Months of preparation were coming to fruition for Count Deart. After all the planning and preparing the event was about to take place. "Come one, come all, to the greatest fencing tournament the Galaxy has ever known!" The flyer sang the praises of the tournament, its host, and of the noble sport of fencing. A picture of an actor, dressed like a Jedi, but without a Lightsabre, stood in the bottom right corner ever at the ready.

"I love it," he said, handing the sheet back to the artist who had created. "We'll use that for the handbills on Tarus, Coruscant, Bonadan, and the other twenty-seven worlds on the list.." he waved his hand in a forgetful manner. There were thirty planets on which a sentient being could sign up at, thirty different booths in which beings could be tested. Handbills would be distributed there at the last second to draw the occasional wayfarer who wanted to try his luck against some of the Galaxies greatest swordsmen.

Of course, all the legitimate fencers had been signed up for months now. Deart hadn't needed to announce the tournament, really, he could have easily contacted all the required fencers, fans and school owners via the grapevine. But he wanted flash and pizzazz! Fencing had falling out of the public eye these last few decades. He wanted something so big and extravagant that even the brain-dead fans of Blaster Ball would be interested in watching.

"What is the latest number on the contestants?" Deart asked his aid.

"Twenty-seven thousand, six hundred and ten," the man replied promptly. "An additional ten thousand signed up but were not qualifie..."

"Yes, yes I know about them," interjected Deart. His aid was a synthetic he had acquired years ago, and could be a little ... droid-ish at times. "What are the projected numbers for attendance?"

"Six million," replied Deitem quickly.

"And holo-net coverage is guaranteed?"

"All the major networks will be carrying it, as you requested."

"Good, good..." Deart knew all this already, yet it was comforting to hear it yet again. Much like it was comforting to reach out in the middle of the night and feel his wife in bed with him, even though he knew she was there.

"Well then, let's see about dinner, eh Deitem? Some calamari, perhaps?"







The 'booth', as it was called, was an enormous building that was more of a 'complex' than a 'building' or 'booth'. Hundreds of people were lined up outside the place, all waiting to get inside and try out for the upcoming tournament.

"Have you heard about the prizes?" gabbed one excited woman. "My husband says they're giving away a Star Destroyer to the winner!"

"Yes!" replied her partner. "And a lifetime supply of food to tenth place!"

Both women, grossly overweight, didn't have a ghost of a chance even getting through the booth's revolving doors, let alone get to the final round of competition in the tournament. Yet still, the promotion of the tournament drew all kinds. There were dozens of species in line, dozens of them of a kind prohibited from play.



"Aw, sithspit."

"I do apologize sir, but you must understand it from our point of view. In order to keep the contest fair, we must regulate the species that are allowed to enter. Some beings are simply born faster than others. In your case, even the late `Calmov couldn't touch you, and you wouldn't even be trying."

"It's species-ism, I tell you."

"It is, sir. However, you could enter the auxiliary competition if you wish? The prizes are much smaller than the main competition, but you will be matched with species similar to yourself."

"Ok... tell me more."

Not everyone was so cordial when told that their species was on the black-list for the main competition. Several beings had required a stun bolt to be calmed down, and removed from the building. Luckily for the staff, newly posted signes warned everyone of the qualifications and possible rejections. A hastily setup auxiliary competition had been setup as well. While not nearly as grandious as the main tournament, it was still big, and packed with a full waiting list.





"Well Deart, I see your tournament is indeed taking off."

Deart wiped his mouth with a napkin, and turned in his seat to see who addressed him.

"Alkmov! How good to see you, have a seat will you? Yes, yes, it is taking off. Waiter! A drink for my friend."

Alkmov sat, and smiled at his friend. "Let's see, the holo said last night that you were expecting an attendance in excess of three million. At a hundred credits per entry ticket, you will be recovering almost three times the money you've put into this. Not to mention the entrance fee's for the competitors themselves."

"Six million," said Deitem. "Four million in presales, two million in reservations, and twelve million tickets prepared for at the door sales."

Alkmov gaped slightly. "My word man, that's almost twenty million people!"

"Yes, yes," replied Deart. "Quite a sum of people. We were lucky to find a stadium large enough."

"Where the frell can you rent a stadium that big?"

"Amber."

"Amber?"

"Yes," replied Deart. "Amber. It's a small mid-rim planet. They have two stadiums created in the center core of the planet, just big enough for us. Seating for twenty-two million people. Just finished construction last month. I've had it reserved for seven months."

"I've never heard of the Amber Stadium," said Alkmov doubtfully.

"You're not supposed to. This event is going to be their grand opening."

"My word, you've got it all figured out. And I'll bet that the money from those ticket sales is going straight into the Amber Stadium again, right?"

