January 27th, 2259
Mars Colony
The roar of the crowd, the excitement and electricity in the air made Mars Dome's number one sporting arena a very special place to be. An enormous stadium that could fit some ten thousand people inside had been a low priority on the Martian colonist's lists of structures to build, but a few hundred years on and it was complete. Those gathered were growing restless with anticipation at the spectacle of sporting excellence they were about to witness. Two athletes in their prime were to face off in the ring situated at the centre of the "Olympus Convivium" the winner receiving infinite glory and honour; for the loser, misery and dismay.
Walker Smith, however, was a million miles for this, metaphorically, not physically, with Mars being about half the size of Earth that is. The contract he'd been offered on the Red Planet to fight with "Topside Promotions" had come to nothing after a few misfortunate results meant Smith was on a Zero-to-four loosing streak and, as his employer reminded him, nobody would pay to see a loser. Disheartened by this and his misfortune out of the ring with a few not-so-nice girls Walker Smith was inside a ring yes but not the ten thousand capacity arena of Olympus, but in front of perhaps a hundred people in a less than reputable part of Mars colony.
His new employer called himself Gregory Talbot, and ran a too-bit promotion called "All Fight, All Night", that emphasized the violence in the sports it showed. Smith had been happy to finally be working for some money; he'd lost his contract with Topside Promotions in October of the previous year and had only found this work two weeks ago, it came just in time to save his apartment from being repossessed. But, he was definitely not happy with his surroundings or the people he was working for. Sure, he admitted to himself when he was alone, he was a little out of shape, a little low and cash and luck; but he could turn those things around. He had been disgraced professionally before but he'd gone to Babylon 5 fought, and won, in the Mutai and the contract offers had started flowing in again. He was convinced it would happen that way again, win a few fights here, earn a bit of doh to keep MarsGov off his back for rent and taxes and he'd soon be able to buy back his exercise equipment; or at the very least join a gym. But that was on the good days, on the bad days when he was alone he sat on his bed, the one piece of furniture he hadn't had to sell, and just think to himself: You're not getting any younger, forty years of life is coming up pretty fast and you know no promoter will take an interest in you then. These thoughts, however, he always made sure were at the very back of his mind most of the time: especially when he was in the ring: and especially with an opponent like this!
Walker Smith's contract, despite his poor success record of late, had been quite a big boon to a small time promoter, and because of it his first competitive match was scheduled against the "All Fight, All Night" championship holder: a large Caucasian male, built like a wrestler; but twice as big and twice as ugly, called Nikolai Conchenkov. If Walker had not been down on his luck he'd have turned down anything that wasn't a straight up boxing match, but "All Fight, All Night" were the only people offering him a contract, and they were an opening fighting company: and that's what he had to settle for.
The atmosphere in the small dark confines of a disused old water reclamation facility, which offered housed all sort of unsavoury activities, wasn't as electric, the crowd not as excitable as those in the Olympus Convivium but as Walker came from the prep-area to the ring, he was greeted by a few hoots and calls: mainly from large hairy men Walker questioned the intentions of. His opponent, the six-foot-five, three-hundred-and-eighty pound goliath awaited him in the ring, watching him like a hawk as Walker approached, most likely conjuring up exactly how he was going to disembowel Walker as soon as that ring bell rang out.
Smith glanced to his left at his employer, Talbot, who shot him a quick and neutral glance between gleefully taking bets from punters almost throwing their credit chits at him. Averting his gaze from the small-time promoter Walker gazed up into the ring, taking a moment to consider the colossal task that awaited him therein. Taking a few deep breaths he took the plunge and leapt through the middle of the top-roped ring with a grace and vigour he'd had as an athlete in his professional game, that was a touch he hoped he wouldn't loose in a hurry.
With his entrance the betting came to a halt and Talbot entered the ring via a small wooden platform that had been setup next to the ring for the express purpose.
"Welcome ladies and gentlemen… who am I kidding? Just gentlemen! To tonight contest brought to you by All Fight, All Night promotions; is for the Promotional Championship: Introducing first, the current All Fight, All Night Champion… The Bear Nikolai Conchenkov!!" The crowd seemed less than impressed, but that somehow fit the quite murmuring of those collected around the small ring, and seemed appropriate in the echoing vastness of the disused reclamation facility.
