The myrmidon hissed as he put a hand behind a Jovian’s head and punched with the other, crushing cartilage and breaking teeth.
Then Omi attacked from behind, thrusting his knife into the kidney zone. The myrmidon howled and hurled the broken Jovian from him. He spun and might have slain Omi.
But Marten had been waiting for something like that. As the myrmidon whirled, Marten pushed himself leg-first at the killer. He wrapped around the myrmidon’s torso as the killer struck Omi a devastating blow. Marten forewent style and knife-fighting theory. With two hands, he plunged the heavy blade into the myrmidon’s back. The myrmidon snarled, trying to twist around. Instead, he merely rotated Marten and himself as Marten yanked out the blade and plunged it in again. He did it a third time, hacking at the squat neck. It was like trying to cut gristle.
The myrmidon grabbed Marten’s foot and twisted. Marten bellowed, and he stabbed into the killer’s back. He rotated the blade, probing for a vital organ.
The myrmidon sagged as blood pumped from him. The door at the end of the room swung open then. The second myrmidon appeared, with only a cloth around his waist.
“Flee!” Marten gasped.
Omi’s face was puffy, with one of his eyes swollen shut. All three Jovians floated in the room, either dead or unconscious.
The myrmidon snarled as his muscles bunched. Omi shot out of the first door. Marten followed. In less than a second, each braced himself against the junction of floor and wall.
“Now!” shouted Marten.
Omi clicked his device, the one linked to Yakov. As the myrmidon hurtled after them, the ship’s engines engaged with terrific thrust. It brought pseudo-gravity to the ship. As before, it quit in three seconds.
Marten and Omi shot back into the chamber. The squat killer had hit his head against a bulkhead. He was dazed, but far from out.
Marten and Omi attacked. In a savage brawl lasting fifteen seconds, they took horrible buffets. In return, they killed the second myrmidon.
“We can’t stop now,” panted Marten, as he drew his knife out of the inert corpse.
Omi spit a globule of blood that wobbled in the weightlessness. His face was horribly bruised, and he could barely peer out of the least swollen eye. One of his arms dangled because the myrmidon had yanked it out of the socket.
“Wait,” Omi whispered. He let go of the bloody knife so it floated. Then he grabbed his arm, clenched his teeth and shoved his shoulder into place. He groaned, but instead of complaining, he grabbed the knife and nodded to indicate he was ready.
Marten’s ribs ached and he could hardly move his head because his neck hurt.
“Octagon has our needlers, right?” Omi asked.
Marten grunted a monosyllable answer.
They floated out of the chamber and toward Octagon’s room.
Marten was surprised Octagon hadn’t come charging to help his myrmidons. The Arbiter either believed they could handle the situation or he was too frightened by the ship’s sudden acceleration and Yakov’s warning that further maneuvering would take place.
“He can kill us both in seconds with that gun,” Omi whispered.
Marten reversed his grip, holding the point. During shock trooper training, he’d gained some efficiency hurling knives.
Omi tensed as he used the override unit. The door swished open. Each stood to the side. They glanced at each other across the open door, showing their surprise. Octagon should have fired warning shots.
Marten steeled his nerves and glanced into the room. He would only throw after assessing the situation. He laughed.
Octagon floated unconscious. Either the first or the second surprise thrust had rendered him helpless.
Marten rushed in, keeping his knife ready, in case Octagon was trying to fake them. He tore a Gauss needler from a holster at Octagon’s side—it was his own gun from the Mars System. Marten checked the charge. It was fully loaded. Too bad they hadn’t hit Octagon’s room first. Three Jovians would still be alive then.