The group entered the salle--that was the proper term for a fencing club--area of the Club d'Escrime de la Tour D'Auvergne to find a large gymnasium with fluorescent lights, a wooden floor, and a lot of commotion. Screwed into the floor at intervals were long rectangles of sheet metal, and arrayed around the metal were several pieces of electrical equipment and lots of wires. Becki was no expert at fencing, but she had seen some of it--Thayer, like any proper noble, had been given some instruction when he was younger, and she knew that he and Sci--who had taken up the sport after seeing one too many lightsaber fights--often faced off against each other. They never tell me who wins, though. And it's been a long while since I've actually seen him fence--been a long while since I've seen him do anything. He could've given up the sport by now and I'd probably never know.
Josh looked around in awe. He'd always been fascinated with fencing, and always enjoyed his lightsaber practices with Vickie. Now that he'd made his own lightsaber, he needed to learn his own style.
Mike's eyes caught sight of a case in the back part of the room which contained many different types of bladed weapons. His mind drooled over them as he quietly moved that way.
Vickie stood beside Becki taking in the entire scene. There were many students sparring. She felt as if she'd just entered a holy ground, someplace she was always destined to be.
An older gentleman approached the three remaining members. "Bonjour. Que desirez-vous?" [1]
"Bonjour," Becki replied immediately. "Nous cherchons quelqu'un qui venait peut-être ici." [2]
The man looked over the group, realizing the two to the young woman's side looked a bit perplexed. "Vous parlez anglais?"
"It might help if we did," Vickie answered stoically. She looked at Josh and nodded for him to pull out the photo of Cheriss.
He handed the picture to the gentleman. "This woman is a friend of ours. She loves all manners of swordfighting. Since she had been in Paris when we last talked to her, we thought she might have come here."
The man took the picture and studied it closely. It wasn't the best photo, but it was just clear enough. "She looks vaguely familiar," he replied. "Let me show it around to some of the students. Perhaps they have seen her."
Josh nodded. "Thank you." He turned and looked towards the outer edges of the gym. The hairs on the back of his neck had been standing up, but nothing seemed out of place.
"Problem?" Vickie whispered to him. She had noticed the slight change in attitude and tried to follow his gaze. He shook her off and turned back to watching where the gentleman had gone.
After the gentleman walked away, Becki found herself drawn to a duel that was going on close to her. Two young men were connected to the mazes of electronics, which she knew were designed to keep track of hits scored. Both wore the typical white pants and jacket that were familiar from the movies, but on top of that jacket each wore another one, which seemed to be made of a light metallic fabric. This metal jacket covered only the torso--neck to waist, no arms--and was connected to the wires as well. Each held a weapon in front of him--a simple weapon, with a grip designed to fit the hand, a small guard over that, and a thin blade--and wore a wire mesh mask.
As Becki watched, a man standing near the duelists brought his hands, palms down, up to chest height. "En garde." He then brought his palms to face each other. "Prêt?" One fencer, the one standing away from Becki, said "Oui!" The one standing nearer her, who had the word "JAKUS" on his jacket, and below that, "USA," said nothing, but nodded. The man--the referee, Becki belatedly realized--brought his hands together silently. "Allez!"
Jakus, the American, acted quickly. He moved smoothly, fluidly, down the surface, his opponent backing away quickly with less finesse. Suddenly Jakus lunged at his opponent, his arm extended. His opponent, however, was fast as well; he parried Jakus' blade with a metallic clash, and thrust his own weapon forward. Jakus recovered and backpedaled, moving out of his opponent's range. Suddenly, he switched directions and came at his opponent again. When he neared weapon range, he beat his opponent's blade with his own. The other fencer moved his blade to parry, but Jakus had already moved his blade around his opponent's in a clean disengage. Jakus lunged, stabbing his opponent squarely in the chest. A buzzer sounded, and a red light glowed on the central box.
"Halt!" shouted the referee. He held up his left hand, the one on Jakus' side. "Touché. La belle."
"Foil," said Vickie, coming up behind Becki. Becki, who had been watching the match intently, jumped and turned to face her.
"Don't do that!"
"Sorry."
"Don't worry. What did you say?"
"That's foil. I recognize it from the videos I saw."
"Why did he say 'la belle'? Sounds out of place."
She smiled. "From what I gathered, 'la belle' means 'sudden death.' Both fencers are one point away from winning."