"And introducing tonight challenger, coming all the way from Earth, via Orion 4, and Babylon 5, he was a Topside Promotion Main Eventer!" The main eventer part was a fabrication, but it put bums in seats; or rather, feet on floor-near-ring. "WALKER… SMITH!!" The crowd responded a little better, but it was doubtful any of those assembled here had even heard of Walker Smith's career back on Earth, nor Orion 4, nor his Mutai success on Babylon 5, as they seemed more interested in earning some money on their bets than watching a sporting spectacle. Garibaldi had always said those two things went hand-in-hand; but hey, Garibaldi says a lot of things.
Smith raised both arms with the call of his name, a traditional hello from the fighter; both to acknowledge the crowd's opinion (boos or cheers) and too display one's physique to their opponent. The latter seemed to have little or no effect on Conchenkov, as the moment the bell rung to begin the contest, the mad Russian ran toward Walker at a speed a man of his size shouldn't be able to. Walker managed to dodge the running attack at the last minute, his big fight night reflexes surfacing once again. Seeing his opponent was serious, and that the championship; or at least the financial reward that came with keeping it, were driving forces behind his actions, Walker kept him aloof; using his speed and agility where able to get in a few swift punches to the man's chest, a few good clean right hands to the cheek.
With the dinging of the bell, and the strutting of a skimpily clad woman, carrying the round number board; who got a bigger cheer than Smith and Conchenkov combined, Round two began. Sweat was now rolling down Walker's brow, not to exclude his uncovered chest. He thought back now to his time preparing for the confrontation and was psychologically patting himself on the back for opting for his classic boxing attire: boots and shorts, rather than the low key shorts and tight T-Shirt Talbot had suggested he wore "to give his character some depth and sell-ability". Pish, Walker thought, fighters should be heralded for their performance: for their ability, not they ability to sell tickets, or make money. Conchenkov had a lot more weight to move around than Smith did, and therefore was showing even more exhaustion than his counterpart. Even in the poor shape Walker was in he had at least three or four more rounds in him before true exhaustion set in: this Conchenkov was obviously in even worse shape than he was. Smith laid in with a few good right hands, then a uppercut with the left which caught "The Bear" unawares and sent him reeling back into the corner post. Walker thought to himself he should be pleased with his performance, but apart from the man's sheer seize he was a poor opponent, and the old Walker Smith would have put him away in the first round. Just as Smith took a moment to catch his thoughts and his breath the Russian charged at him with, what was apparently, his signature running lunge attack. Smith tried to dodge again but caught the brunt of the attack, sending him like a plunging missile to the floor. It was Conchenkov's moment to reveal in a bit of glory, he should have been very proud of himself as the referee began the slow methodical count toward ten. But instead the Mad Russian looked concerned. In his dazed state Walker could have sworn Conchenkov shot a worried look to Talbot, who glared angrily back toward the Russian. Not really his immediate concern, Walker dismissed the quick silent communiqué between the two: doubting they were telepaths it was just probably a warning from his boss not to hurt his newest fighter. He managed to get to his feet at the count of seven, but he was starting to look a little worse for wear. A large right hand he'd taken late in the first round had formed a nice black bruise on the right side of his face and he was sure under his guard he could feel a tooth missing. If Conchenkov had been a prize fighter, someone trained by the best to be the best he would have easily gone for the killer blow now. Walker was bloodied, swollen, and almost beat, if the Russian had gone for one decisive hard blow to the stomach now he would be crowned the winner and Walker would be looking at another lousy loser's pay cheque. Instead the Bear dawdled for a moment, as if unsure of what to do. A second or two passed without any more passing between the two competitors than an angry scowl. Walker was regaining some of his composure now, and some of his fighting spirit. He didn't want to loose, he wouldn't loose.
