A murmur of anticipation rolled through the Nilbog audience above the arena.
Brackett stood motionless, backed against one of the partitions and trapped by three Sen’oggi whose laser axes pointed at him and crackled threateningly. As he waited for the Wor’osh to arrive, his eyes swept over the other prisoners, the Nilboggi gladiators, and the seemingly inescapable arena, wondering how he was going to get out of this one. His eyes flashed toward Ginsberg and he guessed that his partner was wondering the same thing.
He didn’t have long to ponder before the doors beneath the platform slid open again and Brackett heard the faint hums and whirring sounds of the robotic armor. The noises grew louder, and then Gom’jol, Wor’osh of the Nilboggi, stepped into the light.
His robotic armor; a complicated skin of servos, winking lights and glowing sigils; made him look strong and menacing. The helmet hid his features, and its lifeless lenses glowed red, as though with a madness for battle and bloodshed. The Wor’osh strode into the battleground with confidence. He held the staff of a laser axe in the firm grasp of one metal hand, with the other he motioned to his Sen’oggi. “Let no one interfere,” his synthesized voice commanded, “This contest is for me and you-man alone.”
As one, the three Sen’oggi warriors saluted and slowly backed away from Brackett, their weapons still trained on him. Then they turned to police the crowd of prisoners gaping from the relative safety of the arena’s perimeter wall.
Gom’jol waved an invitation to the patrolman. “Whenever you are ready to die, you-man, let us begin!”
Brackett frowned then, grunting through gritted teeth, he brought his laser axe around in a wide arc.
But the Nilbog leader was too quick, and with impressive speed he brought up his own staff to block the attack. He pushed Brackett’s weapon away, then his own staff belched forth a blade of pure energy which he thrust forward.
Eyes wide with panic, Brackett managed to push the invading weapon aside then swung for the Wor’osh again. The armored warlord jumped back, brought his axe up, knocking Brackett’s weapon into the free-standing partition, where it stuck in place.
Brackett tugged at the staff with all his strength, but could not pull it free. As Gom’jol’s axe came crashing down upon him, he jumped back with a cry of alarm. The Wor’osh stabbed again but Brackett deftly dodged and rushed in to slam his enemy against the partition wall, ripping the laser axe from his armored hands.
With lightning-quick reflexes, the Nilbog warlord reached up and seized Brackett’s weapon, still stuck in the partition wall, and pulled it free. He slammed the staff against Brackett’s with such force that it sent the patrolman into a spin.
Brackett swung around, slammed Gom’jol’s staff aside, and thrust his laser axe into the chest of the robotic armor. The Wor’osh’s chest exploded with sparks, electricity crackling over the metal skin of his suit. As the lightning-dance subsided, Brackett pulled his blade from the warlord’s chest plate. The Wor’osh fell to the floor with a crash that reverberated through the vast audience chamber above.
The patrolman coughed and waved the smoke away, helping it dissipate. “Now then,” he said, “we’re going to discuss the release of all these prisoners, and we’re going to do it face-to-face!” He rolled Gom’jol over onto his back then brought the laser axe down to the Wor’osh’s throat and destroyed the clamps that held the helmet in place. Thrusting the butt-end of the handle beneath the helmet, Brackett forced it off the Nilbog’s head.
Then he looked down at the Wor’osh’s face and gasped at what he saw…
The Wor’osh’s face was thin, hollow. His wrinkled, leathery skin, a sickly pale pallor, hung loosely from his muscles like an over-sized suit. Blemishes and spots were scattered across his hairless cranium. But his eyes were lit with the fire of hate, and he glared up at Brackett even as he gulped for breath.
“Kill me then,” Gom’jol rasped, “But know that you will never escape this moon alive!”
Brackett frowned down at the aged Nilbog with macabre fascination.
“What are you waiting for?” Jol’bur yelled down from his private box. “He is your enemy who has taken away your freedom and forced you to duel to the death! He is a great threat to you all!”
“No he isn’t!” Brackett spat back. “Look at him! He’s nothing more than a poor old man! I’ll bet he can’t even move without this mechanical suit.”
A murmur rippled through the Nilbog audience above, and Jol’bur acknowledged it with a worried glance before shaking a fist at Brackett. “The Wor’osh is strong and cunning! He is the veteran of many battles! If you do not kill him now, you will suffer his retribution!”
Brackett allowed himself a moment to wonder whom Jol’bur was trying to convince, then waved his partner over. “Ginsberg, help me stand him up.”
Together, the two patrol officers pulled the Wor’osh to his feet.
Above them, the Nilbogs began to disperse. “Where are you going?” Jol’bur cried as he leapt out of his seat. “Remain in your seats! The duel is not yet finished! My P’Trohg is a great threat! His daring plan will make us all heroes when the Empire has regained the sector!” He was ignored and before long, only Jol’bur remained in the audience, abandoned by his people, his guards, his advisors, and even the Sen’oggi. Alone, he fell into his seat and despaired.
The old Wor’osh frowned at Brackett. “You are a cruel one, you-man. It would have been kinder to kill me.”
“I’ve already told you,” Brackett replied, “that’s not our way.”
Ginsberg shook his head. “I don’t get it, where’d they go?”
Professor Tholgrum approached, a smile on his face, with Sorenson at his side. She tossed a quizzical frown up toward the empty audience seats. The Professor clapped Brackett on the back. “Nicely done, my boy!” he cried, amid some good-natured laughs. “You have caused them to lose faith in their leader! When the Nilboggi believe in their leaders, they can do great and terrible things. But shatter that fragile faith, and they flee like the cowards they truly are!”
“Flee?” Brackett exclaimed, “What do you mean ‘flee’?”
“He is right,” Gom’jol rasped, “My refugees will anticipate that your first move will be to transmit your location and send for support. I daresay that even now, my people rush to evacuate the base and commandeer whatever ships are convenient in the hopes of returning to Nilbog space.” He gasped for air then glumly added, “It is our way.”
****
Four days later, a cruiser arrived from DSO-29 and members of the occupation force rolled into the dome. As the doors slid open, Brackett snapped to attention, as did Ginsberg and Sorenson. The occupation team advanced, led by a man who seemed nearly regal in his flowing robes. The leader regarded them coolly and asked, “Who is in charge here?”
“I am sir, Captain Bradley Brackett.”
“I’m Lorne Dennison, Steward First Class. I’m here to accept command of this place and see what sort of use it might be put to.”
“You’re welcome to it!” Brackett exclaimed. “I’ve got about fifty kidnapped people here, all anxious to get back to their lives, and twenty-six Nilbogs waiting to be processed and transported to an approved prison facility.”
Dennison nodded. “We’ll see to all that. I trust you’ve filled out your reports on what’s happened here?”
“Yes sir, right here,” Brackett said as he passed a datapad to the Steward. “I’m sure you’ll find everything in order. With your permission, I’d like to prepare the Lancelot for departure. We’ve got orders to take Professor Tholgrum to Deep Space Outpost Twenty-Nine.”
The Steward looked up sharply. “That request is approved as far as the Sergeant is concerned. Sergeant Sorenson? Collect the Professor and deliver him as per your original orders.”
With a curt nod, Sorenson said, “Yes sir,” and proceeded down the corridor.
“Take this,” the Steward said as he pulled a second datapad from his belt and handed it to Brackett.
Brackett switched it on and stared at a picture of a Marquadian.
“That is Nuurik Izzar,” Dennison announced, “He’s wanted for the murder of a Galactic Patrol officer at the Diora spaceport. He managed to escape in a ship called the Rigel Dawn. Your orders are to apprehend him, before he kills again.”
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