Suddenly the box triggered again. The referee raised his left hand. "Touché. Bout." The two fencers saluted with their weapons--blade out to opponent, blade in to face, blade down--removed their masks, and shook hands. Then they turned, disconnected thhemselves from their wiring, and walked off the fencing surface. Becki ran over to the American, whose face was young, with black hair and glasses. "Congratulations."
He smiled. "Thanks. You're American?"
She nodded. "Here on vacation. You?"
"I'm here for the tournament that's next week. I figured I'd get some practice in; I'm a bit rusty at foil."
"What do you fence typically?" asked Vickie, walking up to join them.
"I specialize in sabre."
Becki blinked. "Really? My friend here knows some saber-fighting."
Vickie nudged her slightly and looked down at the slightly shorter woman over her glasses.
He laughed. "That's probably more stylized--like what you see in movies like Star Wars." The two agents exchanged a glance at that one, but did not say anything. "Some people, like a friend of mine, get into fencing expecting it to be like Star Wars; a fair number get disappointed. Anyway, real sabre fencing is a little different. I'm David Jakus, by the way."
"Lightsaber fighting is nothing like fencing," Vickie replied. "After all, you only have one hand on the hilt of a foil."
David nodded approvingly. "Ah, but if you wield two lightsabers, you must use one hand."
"That's the same for any heavy, long hilted sword, though."
Becki cleared her throat, sensing it to be a good time to break up the conversation. "Josh here knows a..." she paused as she turned to see the tall Jedi had moved away towards another match.
David watched Vickie's eyes as they drifted over to a sabre match. "Would you like to try it?"
She turned back to face him. "Me? Actually do that?"
He smiled. "Only if you wish. I'm sure I could find another dry sabre around."
A sly grin crossed her face. "You're on."
Moments later, she was dressed in a padded vest and held a mask in her hand. "Doesn't it bother you with your glasses on?"
David shook his head. "Not at all," he replied. "You should do ok." He slid his mask over his head and dropped into the ready stance.
She mirrored his move, though she held the sabre rather awkwardly. She lifted the blade in a salute and then the fight began.
David was impressed with her skill. Though her style was awkward, she seemed to counter his every move. He tried an advance-lunge to get through her defenses. She put the palm of her left hand on the butt of the hilt and spun the sabre counter clockwise to bat his blade away. Stepping back, he pulled off his mask. "Very interesting, if not always efficient."
"It just came to me," she said with a wink as she removed her own mask.
Another student walked up to David and whispered to him. He nodded and turned to Vickie. "Perhaps you would like to bout with your friend."
She looked over to see Josh moving to the mat where she and David had been sparring. "That is an excellent idea," she replied with a grin.
Whatever else the others were doing, Mike had been distracted from his task, at least momentarily. He'd been feeling off all day, as though awaiting something that he wasn't sure would arrive. His brain seemed to be fidgeting in his head, something he hadn't felt in a goodly long time, not since the assault on Eugor Atner's palace, all that long time ago. Maybe he was just feeling a little twitchy. What they'd found in the warehouse suggested a move to the Middle East, and that was one place the Terra Group members couldn't easily fake fitting in. It was a thought worthy of a shudder for Mike, who'd undergone accelerated intrusion training under the Wraiths on Coruscant.
The building was cool, though, and it helped distract Mike from his worries. He wrapped his trenchcoat around him as he walked towards the separate room. The coat had been a gift from Vickie's clone, Kelly, and he'd felt the need to exhume it from his baggage for the mission today. Any luck that came with it would be useful, he mused, a touch morosely. The mission so far hadn't been a staggering success, and Mike was feeling slightly guilty, with traitorous thoughts about Josh Cochran's leadership abilities running through his mind. The battle in the warehouse, in Mike's opinion, had been a fiasco, and had really affected his opinion of Josh's abilities. That he was already having trouble trusting Vickie, and that Becki seemed to be off with him, only served to complicate the mission further.
Well, he thought. Perhaps a good showing here will help things get back on track.
The room was dark and gloomy, as though off limits to the Club's pupils, and Mike was about to turn and walk away, when a shape unfolded itself from a desk in the back of the room.
"'Allo?" a voice came.
"Er, bonjour?" Mike replied, stepping into the dimly lit room. The shape became more distinct as it moved towards him, and Mike was able to see features begin to form. Eventually, a wizened old man was visible in the light from the main hall.
"Monsieur," the man said, inclining his head slightly.
"Hi," Mike said, feeling a little dumb. "Parlez-vous anglais, monsieur?"