Smith came back fighting, landing a few choice lefts and rights on the jaw of the Russian, sending him staggering back. With a moment's breather Conchenkov seemed to slip another stare toward Talbot, who was staring back. Was there something between those two Smith needed to worry about? Or not worry about as the case may be. Those thoughts were gone in an instant though as the Russian made a last ditch attempt effort at a big swinging right fist, his timing was off however and Smith laid into the larger man's stomach with a critical slam from his right hand… sending Conchenkov to the mat once and for all. The referee began to count as Walker started to pace the ring, he'd come back from the dead, he felt the adrenaline pumping through his system once again, a few more fights like this, a bit more training and it was the big leagues again for Smith; he could feel it.
"Nine!" the referee called out, holding both hands up with an every changing numbers of fingers stretched out.
Smith took
the final seconds before he was about to be declared the victor to
sneak a glance towards his promoter. Talbot was looking on, when he
found his eyes meeting Smith he simply gave him a congratulatory nod;
but it wasn't without a slight hesitation.
"Ten!" the Ref
counted before taking a big step toward the edge of the ring and
calling for the bell. It sounded and Smith's right arm was raised
in triumph. As the ref paraded Smith around the ring, his arms
raised, Conchenkov stirred. The Russian stood and regarded his
opponent for a second. Smith turned around in time to meet his
advisories' stare, and outstretched his hand in friendship and
sportsmanship. Conchenkov shook his head, ignored Walker's offer,
and muttered something under his breath, before letting himself out
of the ring. A moment later to be replaced by the slightly less
gargantuan form of Gregory Talbot, who came toward Smith brandishing
the rather tacky looking gold, was it gold? Promotional belt.
"Gentlemen here is tonight's winner, and NEW All Fight, All Night Champion of Mars… WALKER SMITH!"
The announce was met by mixed reviews from the assembled crowd. Some cried for blood, others cried for signatures; but most cried for their winnings from Talbot. The sleazy promoter slapped his new number one talent, and promotional champion, on the back heartily before descending out of the ring to address his betting business matters. Smith took his cue and escaped the spotlight too, his clambered out of the ring with much less grace than he'd entered it with; but he had just been through a gruelling fight. He headed toward the double doors that led to a former worker canteen which Talbot had converted into a locker room, but was stopped when his employer called out: "Hey Walker! Don't you be going anywhere, I'll be needing a word with you." Despite being born, breed, and raised on the Martian Colony Talbot still managed to have that Southern United States drawled all wrestling promoters seemed to have. Walker turned and nodded, thankfully taking a towel from one of the on-hands and heading into the locker room.
He'd wanted to ask what problem Conchenkov had with him. Whether the dis inside the ring had been for show, as he knew how some fighters were for being showmen, or whether he really had no respect for the man that had been him. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the large Russian was nowhere to be seen: and the locker Walker had seen him use earlier was left open… empty. Shrugging and putting that one down for experience he tapped in the four digit code that allowed entry to his locker, he grabbed a bottle of synthetic water and drank deeply, it modified contests boasted to improve on H2O and offer revitalizing effects that would sooth and reinvigorate, at least that's what the commercials had said. Walker thought it just tasted like the tap water he'd been drinking out of his apartment, but who was he to judge at the free drinks Talbot supplied his talent. With the intention of getting a shower, or at least what passed for a shower on a world with no natural water, he headed toward the make-shift area expressly created for that purpose but what halted en-route by Talbot.
"Hey champ!" Talbot called out, stopping Smith dead in his tracks. "Hell of a bout tonight, a?"
"Yeah, it was okay," Smith said trying to stay non-committal, for all he knew Talbot was a huge Conchenkov fan and hadn't been best pleased with the result.
"But I've seen Nikolai fight better," Talbot admitted. There for that theory then, Smith crossed that one off in his mind.
"Yeah, he seemed off form. Missing opportunities where I had my guard down. Especially in that second round. It's almost as if…"
And then it all fell into place. He'd never been involved in this sort of thing previous, it was frowned upon bigtime in the major leagues; but down here, where nobody cared it was all so easy.
"Say," Smith said smiling, he wanted to prove his latest theory, "Did you by any chance have some bets on tonight's event yourself?"
