Ben looked at his dessert. It was a square cake with cream-colored frosting running over the top and dripping down the sides. Ben stuck his fork under one edge and flipped the cake up and down a couple of times. The waiter told him it had a fruit compote filling that was "absolutely scrumptious."
He continued to look at it, while thinking about his luck. He had always considered himself above average in the luck department, but here he was in a most unlucky turn of events. If he had stayed aboard the Commander or if he had gone back to the computer complex to study some of the archeological findings, or if he had gone anywhere except to Hurd's office that day, he wouldn't be in prison. No one would have given him a second thought.
Why was his luck turning on him? Especially now that he had met Lyil.
He looked up at the guard standing about ten feet away. "Hey Jake, you want my dessert?"
The guard looked at it longingly, "I'd like to," he said, "but I'm on duty, and if they caught me eating it, they'd have my ass. Thanks anyway."
"Yeah," said Ben. He kept flipping it up and down, and then it occurred to him to take it back to his cell. "Hey Jake," he called in a loud whisper, "okay with you if I take it with me?"
The guard pondered for a moment. "Fine by me," he said, and then added, "But I don't know anything about it, if you know what I mean."
"Yeah, thanks," said Ben. He unfolded a paper napkin and pressed out the creases as he did. He put the cake in the middle, wrapped it up, and put it in his swording helmet. That'll keep it for a while, he thought.
There was a large crash from the other side of the room as a busboy dropped a load of dirty dishes on the floor. When he bent over to pick up the dishes, one of the waiters who was passing by, playfully thumped him on the head and then bent down to help him. The waiter said something, and they both started laughing.
The accident happened on the other side of the swording mat, which had been placed in the middle of the Officer's mess hall. The tables and chairs had been moved out of the way, but not taken out of the room; instead they had been crowded together in anticipation of a lot of spectators. There were already quite a number of officers and their spouses sitting at the tables talking and laughing—causing a drone of conversation throughout the huge room.
"Are you feeling up to it?"
Ben turned and saw Sharpie standing behind him. "Damn straight," he replied.
Sharpie gave him a look. "I'm going to let it slide this time," she said, "because you don't know me, but I’ll tell you now, I don't like people swearing when they're talking to me or even when they're talking to someone near me."
"Oh, . . . I'm sorry," said Ben. "I'll keep that in mind." He knew Sharpie was his best chance for getting out or escaping from prison, so he wanted to stay on her good side.
"Let me ask again," she continued, "has your wound healed, at least enough for you to compete in a swording match tonight?"
"Darn straight," replied Ben. He looked around the room at the officers, wondering why she had arranged this match. If he were to beat a local guard in a swording match, how would that help him out of his predicament.
Sharpie continued to look concerned. "Talman Hisser will be here in a few minutes," she said, "but if you're not feeling up to it, we can put it off until tomorrow or the next night."
"No, I'm fine," said Ben as he stood up. He picked up his swording helmet and started toward the mat. Sharpie was at his side. He felt her hand on his shoulder, which she had placed there in a caring manner, and it reminded him of Lyil with her feminine and thoughtful concerns for a fellow human being. He wondered what Lyil was doing at that moment - maybe at home watching the viewer or maybe having dinner with her friends in the outer city. And then it occurred to him that Lyil might be in danger. What will happen once Thorne has complete control of the Federation armada? "We've got to get the Galaef out of this prison and back on the throne," said Ben.
"I agree," said Sharpie, "but to do that we have to convince the right people that he's the VIP prisoner."
"How do we do that?" asked Ben. "And who are the right people?"
"The first thing you have to do is to prove to the Captain of the Guard that you are a master swordsman. That will convince him you are 'the' Ben Hillar. After that we can start thinking about the Galaef."
Ben stepped onto the swording mat with Sharpie following. He laid his helmet next to the stool in his corner. "I've never heard of Talman Hisser, so I take it he's not of Galactic caliber." It wasn't a polite statement, to say the least, but Ben wasn't feeling charitable.
"He's never been in the Galactic Games, if that's what you mean," she retorted in a defensive tone, "but a couple of years ago he placed first in a Tarmorian tournament. And that means he's no slouch."