Deart smiled, and ate some more of his calamari. "My dar Alkmov, if you want financial advice I'm afraid I'll have to send you a bill..."

"And your rates are far too high for me, Deart," replied Alkmov. He slid out of his chair and stood. "I'll see you later Deart, but now I must fly before you do try sending me a bill."

He had heard about this tournament but weeks before. Several his acquaintances were entering, and not wanting to be left out, he too had decided to enter.

Tobal completed his registration form, and slid it back to the lady in the booth.

"Very good. If you will step to the left, and follow the man in green he wil take you to the testing chamber. There you will be given a fitness test which will help us place you in the ranks." She smiled cordially as he left, before turning to the next contestant.

Tobal nodded, and followed the man in green. They took two left turns and stepped down a long hallway before entering a small room.

"My name is Xaver, and I'll be administering your test," said the man in green. He smiled cordially as well. "If you'll take off your jacket and hat, and choose a practice foil from the wall there, we'll test your knowledge of the forms."

Tobal complied in silence. He chose a light weapon from the rack, and swung it. He quickly replaced it when he saw the way it flexed when he slowed the movement of the handle. A little thicker one was swung, and promptly replaced. After testing all the weapons, and seeing that they all flexed as if made of paper, he looked at the man in green, Xaver. He smiled back, and answered Tobal's unasked question. "All of them do that."

Shrugging slightly Tobal chose a medium sized weapon, and hefted it. The handle was heavy, the blade light, a compromise between the Lightsabre he used now, and the blunt weapons he had used on his homeworld. The blade hissed as he swung it hard, getting a feel for it. Xaver cleared his throat slightly, and Tobal turned his attention to him. Without warning Xaver charged him, weapon extended like a spear.

Moving smoothly to the left, Tobal dodged out the way of the attack. Xaver again changed wildy, swinging his sword as if trying to slice Tobal in half. This time Tobal met the attack with a quick movement that twisted Xaver's sword out of the way, allowing the Jedi to move in and grasp Xaver by the throat with his other hand.

"Very good," replied Xaver. "I see you are not an imbecile."

Tobal released him, and stepped back.

"I apologize for the seemingly rude behavior there." Continued Xaver. "We get so many complete idiots here that it is easiest overall to try get you through as fast as possible. A wild attack usually scares a civilian to the quick, and they decide not to enter."

"I see," replied Tobal.

"Have you ever fenced before?"

"No."

"Are you a student of the Martial Arts?"

"In a way, yes."

"Combat experience?"

"Yes."

"Aright then. Hold your sword like so. Try reacting to me as fast as possible." With that Xaver took a stance, and came at Tobal in a much more formal manner. His sword darted in, moved out and up, and flashed about in a lbur. Tobal parried as fast as he could, striking the blows his foe threw at him as fast as he could react. Then, the man backed off.

"Had this been a competition, you would have been eliminated," he said curtly.

"Oh?"

"Yes. You would have retreated off the mat. However, I see you have some experience with weapons. You will be ranked as an intermediate civilian amateur. Report back here..." Xaver handed Tobal a small booklet with a map, and pointed on it, "tomorrow to receive a briefing. You will then be able to sign up for tuition from many of the fencing masters who are here."

Tobal thanked the man, and was quickly ushered out of the building. As he headed back home, he realized that during the fencing session he had not seen any premonitions of what the man would do next. The Force, or what little Tobal allowed himself to feel, had not been present in that room.

It had been a long, long time.

The tester's weapon sliced forward and despite his superior reflexs, he barley managed to get his blade up to fend of the attack.

Far too long

The tester feinted low then brough is weapon in a high arc. Qive stepped back to avoid the blow, then pivoted and lashed out with a series of quick slashes he was sure would scower the tester. Too his surprise each was parried and he was soon on the defensive. The tester connected with comb after combo after combo; a series of ferocious attacks which would have decimated any one else who had not been trained in the art of fencing. Qive's natural ability and reflexes however, allowed him to survive the onslaught. The tester stepped back for a moment, holding his sword up to signal a breif pause.

"Your not normal you know.... it's obvious your not a fencer, but you blocked the 'Calmov combo- and I've never seen an amateur do that."

The tester's eyes looked up and down the large frame of his opponent. He looked human enough, though his skin seemed an odd shade, and though he was rippling with odd looking muscles he wasn't that unusual. Human and humanoid species had evolved across the galaxy. Finding one slightly unique didn't mean anything.

"What are you anyway?"

Qive just smiled. The tester looked at him, slightly confused. All Qive did was raise his foil. The tester followed suit.