Talbot laughed dismissively, "Of course not, as a promoter of the event it'd be careless of me to…" Talbot stopped, he caught something in Walker's eyes, a look of understand? Wonder? Suspicion?
"But," Talbot said after a moment's hesitation and mental deliberation "But a long-distance gambler by the Toblat did have a bet. A bet that you'd win the championship by Knockout toward the end of the second round actually."
Talbot smiled insincerely.
"Toblat?" Smith said with a puzzled face, why was this man of any relevance to..? What a minute, "Talbot backwards."
"Got it in a nutshell," Talbot said, his smile even bigger and more insincere, even menacing in it's size now. "Hey, I won some money… you won the title belt. I thought you'd appreciate the gesture."
Smith took a step back, he didn't like being so close to someone so slimy, so sleazy, so… low. He thought for a moment, anger racing inside him. "What I appreciate," he finally said, "Is winning fair fights."
Talbot considered his next words long and hard, he didn't like Walker's attitude that's for sure. But was he angry at Smith's ingratitude?
"Walker, I'm going to ask a favour of you."
Smith would have laughed if the situation had not been his own, the same words, the same circumstances on an old Soap Opera vid would have made for some good humorous watching: but being in the here and now was not so fun.
"I don't think I'll be wanting to do you any favours Mister Talbot. In fact," Smith paused, he was about to throw away another contract, work… money, and what was perhaps his last chance at the sport he loved. He lost everything else, what was one more thing? "I don't think I want to be part of your promotion anymore."
Talbot smiled faded and he took a few demonic-like steps towards his soon to be former employee. "You can't. You are the new All Fight, All Night Champion… besides you've got a contract."
"A contract isn't worth the paper it's printed on down here and you know it," Smith counted, he was expecting Talbot's line.
"What's your dream Walker?" Talbot asked, changing tack, the look of anger was gone replaced inside by a much softer more neutral expression.
When Smith wasn't forthcoming with the requested information Talbot made several presumptions to answer his question and continued: "To fight your way back to the top? To get a contract with Topside Promotions again? To be the champion again?"
"Yeah, pretty much. We have all gotta have goals."
Talbot nodded, he agreed with Smith's last statement at least. "True my friend, true. Then why oh why are you stomping on those dreams?"
"I won't be involved with matching fixing and I don't want to be involved with anyone who HAS anything to do with matching fixing. I'm sorry I can't honour my contract Mister Talbot, but I got my own ass to worry about."
"But you are already involved with match fixing Mister Smith," Talbot matched Walker's use of their unfamiliar names, countered Smith's attempt to alienate himself from the ramifications of the conversation.
"If you walk out of your contract, decline to grant my favour – And you'll be finished. Conchenkov's fighting days are over, he's old, overweight and he knows it. He'll be rewarded handsomely to admit you paid him to fix the fight. And I'll attribute some creative record making to my books that shows an anonymous Mister Smith made a substantial bet on you winning the fight." Talbot grinned devilishly, definitely pleased with an evening's work.
"You'd set me up?" Walker exclaimed, he could hardly believe his ears, was he really going through this? How many breaks does a guy get? None on Mars anyway he was quickly finding out.
"That's such an ugly way of putting it Mister Smith. I prefer to call it… no, there really isn't any other way of putting it is there? Yes, I'm setting you up. You have no choice but to grant me my favour."
Smith hung his head. A match fix, even at this crummy two-bit promotion would make the news nets, and if Smith's name was associated it would only make the story more news worthy and soon his reputation would be in tatters, along with any other hope of making it back to the big leagues. He looked at the face of Talbot, the man who could have been his salvation, his ticket back to the top, but was now the man who had become his keeper.
"What's the favour?" Smith asked, not looking up.
"There's a man. Senator Wilfred Manning," Talbot begun, "He's a big boxing fan. He's a big fan of yours too you know. I've heard him bragging about his collection, he even managed to get the vids of your Mutai fights."
"So what? You want me to meet him and sign a few damn autographs?"