"Certainly," the old man replied. "The study of languages is one of my great passions."
"Oh, excellent," Mike said, with a smile. "Perhaps you could help me? My friends and I are looking for someone who may have come in here. She was a great fan of sword fighting, you see." Mike dug deep in his pockets for his photo of Cheriss, and showed it to the old man.
"Oh yes, I recognise this young lady. Other than you, she is the only person who I have seen in here from outside the salle in a long time."
Mike looked around the room, taking in the myriad assortment of weaponry displayed on the walls and in cases.
"Surely that can't be right. This place is... incredible."
The old man's eyes lit up. "You like to study weaponry? My other great passion. In my youth, I traveled the world, collecting oddments used throughout time. Now, of course, some lie here. The Club likes to have this little museum, as a reminder to their students of what has gone before. But the students, they do not come. Instead, they walk in, pick up their play swords, and pretend that they are in a movie," he spat, derisively. Mike couldn't help but smile, knowing that so many people his own age had been inspired to fence by movies like The Princess Bride, and the Star Wars movies.
The old man gave Mike a quick tour of the exhibits. They lingered for a time on the medieval section, where Mike tingled as he stared at a huge broadsword, heavily nicked, but shining like it had been freshly forged. They moved forwards through time, for the museum was cleverly laid out chronologically. Reaching the end of the seventeenth century, Mike commented on a gap in the display case. The old man giggled, and practically skipped back to his desk.
"My pride and joy," he said, unwrapping a length of cloth. "Only found last week, and we were only able to verify its authenticity just yesterday." He pulled a long, ornate sword from the cloth, sheathed in an equally ornate scabbard. "It's quite real. It was most expensive, but I think you will agree it is most definitely worth it." He presented the pommel to Mike, and nodded as the Briton laid his hand on the hilt.
Mike drew the sword from its scabbard, with barely a whisper of sound. The blade gleamed in the gloom, seemingly attracting the scant light in the museum just so it could shine in the darkness. The blade was incredible. Not just sharp, but unbelievably light. Perfectly balanced, it seemed to weigh nothing in Mike's hand, countered as it was by the weight of the hilt in his hand. He sighed, knowing of only one sword so well made.
"Kligenthal," he breathed. The old man practically bounced up and down with glee. "Exactly," he said. "The sword of Delmas, the greatest of Napoleon's spies. We thought it lost, but it was found near Salamanca, in Spain."
"Where Delmas was killed," Mike said, without thinking. The old man scowled.
"By an ignoble English infantryman, who refused to accept his surrender, or so the story goes," he frowned. Mike quickly handed the sword back, and the old man resheathed it with a definite click. Subject closed.
"You mentioned a friend," the old man said, his eyes still betraying a slight anger.
"Yes, but... what is this?" Mike said, reaching past the old man. He flicked the cloth aside revealing a length of metal that could only be called a sword by a generous man.
"The weapon of a butcher," the old man spat. "It is said that that is the sword that killed Delmas. I paid 200 Euros for it out of my own money, and I shall melt it."
"Could it be bought?" Mike asked, his mind in overdrive.
"Certainly not. It will be melted," he spat again. "Now," he continued. "About your friend."
"Oh, yes," Mike said, giving up. "Here," he showed the old man the photo of Cheriss again. The old man nodded.
"I remember now. She showed a great deal of interest in one of my private collection, a sword I do not place on public display. She said it reminded her of weapons used where she came from," he added.
Mike's heart lept. "Did she say where that was?" he said, abandoning subtlety.
"No..." the old man said, thoughtfully. "But I had a feeling she was of Creole descent. Her English was most unusual, as though her people had been separated from lingual evolution for centuries, and had developed on their own, do you understand?"
Mike nodded, knowing a little of the Creole people and their part English dialect. "Do you happen to remember what piece she was interested in?" he asked.
"Certainly," the old man replied. "I shall fetch it for you."
The old man went into a separate store room. Mike could hear him clattering around, and swiftly dug into his wallet, pulling out a fistful of notes, before looking around, a little guiltily.
When the man returned, Mike had again taken the Kligenthal from its sheathe, and was studying the blade, remembering the story behind its owner. He shuddered slightly, then winced. Nodding a little sheepishly at the old man, he resheathed the magnificent sword, and wrapped it again in the cloth.
"It is a magnificent sword," the old man said, understandingly. "Anyway, here is the sword your friend was so interested in. I think you can see why I do not have it on display."