Quive rushed forward and attacked first, bringing his foil high over his head and bringing it dowrn with tremendous force. The tester sidestepped, and Qive stumbled off balance. The tester aimed a slice at the huge form, but he threw his foil back and somehow blocked the slash. The tester's eyes widened. Qive pivoted. The tester began attacking with lightning speed, and a ferocity Qive had not seen before. Even his super reflexes couldn't keep up. He parried another slash, but then felt a huge twinge of pain as the side of the foil slammed upside his head.

Qive staggered but didn't fall. His guard down, the tester whacked him again, and he feel to his knee. The tester stood put his sword down at his side. Qive got to his feet.

"Your skills are rough. However, I've never seen a human as quick as you... maybe some master duelists or jedi. Where are you from?"


Qive looked at the tester. With conviction and truth behind his voice he spoke.

"I don't know."

Once again the tester looked confused. Qive just stared.

"You good with weapons?"

Qive looked at the tester. He nodded.

"Ever fenced before."

Qive nodded.

"A long time ago."

"I see. Your natural talent makes up for your lack of skill."

He seemed to think for a momet.

"We'll put you in as either an expert amateur, or intermediate, I'll need to think about it. Probably expert, considering you unusual species anyalsis."

Qive nodded. The analysis hadn't been able to determine what race he was. For that he was happy. If they actually knew, he might not be allowed to compete. Curretnly they listed him as humanoid unknown. That suited him perfectly.

"Come back tomorrow, and I'll have more info and your classification."

Qive nodded, then turned and exited the testing booth. He got an odd look from the next in line, a scrawny rodian. Qive paid him no mind. When he got out of the cpmplex he mounted his speeder and took off.

Coruscant. The Imperial Center. I had never claimed to be good buddies with the Imperials. In fact, I had once called them my arch rivals. Looking back on my past life, I found that I didn't care enough anymore to even think about traversing the planet. It didn't matter anymore. Besides, I was here on business.

Zark stood in the back of a seemingly endless line. He couldn't even see what might look like a registration booth off in the distance. It was getting pointless. The Fallen stepped out of line, much to the joy of the hopefuls behind him, and began walking along the side of the line. A few stared at him funny, and a couple actually started to follow. A wave of his hand was all it took to send them back.

As Zark walked alongside the other wannabe competitors, he realized that he would've been standing there for days if he had done this conventionally. I should've picked a smaller planet, the Fallen thought to himself. It didn't matter much, anyway. He would get to the front of the line in minutes, and if anyone objected he would convince them, one way or another.

He didn't care anymore.

Zark had been using that phrase a lot in his thoughts lately. He didn't care anymore. The Fallen really did care, but he was too far gone to do anything about it. He was just trying to convince himself that he was still following his own path...pointlessly. He already knew that this was a forced path to walk. Just like the path he was walking right now.

The now loomed ominously in the distance. More and more people were becoming outraged with his behavior, and it was becoming more and more taxing to calm them down. Finally, Ekan just let them yell, scream, and chase after him. Any who got close was blasted back by a wave of Force energy. Not many chased after him after the first few went down, but the screams and insults only got louder.

The authorities had arrived to calm things down, and a couple approached Zark. A simple wave of his hand sent them walking back in the other direction. I wonder how many cameras are on me right now? Zark thought to himself, How many people are tuning in to the HoloNet to watch me walk in a straight line. Idiots.

Zark finally reached the booth after minutes of walking. The guards moved toward him, but he waved them away. The Fallen walked up to the booth.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to-" the women inside the booth caught his stair, "-get...back..."

"I don't have to get back in line," Zark began, waving his hand.

"You don't have to get back in line."

"I'm qualified for this tournament," he finished.

"You're qualified for this tournament," she echoed, "Step this way, please."

Zark followed her into a room. In there stood a man waiting for him. The women walked up to him and whispered in his ear. He stared at her peculiarly, and Zark realized he had fouled up. It didn't matter. He could clear everything up with a wave of his hand. Couldn't he? The Force! he shouted in his mind, It's gone! Of course...ysalamiri...

Zark began to get nervous.

"Are you daft, woman?" the man asked, "Get back to your post!"

Ekan breathed a sigh of relief.

"I'm sorry about that," the man continued, glaring at the women's back, "She's never done that before. I am Paul, and I will be administering your test. Pick from any of the weapons you see."

Zark studied the collecting of fencing equipment. He studied them intensely. The Fallen had read about fencing, and from what he understood fencing swords were some of the worst weapons for practical combat known to man, which didn't matter much in a fencing tournament. His choice was between light and very wobbly, to heavy and least wobbly. Neither a good mix.

Zark went for something as close to in the middle as he could fine. Paul cleared his throat, and Zark whirled around to face the tip of a fencing sword charging straight at him, Paul leading right behind it. The Fallen managed to remain calm quite easily, having stared down similar weapons many times before.