"Not quite that simple Mister Smith, but almost." Talbot now was pacing the locker room, the noise from the crowd warming up for whatever spectacle used the public space next, could only faintly be heard, it made Smith feel very much alone.
"You are to get close to him. Talk to him."
"What the hell about? What the hell would a senator tell a former boxer that could be so important to a small time promoter like you?"
"Because," Talbot said, in a rare emotional moment; obviously not liking the link between his own name and small time, but he calmed down by the next word. "I'm not just a promoter. I'm also a patriot."
Smith's heart sank even further, if that was at all possible, "You're a radical? Free Mars and all that?"
Talbot gave a solitary laugh, "HA! We're not all radicals. You watch too much news, but yes I belong to a group separate from the Free Mars movement, but we do have the same common goals. I just happen to prefer the indirect approach to causing riots and blowing stuff up!"
Smith was glad to hear the latter, perhaps underneath the cold and heartless exterior Talbot was a descent man, maybe just desperate to further his cause.
"This senator has a powerful voice in EarthDome, he just happens to be spending a lot of his time on Mars currently. I need you to get close to him, make friends with him, get him away from his security and anybody who might want to listen in on your little 'talk' and find out his plans for the new Martian Immigration Policies."
Smith was still for a moment, and silent for a moment later than that; his night had started out okay. Every fighter's has his pre-fight rituals, Smith's were less rigorous than most, a simple prayer and sip of this H20 substitute and he was off. He'd won a fight, originally he thought fairly and been crowned the champion. Thoughts of regaining his reputation, and his place where he belonged in Topside, flooding his mind, and even the gleeful thought of a nice fat pay cheque. But all of that had been wrenched away from him in a matter of moments, and now the reality of his life now was just doing what Talbot told him to do and hope he'd let him go without leaking the story to the press and ruining Smith's chances forever.
"That's all?" Smith asked for confirmation, it didn't sound to hard, too risky. In fact it sounded quite easy. Just make friends with a boxing fan, his fan, how hard could that be? Get a private meeting with him set up where nobody could interrupt or butt in and simply steer the conversation toward Martian Immigration Policy. Garibaldi did things like this all the time, why couldn't he?
"And you'll never mention the match fixing?" again Smith wanted confirmation on the deal, as if he had any choice.
"Not unless you do," Talbot smiled, he obviously loved it when a plan came together.
The promoter held out his hand, he was a businessman and wanted to seal the deal in the traditional way. Smith shook his head, not Talbot's hand.
"Nah," he said taking a step or two toward the showers again, "I won't shake that again until this is over." Without another word Walker headed into the showers, all of a sudden he felt dirty.
June 12th, 2259
Narn Homeworld
Barely two month into his training the fourteen year old Narn, Pa'Ko, had already learned so much. The reptilian ancestry the Narn possessed allowed the learning of new talents quickly, in fact Narn infants have been known to walk straight out of the pouch. The credit could not be done to genetics alone as Pa'Ko's Thenta Ma'Kur instructor Ra'Gon was certainly a skilled one. He was a third generation assassin, his father and grand father both fighting bravely during the earlier days of the Centauri occupation: eventually becoming to clever for their own good and meeting their end in Centauri gallows. Ra'Gon had been part of the Narn Freedom Fighters that eventually drove the Republic's armies from the barren Narn surface, but his involvement had been much more temper… much more subtle. Ra'Gon had mused many times if his particular talents were just superior to his predecessors, but stray thoughts like that were an indulgence, especially now with the Narn Regime's military might stretching it's hand out to the stars the Thenta Ma'Kur's secret work was needed now more than ever to keep society running smoothly and to make sure everyone was kept in their place. Pa'Ko's training had started as little more than a distraction for Ra'Gon, the elderly Narn had a degenerative syndrome that meant his own body was failing him; passing his wisdom and skills down to another generation of Thenta Ma'Kur was his last gift. It was only now, in the twilight of his life, did he regret not having a child of his own to pass the knowledge down to. But now the work had taken on a life of it's own, Pa'Ko's willingness to learn and his speedy progress made the work an easy and enjoyable process and Ra'Gon now found himself almost looking forward to his time with the young boy.