Mike could. It was not really a sword, just a practise device likely used by children. But where the simple, blunted blade met the hilt, an elaborate guard curved out and down, fully protecting the user's hand. And at the business end of the blade, the metal swelled up and out, forming a half sphere, its flat top obviously designed to blunt any pokes its user got in.
It looked, frankly, a lot like a blastsword.
Mike left the museum, eager to share his news with he other members of his team. Casting his eyes about, he couldn't see anyone, then realised that pretty much everyone was clustered around one of the sparring mats. Figuring that the others would be working the crowd, Mike made his way towards the group. He pushed awkwardly through the crowd, trying to catch sight of any of the members of Team Paris.
Then he did.
"Oh shit," he said. "What are they doing?"
Vickie and Josh dropped into en garde stances. On David's right, Josh, who had spent hours talking to Sci about the Terran styles of swordfighting, had a smoother style than Vickie, but her eagerness--she was practically bouncing on the strip--made her a dangerous foe.
"En garde. Ready?" David looked at the two fencers. "Fence!"
Josh jumped--literally. Instead of the advance-retreat that was the standard form of movement, he performed a bolestra. Picking up his front foot, he pushed off of his back foot so that he had effectively jumped forward. Bringing his blade down, he struck Vickie in the mask with the length of his blade.
"Halt! Touch right."
Josh smirked beneath his mask. David waited until both fencers were back at en garde lines. "Ready? Fence!"
This time, Vickie was ready for Josh, and stepped back into a parry five. Her hands were on her right side, her blade blocking her head, sword almost parallel to the floor. She parried his blade and riposted smoothly to Josh's flank. Josh, instead of moving to parry again, tried to remise the attack, continuing in line. Both fencers struck their opponents. "Halt!"
David held up his left hand. "Parry-riposte has priority. Touch left."
Josh took off his mask. "Has what?"
David grinned. "The single most difficult concept in fencing. Priority, or right-of-way, says that the last person to establish a line of attack, either by taking the blade with a parry or beat or the like, or extending the arm, has priority. If both fencers hit, but one has priority, that one gets the touch."
Josh shook his head. He did remember Sci saying something about right-of-way, but he'd never realized how complicated it was.
The next few times David called "Fence," in an attempt to gain priority, both fencers charged each other. The end result often was a simultaneous action, no touch scored, but several times one fencer would hit off-target. By the rules of sabre, an off-target hit did not stop the action. By the end of their clashes, since Josh had the advantages of size and reach, the score was four to three, Josh's favor.
"En garde. Ready? Fence!"
No one moved. Both, realizing the futility of fencing by running into each other, were waiting for the other to move. If the score were tied, the situation would have been a Mexican standoff. However, Josh knew that Vickie would have to make a move, or he would win by time.
Vickie fleched.
The fleche, pronounced "flesh," is a move, often born of desperation, that involves running full-steam at one's opponent. Here, it worked like a charm. Josh was caught completely flat-footed, and Vickie's blade tip stabbed him in the chest.
"Halt! Touch left."
Becki was impressed at how well both Vickie and Josh had settled into this new fighting style. To her eyes, it looked like they had been fencing for years.
She hated to pull her eyes away from the match, but something was nagging at the back of her mind. Looking around, she saw a crowd had gathered to watch the two Jedi spar. A tall, dark haired gentleman seemed to stand out. You look vaguely familiar, she thought. When she tried to get a better look at him, he had disappeared.
The older gentleman who had met them when they came in approached her. "Excusez-moi, s'il vous plaît," he said. When Becki turned he smiled and handed her the photo. "Several of our students and teachers do remember seeing this woman. She came in at least three times a week. Monsieur Haught said she was an excellent swordswoman. Alas, she has not been here in the past week."
Becki frowned. "Oh, bother," she said with a sigh. "Well, thank you very much for your help."
"If you do find her, please let her know that she is more than welcome to return any time. She has an open invitation to also study here."
Becki forced a smile on her face though she felt quite frustrated. "I will make sure to tell her that."
The gentleman bowed slightly and moved away.
Becki turned around in time to hear David call a point for one of her companions. The next thing he said made her eyes widen.
"La belle."
"Time," Vickie said as she pulled off her mask. She grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat from her brow. Looking over at Josh, she was pleased to note he was doing the same thing. She took a swig of water and turned back towards the mat. "We're tied, Josh. Shall we end it or go for it?"