Ben sat on the stool and picked up the sword, which had been lying on the mat. He swished it through the air a couple of times, being careful not to whack Sharpie, and then he grabbed the end of it, and bent it feeling for flexibility and strength.
"Well?" asked Sharpie.
Ben set the sword down and looked into her blue eyes. "Three inches shorter than what I usually use, but, overall, Not bad."
"Better not be," she replied. "It's my own fencing sword, and I paid a lot of money for it." She broke the stare and looked around the room. A couple tables away she saw what she was looking for.
Ben watched as Sharpie walked over and grabbed the empty chair by the back. There were three men and two women sitting around the table, and as Sharpie grabbed the chair one of the men started to say something, but thought better of it.
Sharpie took the chair back to Ben's corner and sat down. "Being the fourth sword in the Galaxy I'm sure you've been well trained—heard it all and seen it all. So, I'm not going to say anything like, 'don't underestimate him.'"
"But you did," said Ben
"Did what?"
"You just said it. You just said, 'don't underestimate him.'"
"Well, maybe I said it. But I didn't say it as a piece of advice."
Ben sat on the mat and stretched his low back and hamstrings by touching his toes and bending his head toward his knees. "I bet you and your boyfriend have some strange conversations," he mumbled.
"What?"
"Nothing," replied Ben.
"I heard what you said. And if that was an insult, I would think you would be a little more appreciative for what I've done for you."
Ben continued his stretching. "You can't begin to know the magnitude of my appreciation. I've been stuck in this . . . you know what, prison under false accusations, and you're the only friend with any clout I've got in this . . . you know what place." He sat up and stretched backward, loosening the antagonistic muscles. "And I assure you it wasn't an insult. It was just a little sarcasm. You know, a little tongue in cheek."
"Actually, I do know," she said. "I've seen a number of your interviews, . . . but it kinda caught me off guard when it was aimed at me."
"Well, then, don't take it personal."
Sharpie sat back in her chair and laughed. "You're a real kick, you know that? It's too bad we had to meet in a place like this."
It's too bad we had to meet at all, thought Ben. I could be back on Galactica with Lyil.
Just then Curt, the Captain of the Guard, stepped onto the mat from the opposite side, and right behind him came a man in a swording uniform. The officers and the rest of the crowd started to cheer, clap, and stomp their feet.
The two men walked to Ben's corner, and as Talman stepped out from behind Curt a shocked look came over his face. "You told me it was a prisoner," he said in disbelief. "You didn't tell me it was Ben Hillar."
"Pleased to meet you," said Ben as he stuck his hand out for a handshake. But Talman was too stunned to be shaking anybody's hand.
After leaving it there for a few seconds, Ben put his hand down.
"You think this is Ben Hillar, the fourth sword of the Galaxy?" asked Curt.
"Do I think it?" h
e asked angrily. "I don't think it. I know it. He and the Galaef have been kicking around Newusa for the last couple of months."
"The Galaef?" asked Curt. Now it was his turn to be shocked.
"You didn't know?" asked Talman. "I realize they didn't broadcast it, but I would have thought you would have gotten the word by now."
"We don't get to town much," said Curt with an angry tone in his voice. "Let's start the match,” he said looking at Ben, “and we'll see how good you really are."
Talman smiled sardonically. “How good he really is? In my opinion, and in the opinion of many others including the experts, he’s the best in the entire galaxy.”
Talman stuck his hand out and Ben shook it. "It's an honor to be swording against you," said Talman. "I just wish I had been prepared for it." He turned and walked back to the other corner.
Curt grabbed Sharpie by the arm and turned her until she was facing him “If this is THE Ben Hillar, then it's possible that the VIP prisoner is the Galaef,” he said softly.
“It’s me,” said Ben without looking at anyone. “I am THE Ben Hillar.”
Curt continued without paying attention to Ben. “Which means we could be getting ourselves mixed up in the middle of a Galactic war." There was a worried look on his face.
"It's starting to look more and more like I'm right. Doesn't it?" She removed his hand from her arm. "So, we better come up with a plan."