Weapon handling had come naturally to the young one, his previous callings tricking some offworlders and helping a fellow Hekba Slum dweller with a long overdue Shon'Kar, had seen to his training. But what came slower to Pa'Ko was the knowledge and patience behind brandishing a weapon. Ra'Gon had put it down to the impertinence of youth, and had endeavoured to make Pa'Ko fully understand what it meant to take another's life, to wield a sacred sword, to see the life draining from another's eyes as he impaled his victims, before moving the lessons on.
To this end Ra'Gon had taken a minor contract with a client. It paid poorly and was a job normally assigned to one of the lower level Thenta Ma'Kur members, definitely not the sort of mission Ra'Gon would have considered himself going on. It would, however, provide a good proving ground for Pa'Ko's lesson. A small time arms dealer, who specialized in the reconstructed and re-energizing of all Centauri Warmachines left behind after the occupation was having a problem with an Outer Circle Narn in the control centre of the nearby spaceport. This particular gun-runner's wares were mostly sold offworld. The Narn homeworld itself was a spectacle of law and order, or what passed for such in the Narn Regime, and few weapons of this magnitude were required there, so most of them were shipped out; registered as agricultural machinery on the transport's manifest of course, to the outer Narn worlds. Or to such annexed worlds like Tuchanq where the Narn administration lacked the full backing of the military and therefore it's Narn population took the law and protection of themselves and their families into their own hands. The problem with the Narn in the control centre was this: for years the client had been paying off said Narn in said Control Centre to look the other way, but now he was demanding more money to keep quiet and threatening to go to the authorities. Not wanting blood on his own hands, for his businesslike reputation, the client sent out a request to the Thenta Ma'Kur to make the Narn pestering for more money to simply disappear.
This was why, now, under the cover of darkness Pa'Ko, short of stature but big of heart and daring, was crouched behind a few empty cargo containers waiting for the Narn on guard to turn his back sufficiently for Pa'Ko to make a move. As the noise from a taking off cargo shuttle's firing retroboosters filled the soundwaves Pa'Ko came out of hiding and caught the guard in the back of the head with a meticulously practiced karate chop. The impact on the guard's nerve ending had an immediate effect, rending the guard's body inert for several hours before returning him to complete mobility with no side effects, well almost no side effects.
With this accomplish the Narn-in-Training made his way along the row of cargo containers that made almost a barrier around the port. Ren'Taka, or "Freeport" was a small space port located in the middle of the Narn desert several hundred clicks from the nearest settlement and was specifically used for cargo haulage as it's large open, flat, landing area provided ample space for larger Cargo haulage space-worthy craft. The spaceport consisted over no fewer than eighteen landing zones, the earlier, smaller ones, still bore the Centauri writing from when this had been a Centauri hospital landing facility, and were concentrate, but the larger outer landing zones were merely marked out in the dirt with simple blood-red paint. To the east of the original landing areas was the Control Centre, a large building obviously originally Centauri, but had since been blown up at one time or another and rebuilt using Narn materials to make an interestingly coloured hybrid.
It was this Control Centre that was Pa'Ko destination, and armed with nothing more than a dagger, the words and training given to him by Ra'Gon before setting off on this mission, and his wits Pa'Ko would admit to anyone at the age of fourteen he was scared. With the noise from the shuttle's engines dying down Pa'Ko quickened his pace, his excellent night vision aiding him in gracefully navigating the obsolete cargo crates and he managed to find a covert spot to still and wait for the next audible disguise only a stone's throw away from the Control Centre. A blast of a shuttle's rockets a few minutes later provided the cover he needed and the littlest assassin sneaked toward the last unsuspected guard, who he disabled in a quick fluid movement using the same martial arts move as before. He made his way hasty up the set of metal stairs the sentry had been guarding which wound their way up the outside of the Control Centre, entering via the buildings only door on the highest level. Ascending the stairs was easy, but he now had to slip into the hustle and bustle of the Control Centre without being noticed and deal with the client's target however he deemed necessary. The plan, which Pa'Ko would admit Ra'Gon formulated for him, had gone without a hitch but beyond arriving at the Control Centre the plan said nothing. Ra'Gon had made it expressively clear that the last part of the mission would be an essential part of Pa'Ko's training. At first the young one had not even considered it a problem, he had the fine details of how to disable the scanner grid around the facility and disable any sentries he encountered; all without being discovered. This task had occupied so much of his mind he actually realised only when reached the top of the stairs he had no idea what he was going to do now. Wait for the target to take a break? How long would that be? Long enough for the guards he'd only rendered unconscious to awake from their slumber and sound the alarm? Meaning dozens more previously unseen guards would appear and hunt Pa'Ko long into the night and into the depths of the Narn desert.