He narrowed his eyes at her. "Why don't we once and for all decide who's the stronger?"
"What? So you can show off for your new girlfriend?" She grinned sinisterly and looked towards Becki.
A dark look crossed his face as he pulled the mask over his head. "You will regret that." He brought his sword up in the customary salute.
"Don't be so sure of yourself, Padawan." She spat the last word out as she let her mask fall to her shoulders and dropped into the ready stance. "En garde, young one."
Josh growled. The second David gave the go signal, he pushed forward. His sabre moved quickly, stabbing and slashing at Vickie. She countered every thrust, letting him back her up.
When she reached the end of the mat, she began her own offensive. The two swords clashed over and over, sometimes sparking from the speed at which they slid against one another. "You fight like a girl," she said to him.
"You fight like an old woman," he retorted.
Their fight began to spread across the gym. David, showing the healthy sense of self-preservation of every good fencer, stopped directing and simply got out of the way. A sidestep took them onto another practice mat. They worked up and down the mat before moving towards another. "You will never be as good as me," Vickie shot at Josh.
"I don't want to be like you," he said as he thrust forward.
She backflipped away from him, landing at the edge of another mat. "Of course you don't. It's because you know I'm better."
"Why you..." His anger grew stronger. Dark tendrils began to surround him, entice him. He charged her, his sword moving quickly.
She met his charge and began to counter. There was something wrong. She couldn't sense him in the Force. Shrugging it off as stress, she tried to fend him off. This time, however, he was much stronger.
"I'll show you who is better," he said as he came down with a vicious swipe.
She brought up the blade to block it and stumbled at the pressure he was exerting. Suddenly, she felt something dark grab hold of her. The next thing she knew, she was laying on the ground, gasping for air.
Josh stood above her, breathing heavily, the point of his blade resting on her bare neck. "Give?"
Her eyes looked over to where her sabre had slid after she hit the floor. "Give," she said as she held her hand up to him.
He didn't move. "And who is better?"
"Josh."
"WHO IS BETTER?"
She narrowed her eyes at him. Calm yourself.
The room was silent. Josh suddenly realized he had raised his voice rather loudly. He moved his blade aside and helped Vickie to her feet. "I... I'm sorry about that. But, can't you just lay off the Padawan cracks?"
His presence returned. "I promise, no more." She crossed her heart in emphasis.
David came up to them. "You two are something else. That was good old-fashioned movie swashbuckling. Where did you learn to fight like that?"
"Long story," Vickie replied. "Thanks for letting us spar. I'm sorry if we bothered anyone."
"I think everyone enjoyed it. It's not every day that you get such an example of the sheer fun of fencing." He held out his hand to them. "I hope we meet again sometime. Perhaps if you are still here next week you will come to the tournament. I'd love to have a few people cheering for me."
Josh shook his hand. "We'll see. Thanks again for everything."
Vickie shook his hand and he gave her a piece of paper with his email address on it. "Shoot me a mail. I can't promise that I'll reply quickly, but at least we can keep in touch."
"You got it." Turning, she looked at the other three of her group. "So, shall we be off?"
Becki and Josh nodded. Mike, standing more rigid than normal, bobbed his head once before moving towards the door.
As they left, David shook his head, thinking of his friend who had started fencing after being influenced by watching movies like Star Wars. I should tell him about those two. What was his email address again? Scifan--something or other. Well, maybe not. It's not like he knows them...
The four members of Team Paris left the salle in various mental states. Josh was proud of beating Vickie, finally, but a little confused as to the exact way he'd managed it. It wasn't like him to lash out in the way he had, and he put it down to the stress of the mission getting to him.
Becki, meanwhile, was upbeat and positive. They had more leads on both the missing shield, and the whereabouts of Cheriss. After a barren run in their investigation, this was all very promising. Subsequently, she was very chipper, and was excitedly discussing the fencing with Vickie, with emphasis on how impressive Josh had been, and how the mission leader really seemed to be making strides as a Jedi.
Which served to put Vickie in a particularly good mood. The incident with Josh was niggling at the back of her mind, her worry for her colleague almost making itself heard over the rush of pleasure she was experiencing. Becki, she told herself, was definitely showing signs of interest in Josh, and they'd been very comfortable together in the warehouse. Really, she told herself, she'd hardly had to do anything, and as she'd never fully decided on whether she wished to carry out Llessur Atner's wishes, that was a good thing. With the investigation beginning to pick up again, too, things were looking good.. With an enthusiastic smile, she rejoined the conversation with Becki, praising Josh, not burying him.