At the last moment, Ekan side-stepped out of the way, whacking Paul against the back of the knee with his own sword...hard. Paul stumbled a bit, but managed to regain his own balance. The man turned and, two Zark's surprise, bore a smile upon his face.

"Forgive the sudenness," he said, bowing low, "I had to make sure you weren't just another foolish drunk off the streets."

Zark did not laugh. Did not even smile. His partially hidden expression revealed nothing, but his eyes said it all to the man. The Fallen was getting very tired of this. Paul straightened and his grin disappeared. He cleared his throat again and readied himself.

"I see you are proficient with a sword, and because of this I will forego the usual questioning," Paul began, "Copy my stance. There. Now, try to copy my moves."

Copy? Who did this guy think he was? Yet, without the Force, Zark wasn't as confident as he usually would have been. Paul came on, less furiously and much more skillfully. Zark found it was all he could do to keep up with the mans thrusts and jabs. The mat, different from the rest of the floor, probably bore some significence in fencing, so Zark dodged to the side and into a roll when he neared the edge, swatting a thrust aside as he did so.

"Good," Paul gasped, obviously tired, "Very good."

Paul came on once more, and this time Zark moved into meet him. For a while, their moves complimented each other. Each one playing off the others counters. A never-ending game of chess with an exciting edge. Zark had one advantage over Paul, however. He didn't tire. Ever. It was a habit.

Paul was beginning to grow weary, and Zark was not even breaking a sweat. The man came on with a lazy thrust, and Zark suspected trickery. Sidestepping rather than parrying, Paul's awkwardness proved Zark right, but the man adjusted quicker than the Fallen had expected. He managed to get a parry up just in time.

Paul then came on much quicker and harder, seemingly getting his second wind. Zark went onto the defensive, barely blocking a swipe aimed to cut off his head, had the weapons been deadly. The Fallen needed an edge, and he was a master of improvisation.

Paul came in with midsection cross swipe. Instead of parrying, Zark ducked under it and tore his robe off. When the Fallen came back up, he hurled the robe into Paul's face, blocking the man's vision. When he finally managed to extract himself from the robe, Zark's sword was against his throat.

"Thats illegal!" Paul protested.

"Is it?"

"Well..." Paul began, "I don't think so, actually. But it is frowned upon!"

"How unfortunate..." Zark feigned.

"Yes," Paul conceded, "It was a good move. But unfortunately, this costs you a few ranks down than I would normally place you in-"

"Of course," Zark cut in, "I would expect nothing less."

"You will..." Paul hesitated, "You will be place in the intermediate civilian amateur section."

"Is that bad?"

"Well, I don't really know if-"

"Okay then."

"Right..." Paul stuttered, "Report back here, tomorrow. If you wish, you may enlist under a fencing master, though I daresay you are skilled enough to forego such a thing."

"Thank you," Zark replied, and began to walk away.

Three, two, one.

"Oh, and Mr.-"

"Ekan. Zark Ekan."

"Right, Mr. Ekan..." Paul hesitated once more, "Have we met?"

"No."

"Right..." Paul's head moved toward the floor.

"Yes?" Zark asked impatiently.

"Yes what?"

"You were going to tell me something." Zark offered.

"Oh...right. I forgot."

Zark frowned and turned toward the exit, where his expression turned fast to a grin. He enjoyed making people uncomfortable. There was something appealing about watching a grown man squirm.

"Mr. Ekan! Mr. Ekan! I've remembered!"

Zark turned to face Paul.

"Good luck, and no robes," Paul said, grinning.

"Right," but Zark didn't smile. He never did.

Sometimes I feel sorry for people like the man Paul. You know what? I lied. I never feel sorry for anyone anymore.

Kamon sat, pencil in hand, filling out yet another piece of paperwork. This time, however, it wasn't required or for something to do with the Protectorate. Instead, it was simply a sing-up sheet for the fencing tournament. Having heard about it only a while ago, he quickly decided it would be a good way to get his mind off of fighting the war. He didn't want to think about the enemy constantly.

"All finished?"

Kamon nodded and slid the board across to the woman on the other side.

"Alright. We'll administer a test of your skills now. Follow the man in the green please."

Kamon nodded. Taking the time to talk was completely beyond him now. He was concentrating on being clam, remembering all of his experience in sword fighting. In his whole life he had never once picked up a foil. Never once. And to be honest with himself, he wasn't sure why. Many people had told him it was such a great sport. He just never really saw the point of it. The man in the green pushed open a door and bowed him in. Kamon stepped forward and looked at the man across from him.

"My nave is Xaver, and I'll be administering your test."