Summoning the courage, or perhaps delaying the inevitability of failing to conjure a cohesive way forward, Pa'Ko found his mind drifting to his past. Not his training with Ra'Gon, or the years of hardship he'd endured in the Hekba slums, but; of all things, to the few strained remaining memories of his parents. It had been a subject the desire to bring up with his teacher was strong, but Ra'Gon had dismissed earlier attempts to steer the conversation that way with angry results. Pa'Ko had soon learned not to mention it in front of his tutor, but he definitely decided Ra'Gon knew more about his mother and father than he'd admit to. Perhaps it was one of the reasons Pa'Ko had been selected as his trainee. The most vivid of the scattered collection of memories was one of the very oldest, it was as if his mind held onto it for all it was worth. Pa'Ko's family, he could remember, were never very rich; but they were above the absolute poverty Pa'Ko had lived in for much of his life. As he grew to understand Narn society as a whole he guessed his father could have been outer circle, perhaps even eighth circle. His mother had been a good wife, he remembered her always being around him… staying at home looking after house and baby, but he had no outstanding memories of her. Instead the one that became most prominent was a day, a windy, dusty day as they all were on Narn, when his father rushed in panting, looking worried. Pa'Ko was barely out of the pouch at the time and missed the beating of his father's heart, the sound of his voice. He remembered reaching out for him but being brushed away. Told to stay in the other room. His father and mother had raised voices, but it didn't sound like they were arguing it sounded as if they were worried. The next thing Pa'Ko knew his mother came him, held him tightly and then… then… something happened. Pa'Ko had always tried to remembered, tried to get himself to reveal the rest of the story, all he knew was it resulted in the nasty but almost unnoticeable scar that ran the length of the boy's face from his right ear to his chin. It was a mark they'd said would dull in time, but it had not. It had grown and distorted further as Pa'Ko had grown; perhaps attributed to his harsh environment.
He shook his head, sending that memory, that pain, back down to the deep recesses of his Narn mind. As he opened his eyes, the thoughts banished, the focus on the task at hand returned and a new confidence and motivation founded itself within him. Nothing he had learned, nothing he had ever heard about the Thenta Ma'Kur said they only conducted cloak and dagger operations. Who ever said he couldn't go in guns a'blazing? The fact he only had a ceremonial dagger perhaps? It was the part of the covert all black outfit Ra'Gon had provided Pa'Ko before the mission, was this his teacher's way of making the assignment even harder? Tough love seemed to be Ra'Gon's mantra after all. Pa'Ko readied himself behind the thick Narn Blood Oak door, dagger drawn he had a mental image of the man he'd been sent here to kill ready. One, he said to himself, two, count to three then barge in he'd decided on… find his man, execute him in cold blood and leave in the most hasty fashion available to him. Th… he stopped himself, his body already pulled slightly away from the door to allow a small run-up. He heard louder voices now, as if someone from inside was heading his way. What time was it? Time for a shift change? No… his assault had been planned to avoid such changes in case unconscious sentries were missed easily. He could hear the voices now, even louder; they must have been at the very door he was stood outside of. Reacting quickly and without needing a second thought as the door slowly creaked open, Pa'Ko descended the stairs to a point just around the corner; where he'd lie in wait for this inconvenience. The door open fully, and the voices stopped… replaced with the sound of heavy footsteps on the metal grating of the stair's composition.