Just then the announcer, not a professional one, but rather one of the guards, stepped onto the mat and walked to the middle holding a Mic in his hand. "Ladies, gentlemen, . . . and even you officers," he said, in an attempt to be funny. "Tonight we have a best three out of five round swording match between a prisoner, Dr. Ben Hillar to my left." He pointed at Ben. There was an unenthusiastic round of applause.
Suddenly Ben felt a very subtle intrusion into his mind. It was so subtle that most people would never notice it, but Ben had experienced it everyday since he came to this prison. Sometimes five or six times a day. So, you're here, said Ben.
Yesss, answered Roqford through a half yawn. It'sss me.
I thought you would be asleep by now.
Usually, said Roqford, but I thought I would watch you fence tonight.
And to my right," continued the announcer, and then he clumsily tried to let the following words roll off his tongue as if mimicking a professional announcer, "we have Talman Hisser, Lieutenant Commander of the Newusa City Police."
The crowd cheered, clapped, and stomped their feet.
The announcer waited a few moments as the cheering quieted down and then walked off the mat, which was the signal for the match to begin. Ben picked up his swording helmet and put the napkin with the lump in it under his stool. (He noticed a quizzical look, which turned to a knowing look on Sharpie's face.) He placed the helmet on his head, flipped the protective eye shield into place, and picked up the sword. He stood up and walked toward the middle of the ring.
The rules were different for this match. They would sword all five rounds. The swordsman to win the most rounds would be declared the winner.
Ben and Talman saluted each other with their swords, then crossed them above their heads, and waited. The timekeeper sounded the buzzer, which simultaneously started the clock. And the match began.
Ben started with a series of parries and half thrusts, which were meant to fool the antagonist into believing an offensive move was coming. After two minutes into the round Ben parried, stepped back, parried, stepped back, parried, and then stepped forward which caught Talman by surprise. Ben placed his left hand on Talman's chest and shoved mightily.
Talman stumbled backward and fell to the mat flat on his back. At that time Ben could have easily moved in and dispatched him, ending the round, but instead he waited for Talman to stand and resume his stance.
Less than a minute later the buzzer sounded, the round came to an end, and Ben walked to his corner. The pain in his abdomen, caused by the stab wound, was a little sharper as he sat on the stool. He had his head bent down with his eyes closed. He probed the wound with his fingers, massaging the sore spots to relieve the pain. Suddenly he had that feeling that someone was staring at him, and he looked up. Talman was standing in front of him and Curt was walking up beside. Sharpie stepped onto the mat and joined the other two.
"What's going on?" asked Talman.
"What do you mean?" asked Curt in return.
"What I mean is, are you playing some kind of a joke on me?"
Curt just gave him a puzzled look.
But Sharpie said in a hurtful tone of respect to her swording instructor. "This is no joke. I assure you."
"Then why did Professor Hillar not make one offensive move the entire round?" Angrily he turned around and walked back to his corner.
Sharpie gave Ben an unkind look.
"I know. I know," said Ben.
"You know what?" asked Sharpie.
"I know you want me to prove who I am, but I thought I would prolong it for the five full rounds, and give the spectators something to watch." Ben paused, and then said, "I didn't realize Talman would take it as an insult. He is a fine swordsman. And I would, by no means, belittle him."
"It appears you have," replied Sharpie. "And I didn't set up this match for the spectators. So, let's finish it."
Curt grabbed Sharpie by the shoulder and spun her toward him. "I knew this wasn't Ben Hillar," he said.
"You don't know anything," retorted Sharpie. Now she was becoming angry. "Ben's just playing a little game," she said under her breath to keep from shouting. She turned back to Ben. "Well?" she asked.
"Okay," he said, "I'll finish it."
At the disappointment of the crowd the next round lasted five seconds. A thrust to the right rib cage and the buzzer sounded. Tal was shaking his head while standing in the middle of the ring. He said, “In all my years in the arena I have never sworded against a man with this expertise.
The crowd, knowing Talman's accomplishments at the Tarmorian tournaments, figured it was just a lucky stab.
The next round lasted seven seconds, and the final round lasted eight seconds. Tal started to turn toward his corner when Ben pointed at the digital display of the time clock and quipped, "You're getting better."
Tal smiled. "I guess I asked for that," he said. "But up yours anyway."
Chapter Fifty-Three