It sounded rehearsed but Kamon didn't care.

"Please remove your robe and and select a practice foil."

Kamon obediently removed his black robe, lightsaber hidden in the sleeve, and set it neatly by the door. Stepping over to the foils, he looked them all up and down. The light ones seemed more fragile. The medium ones weren't tense enough. He selected a heavy foil.

"Interesting choice."

And suddenly, as Kamon stepped back away from the foils, Xaver charged at him. This routine also seemed rehearsed, as if he had recently used it. He blocked the lunging blade away without a second thought, and when Xaver swung at his side, Kamon batted it away with foil pointed down, then lifted the foil to point at Xaver' chin.

"Not bad. Are oyu sure you have never used a foil before?"

"I have not."

"Interesting... You're good, but I've seen far better. Your mind was alloof, your balance off. You will be classed as a moderate civilian amature."

The man handed Kamon a booklet, and pointed to a specific location on a map.

"You will report there tomorrow for briefing. Afterwards you will be able to sing up for lesson's from fencing masters."

Kamon nodded, and then was quickly ushered out of the building. Outside he walked back towards his hotel thinking on things. The Force had been elusive to him. That was why his mind was alloof. He felt cut off from something important. Ysalimiri. Shaking his head, he focued on what else the man had said. My balance was off? Boy I must be losing it. Better get my act together. So he headed for the hotel to do just that.

When he woke up he was dead.
Utter blackness, total silence. Nothing.
No smells. There should have been the clean, efficent scent of a medical center.
No background rustle of steps. No drone of air conditioning, no distant murmur of conversations, no jangle of a comm.
He could not feel any press of his own weight. No cold table or starched sheets rubbed his skin.
They had disconnected all his external nerves.
He felt a rush of fear. Loss of senses. To do that required finding the major nerves as they wound up through the spine. Then a medical tech had to splice them out of the tangled knot at the back of the neck. Delicate work.
They were preparing him for the Slots. Shutting him down this far meant he was going into the semipermanent storage. Which ment he had failed the medical exam, badly.

___________________________________________________

They had put him into a kind of fuzzy sleepstate in the slots for the tests. He ignored them and focused on the coming tournament, It was important to understand this event, thus the needs for his own testing. But the sleep dragged him down....