All the preparation in the world however didn't help Pa'Ko. The man came around the corner, and froze. Pa'Ko, somehow he wasn't ready for this: he'd knocked out to guards already but… he hadn't seen their eyes, seen the look of surprise and terror on their faces. All of a sudden it had become personal. There was no choice now, as the heavy set Narn Controller began to turn to yell to assistance Pa'Ko drew his dagger and plunged it deep into his discover's throat, rending speech impossible. As the body collapsed to the floor in a bloody mess Pa'Ko holstered his dagger and stepped aside. It was the first time he'd actually killed a man, and no matter the new found disgust he had for himself, he knew it wouldn't be his last. Now the look a demonic entity across his features he marched up to the Control Centre, the mental image in his mind again: holding it close so he knew which of them to kill. At least to limit the death, put a tap on the amount of blood on his hands. The Blood Oak door was swinging lightly on it's hinges in the slight evening breeze. Grabbing the inside of the door Pa'Ko made an impactual entrance by thrusting it violently open with a loud crash. The inside room was a massive sprawl of computers, obviously amateurly networked together with huge tangles of cabling everywhere. Three more equally obese Narns occupied three chairs, the fourth empty one belonging to the man Pa'Ko had just needlessly murdered. All of a sudden, confronted with the same look of surprise and terror he'd met before Pa'Ko froze, the image of the man he had been sent to kill escaped him and he found himself directionless. Drawing his dagger seemed like a good idea, they probably already knew any unexpected intruder at this time of night was bound to be reasonably hostile, and he wanted to make sure they were too scared to sound any sort of alarm.
"Which of you is Ma'La?" he asked, the name didn't evade him… only the face.
The shortest of the bunch, and also thinnest (It wasn't much of a contest though looking at his opposition), rose from his seat ignoring an array of blinking lights on his control panel. "Pa'Ko?" he said sounding as if he'd seen a ghost. He took a few steps forward, obviously not afraid of his would-be assassin. "Pa'Ko is that you? It must be you my boy… that scar… who else could have that scar." The man pointed gingerly, remembering Pa'Ko still had a weapon, toward the scar that ran the length of the young one's face. Pa'Ko twisted away, still embarrassed; not as the existence of the scar, but the lack of a story of courage and honour that lead to him receiving it.
"H…
How do you know me?" Pa'Ko stuttered. He was supposed to be the
hotshot in-training assassin. One that would kill you as soon as look
at you, he had broken into a secure compound after all…
incapacitated two guards, and killed a tech. But all of a sudden he
looked so young, felt so very young. Was it his uniform? Was it too
big? Was it the dagger that looked so large inside his tiny clenched
fist.
"Pa'Ko! It is you isn't it," the Narn sounded
overjoyed, as if he'd run into a long lost friend in the street.
Only Pa'Ko was fourteen, and didn't have many friends, let alone
long lost ones that worked in Spaceports.
"I… I'm Ja'Nar, I served with your father in the resistance. He… he was a good man, he always ranted and raved about you… his little Pa'Ko, his little warrior. When the unfortunate happened it was me and my bondmate that helped you escape them."
"Escape? What? You knew my father? I…"
All of a sudden an alarm started. And all of a sudden Pa'Ko instincts returned, those that were for natural survival and those instilled in him by Ra'Gon's intensify training. The mental image returned. Pa'Ko stormed passed this Ja'Nar, pushing him aside with a previous unknown strength brandishing his dagger at arms length and approached the largest of the Narn's, who had remained seated and silent through the proceedings.
"You!" Pa'Ko screamed, "Are Ma'La! A contract has been placed on your head with the Thenta Ma'Kur." He muttered a short prayer in an ancient Narn tongue and plunged the knife into the chest of the terrified technician. The bleeding body lurched forward; only Pa'Ko quick reflexes saved him from being pinned down.
With the alarm still sounding Pa'Ko leaped towards the door, allowing the indulgence of one last look back at Ja'Nar, the man that claimed to know his father. He would remember that face, the one with a look of absolute horror. "You knew my father," Pa'Ko said standing at the door. Ja'Nar could only nod. The information noted, and escape paramount Pa'Ko exited and disappeared into the night.