___________________________________________________

But they never slotted you without telling you. Even critically ill people got to say good-bye, finish up details, prepare themselves if at all possible.
The medical had probably turned up some incriminating information, but that was certainly not enough to slot him without warning. No, it had to be a pretext - one he could not contest only years later, when released.
He fought the rising confusion in his mind. He had to explore this, think.
Was he fully dead? He waited, letting his fear wash away.
Concentrate. Think of quietness, stillness...
Yes. There.
He felt a weak, regular thump that might be his heart.
Behind that, as though far away, came a slow, faint fluttering of lungs.
That was all. The body's internal nerves were thinly spread, he knew. They gave only vague, blunt senses. But there was enough to tell him that the basic functions were still plodding on.
There was a dim pressure in his bladder. He could pick up nothing specific from legs or arms.
He tried to move his head. Nothing. No feedback.
Open an eye? Only blackness.
Legs - he tried both, hoping that only the sensations were gone. He might be able to detect a leg moving by the change in pressure somewhere in his body.
No response. But if he could sense his bladder, he should have gotten something back from the shifting weight of a leg.
That ment his lower motor control was shut off.
Panic rose in him. It was a cold, brittle sensation. Normally this strong an emotion would bring deeper breathing, a heavier heartbeat, flexing muscles, a tingling urgency. He felt none of that. There was only a swirl of conflicting thoughts, a jittery forking in his mind like summer lightning. This was what it was like to be an analytical thing, a machine, a moving matrix of calculation, without chemical or glandular ties.
They weren't finished, or else he'd never have come awake again. Some technician had screwed up. SHut off a nerve center somewhere, using pinpoint interrupters, perhaps pinching one filament too many.
They worked at the big junction between brain and spinal cord, down at the base of the skull. It was like a big cable back there, and the techs found their way by feedback analysis. It was easy to get the microscopic nerve fibers mixed up. If the tech was working fast, looking forward to break, he could reactivate the conscious cerebral functions and not notice it on the scope till later.
He had to do something.
The strange cold panic seized him again. Adrenaline, left over from some earlier, deep physiological response? He was afraid now, but there was no answering chemical symphony of the body. His gland subsystems were shut down.
There was no way to tell how rapidly time passed. He counted heartbeats, but his pulse rate depended on so many factors -
Okay, then - how long did he have? He knew it took hours to shut down a nervous system, damp the lymphatic zones, leach the blood of residues. Hours. And the technicians would leave a lot of the job on automatic.
He noticed a faint background sensation, of chill. It seemed to spread as he paid attention to it, filling his body, brining a pleasant, mild quiet...a drifting...a slow slide towards sleep...
Deep within him, something said no.
He willed himself to think in the blackness and the creeping cold. The technicians always left a pathway to the outside, so if something went wrong the patient could signal. It was a precaution to take care of situations like this.
Eyebrows? He tried them, felt nothing.
Mouth? The same.
He made himself think of steps necessary to form a word. Constrict the throat. Force air out at a faster rate. Move the tongue and lips.
Nothing. No faint hum echoing in his sinus cavities to tell him that muscles worked, that breath strummed his vocal cords.
The easiest slotting method was to simply shut down a whole section of the body. That must be what was happening. Right, his head was out, legs out. Feet gone, too. And genitals, he thought wryly, weren't under conscious control even in the best of times.
Arms, then. He tried the left. No answering shiftof internal pressures. But how big would the effort be? He might be waving his hand straight up in the air, and never know it.
Try the right. Again, no way to tell if...
No, wait. A diffuse sense of something...
Try to remember which muscles to move. He had gone through life with instant feedback from every fiber, anchoring him in his body, every gesture suggesting the next. Now he had to analyze precisely.
How did he make his arm rise? Muscles contracted to pull on one side of the arm and shoulder. Others relaxed to let the arm swing. He tried it.
Was there an answering weight? Faint, too faint. Maybe his imagination.
The right arm could be jutting up, and he wouldn't know it. The attendants would see it, though, and patch into him, ask what was going on... unless they weren't around. Unless they had gone off for break. Leaving the body to stage down gradually into long term stasis, with the medic checking to be sure nothing failed...
Suppose the arm works. Even if somebody saw it, was that what he wanted? If they turned his head back on, what would he do? Demand his rights? The attendants were certainly under orders to slide him into a slot, no matter what he said. For his own good, y'know.
Despairing, he stopped his concentration, willed the muscles to go suddenly slack.
And was rewarded with an answering thump.
It had hit the table. It bloody well worked.
He waited. Nothing came to him in the blackness. No attendant came tapping in to correct the mistake.
He was probably alone. Where?
Not already in a slot, or else he wouldn't be able to think clearly. On a medic slab, then.
He tried to remember the arrangement. The access terminals were on both sides, mirroring the body. So maybe, if it stretched, the right hand could reach half the input switchings.
He concentrated and brought the arm up again. The hand probably worked; it would've been too much trouble to disconnect it while the arm stayed live. Remembering carefully, he lowered the arm, rotating it -
A thump, someone approaching? No, too close. The arm had fallen.
Balance was going to be hard. He practiced rotating the arm without raising it. No way to know if he was succesful, but some moves seemed correct, familiar, while others did not. He worked without feedback, trying to summon up the exact sensation of turning the arm. Dipping it to the side, over the edge. Working the fingers.
He stopped. If he hit the wrong control he could turn off the arm. Without external nerves, there was no way to tell if he was doing the right thing.
Pure gamble. If he had been able to, he would have shrugged. What the hell.
He stabbed with straightened fingers. Nothing.
He fumbled and somehow knew through dull patterns that his fingers were striking the side of the slab. The knowledge came from below, some kind of holisitc sensation from thin nerve nets deep inside him. The body could not be wholly cut up into pieces; information spread, and the mute kidneys and liver and intestines knew in some dim way what went on outside.
A wan answering pressure told him that his fingers had closed on something, were squeezing it. He made the fingers turn.
Nothing happened. Not a knob, then. A button?
He stabbed down. In his sinus cavities he felt slight jolts He must be smacking the slab hard, to do that. with no feedback there was no way to judge force. He stabbed; a jolt. Again. Again -
A cold tremor ran up his right calf. Pain flooded in. His leg was in spasm. It jerked on the slab, striking the medic. The sudden rush of sensations startled him. In the heady surge he could hardly tell pain from pleasure.
The leg banged on the slab like a crazed animal. His autonomic system was trying to maintain body temperature by muscle spasms, sucking energy out of the sugar left in the tissues. A standard reaction; that was one reason why he was shut down.
But he had activated a neural web, that was the point. He stabbed blindly with his fingers again.
A welling coldness in his midsection. Again.
More cold, now in the right foot. Again.
A prickly sensation on his lips, on his cheeks. But not full senses; he could not feel his chest or arms. He started to press another button and then stopped, thinking.
So far he had been lucky. He was opening the sensory nets. Most of the right side was transmitting external data. His leg was jerking less now as he brought it under control.
But if he hit the shutdown button for his right arm next, he was finished. He wouldlie here helpless until the technicians came back.
He worked the arm back onto the slab. He made it shift awkwardly across his chest and shoulders to let him do this, but without any input from there he did not know how much he could make work.
We willed the muscles to lurch to the left. A strange impression of tilting came into him. A tension somewhere. Muscles straining, locked, clenched and reaching, a stretching - More -
A warm hardness on his cheek. His nose pressed against it but he had no sense of smell. The slab top. He had rolled himself partway over.
He felt a gathering, diffuse weariness. The arm muscles were broadcasting to the surrounding body their agony, fed by the buildup of exhausted sugar-bearing molecules.
No time to rest. The muscles would just have to keep working. He willed the arm to reach over the left side of the slab. He could feel nothing, but now he could make no fatal mistake.
He punched down at random, searching. A spike of pain shot through his left side. Behind it came biting cold. Slabs of muscles began shaking violently, sending rippling pain through his left side.
He stabbed down with fingers again. Light poured in on him. He had hit the optical nerve net. A gaudy, rich redness. He realized his eyes were still closed. He opened them. Yellow flooded in. He closed them against the glare and punched down again.
The crisp, chill hospital smell. Another stab.
Sound washed over him. A mechanical clanking, a distant buzz, the whir of air circulators. No voices.
He squinted. He was lying on a white slab, staring up at fluorescent lights. Now that he could see, he got back the rest of his nets quickly.
He reached up toward his neck - and his hand went the other way. He stopped it, moved the fingers tentatively. His arm was coming from above his head, reaching down... but that was impossible. He moved the other arm. It came into his vision the same way, from above.
Something was wrong with him. He closed his eyes. What could make... ?
He rolled over partway and looked around the medic bay. The sign on the door leaped out at him. It was upside down. He reached out, clutched the edge of the slab. It was upside down, too.
That was it. When the eye took light and cast it on the retina, ordinary optics inverted the image. The retinal nerves filtered that signal and set it upright for the brain.
So the med tech had screwed that up, too. The retinal nerves weren't working right. That might be easy to fix, just move a fine-point fiber junction a fraction of a milimeter. But he couldn't, didn't know how. He would have to manage.
He began to fumble with the thicket of leads that snaked over his body. It was easier if he didn't look at what he was doing. He had to carefully disconnect the tap-ins at nerve nexus points. The big knot of them at the nape of his neck was hard to detach. it jerked free.
He felt a hot, diffuse pain from the region, spreading up into his skull. The nerves were exposed, sending scattershot impressions through the area, provoking spasms in the muscles.
He rolled over and studied the work table next to the slab. It was a jumble of connectors, microelectronics, and coils of nearly invisible wires. There was a patch that looked the right shape. He reached out for it and missed. His brain saw his arm moving up and corrected, always in the wrong direction.
It took him three tries before he could override his own coordination. He snagged the patch and nearly dropped it. Carefully he brought it to his head. The floopy oval of wires fitted over the gapping hole at the back of his neck. He fiddled with it until it slid - snick - into place. The pain tappered off.
He sat up. Spasms shot through him. He gasped. Pain blossomed with every move. But he felt fully awake and deeply angry. He was in a deserted medbay.
He studied the liquid-optical readouts on his medical monitor. The program profile was mostly numbers. He couldn't tilt his head far enough over to read the upsidedown numbers. He worked on reading them directly. After a moment it wasn't so hard. The winking digital program profile told him that his shutdown was scheduled to take another fifty-seven minutes.
He got to his feet, shaky and light-headed. It was good to have his own chemestry back. He was tempted to rest for a moment and let the endless river of sensations wash over him. Even this sterile room of barren white light was lurid, packed with details, smells, sensations. He had never loved life so much.
But he wasn't safe. Breaks didn't last forever. He would have to find his clothes, get out -
He started for a side door. The first few steps taught him to keep his head tilted down, towards his feet. He had to move his eyes the opposite way, though, to shift his vision. He bumped into the medic and nearly fell over a desk. After a moment he could navigate around things. he went carefully, feeling each twinge of lancing pain as his left side protested. His right arm ached and trembled from spasm.
He reached the door, opened it slightly, peered through. and suddenly everything changed. The first thing he noticed was the smells of nature. A scent of grass greeted his nostrils as his eyes regestered the shimmering landscape that now enveloped him. It was as if waking from a dream you didn't know you were having. He couldn't place it.
In his upside down world he noticed a figure moving against a nearby tree. Oddly clad for a person in this enviroment it seemed as though the figure were wearing a heavy armor of some sort, a dark rust in hue. As quickly as he was seen the figure seemed to register him back with a quick flick of movement and approaching menace.
"So it seems one actually survived!" the voice came thick in a male tone, becoming deeper as the lone occupant of his upside down world approached, "A marvel indeed."
"Where are we?" it seemed a perfectly reasonable question at the moment. One typicaly didn't just step out of a vessels medical bay into a plain on some unknown planet.
"Not to worry, you are still aboard your transport, this... this is just a little way for me to communicate with you."
"Holograms?" As he spoke he realized it couldn't be. These things were solid, he could feel the wind on his face, the grass under foot. As well, holograms hardly ever smelled.
"No, lets just say this is where I am, and I created it here for you as well." It really answered nothing, but he assumed he was in a position to demand little in the way of answers.
"Survived?" He asked, his anger abaiting as the figure approaching became increasingly more recognizable.
"It is an acurate description of what you did I should think. The others died, you lived. You survived where as they did not." He spoke nonchalantly as though matters of life and death where of little importance on a day to day level. Indeed, to this figure they probably were not.
"So then... ?" He inquired, a slip of hope peering through his gruff, unused voice, still attempting to gain a hold over the method of speech once more.
"Indeed, you have been choosen worth to compete. As well as being a messanger for the Empire you seem fit for other arenas of exploration. You are truely a specimine of your species." The doorway behind him reappeared and opened once more. This time into a vast lobby where many people seemed swamped around a central desk. As he set foot through the doorway the voice behind him continued, before vanishing completely.
"And the eyesight will clear up within the hour."
How did he know...

Deart was looking over the numbers again. He loved numbers, they were so easily manipulated, no matter what side you were on. These numbers however, needed no manipulation. They sang the praise of Deart, they spoke of how successful this Tournament would be.

"Thirty-seven thousand contestants," whispered the Count. "Thirty-seven thousand fencers."

It was easily a Galactic record. In fact, more than one galactic record company had contacted Deart about interviews and photographs for their annual 'Best Of' collections. He had declined to give a commitment to any of them, thus driving up their bidding on his time.

He smiled slightly. Even such trivial things such as that gave him pleasure. Oh how those people would scramble, and overcut each other in an attempt to get his face to grace the cover of their book. It would promote sales for them, which in turn broadened his exposure, making his next event an even bigger success.


That is how the galaxy works, though the Count. The rich get richer, and the poor get poorer, and the middle class sails by making the rich richer and the poor poorer. It was a brilliant system, rewarding the smart people and crushing the unlucky.


"Thirty-seven thousand contestants, and the latest polls put attendance at twenty-two million projected beings, Deart read. "The Amber stadium only holds twenty-nine million beings. Maybe we'll overflow ..."

Deart certainly hoped he overfilled the stadium. Nothing like a little scandal to make his next event even more popular. He could see it now, "Reckless Count endangers the lives of thousands by over filling newly opened Amber Stadium."

It was like printing money.

Deart wiped his mouth with a silken napkin, and stood from the table he had been sitting at. No time to sit and gloat, there were so much money to make.

"No, no, not like an ax! This isn't like swinging a bloody club, this requires finesse and skill!" The fencing master was beginning to loose his temper.

"But I won," said Tobal flatly.

"Yes, yes, you won," replied the Master with a wave and a sigh. "Yes, you won." The man turned and rubbed his hand through what was left of his hair. Then he pivoted on his heel, and raised a fist as he cried out "But Fencing isn't all about winning!"

"The tournament is."

"Ay aye aye the tournament." With that the Master began to spew in some sort of smooth, flowing language what could only be a stream of fluently enunciated curse words. "The tournament is a stunt. It is a staged event created solely to attract people who will spend their money like water, thus making the proprietor and a lot of other people very, very rich. At the same time it will prompt idiots like you to come to idiots like me to receive training for an art they have not the brains to appreciate or master."

The Fencing Master squeezed his fist until a knuckle popped.

"The tournament is a curse upon the name of Fencing. May Deart rot in the lowest bowels of hell for what he has d..." he stopped suddenly when Tobal flicked the tip of his sabre up near the Fencing Master's nose. The razor sharp tip nipped the edge of his nose, prompting a small bead of blood to bubble.

"Show me this ... finesse you speak of, Fencer," said Tobal. "I wish to learn the art."

"You cannot learn in years," pronounced the Fencer hauntingly. "The Art is something few ca..." He stopped again when Tobal twisted the handle of his weapon, causing the Sabre to dance like a marionette.

"I know that," said Tobal, "But perhaps in these few weeks before the Tournament you can bestow upon me seeds that may blossom fully when the Tournament is over, aye?" He stepped back and moved into a stance the Fencer had showed him earlier, and at the same time pulled out a credit chit.

The Fencer moved aside and looked critically at Tobal's stance. "No, no. Not like an ox, or a bear. You need to be like a bird ready to take flight. Form is just as important as function."