Mike tagged along behind the others, fidgeting uncomfortably in his uncharacteristically fully buttoned up trenchcoat. He looked around continuously, the uneasy feeling that he'd felt in the salle still present. Turning suddenly, he thought he saw something further down the sidewalk, but he couldn't be certain. Turning again, he pushed on through the crowds, trying to keep up with the other members of the Group.
The four colleagues made their way back to the apartment, careful to discuss nothing of import until the door was shut and Zee's hastily cobbled together jamming software was activated. The program, compiled by Vickie, allowed the members of Team Paris to talk freely, secure in the knowledge that bugs in the apartment would be deafened by a wave of static, against which it was impossible to compensate.
Mike stood in the centre of the living room, and looked around as his colleagues relaxed. Becki headed for the kitchen, intent on brewing a pot of coffee. Josh slumped onto the sofa, and began leafing through the cargo manifests they'd got from the warehouse. Vickie swiftly logged on to the secure network again, and began looking for any more information.
"Anyone find anything?" Mike asked, his posture unusually stiff.
"We had someone who might have been Cheriss, but we can't say for sure," Becki said, as the coffee pot percolated merrily away.
"We were a bit distracted," Josh said, nodding at Vickie. "But I wasn't able to find anyone to say one way or another."
"I couldn't find anything," Vickie said, looking momentarily annoyed with herself. "But it's the sort of place Cheriss would likely have been to, so it was worth trying."
Mike nodded. "She had been there, really quite recently," he said. He ran through his conversation with the old man, avoiding any details of non-mission exchanges between them.
"Well, that's something," Josh said, barely looking up from his report. "But we're still no closer to finding her."
"True," Mike said, a little sourly, unbuttoning his coat as he headed for his room. "But it's more than we had before," he added, as the door shut, forcibly, behind him.
Vickie looked after her friend. "He seems out of sorts," she commented.
"Maybe so," Josh said, smiling his thanks at Becki as she handed him a mug of coffee. Vickie watched his gaze follow Becki back into the kitchen before he spoke again. "Whatever it is," he added, oblivious to Vickie's grin, "he'll work it out. Not one to dwell on things, is he?"
Vickie thought about that, and remembered a very different version of her friend. The one who'd first moved to Mendellia a year before. Getting up from her computer terminal, she walked over to Mike's room, tapped on the door, and walked in.
And was nearly decapitated by a swishing steel blade that sliced through the air a few inches from her face.
"Bloody hell, Vickie!" Mike shouted, holding a vicious looking sword in his hand. The look on his face seemed to be equal parts anger and guilt, with maybe a little frustration to spice things up a bit.
"Where'd you get that?" she asked, almost hyperventilating in shock. Taking a deep breath, her eyelids fluttered as she employed a Force calming technique. Alerted by Mike's yell, Josh and Becki appeared at the door, their eyes widening as they caught sight of Mike and his sword.
"What the hell is that?" Josh asked, stepping around Vickie, and making a grab for the sword. Mike swung it back, beyond the tall Texan's reach.
"It's my sword. I bought it from the club," he said, a little guardedly. Josh's eyes narrowed.
"I may not be able to read you too well, Mike, but I know when I'm being lied to. Did you steal that sword?" he asked.
"No, I bloody well did not!" Mike snarled, angrily. "What the hell do you think you're doing, coming into my room and accusing me of being a thief?"
"He's not accusing you of anything, Mike," Becki said, stepping up beside Josh. Behind them, Vickie watched on.
"The hell he's not. I told you, I paid for this sword, and he says I'm lying."
"If you paid for it, why the hell not mention it to us?" Josh snapped, his voice suddenly louder. Mike looked into his colleague's eyes, and shivered at what he saw. He decided that the truth was probably the only way to go.
"Look, I paid for it, but it probably wasn't entirely legal. The guy was going to melt it down, so I took it. It's an important piece of British history, and I left much more money than he paid for it, ok?"
"Money that came from the Terra Group budget, I suppose," Josh said, scornfully.
"Of course not," Mike snapped. "I used my own money. Remember, the money I earn from doing an actual job? Two, in fact, 'though I don't get paid any extra for being the Group mechanic. Anyway, who the hell do you think you are, Cochran? You stole a twenty million pound frigging warplane to join this outfit. Does your pay check get docked each month to pay for it? Does it hell!"
"That was necessary, remember? And do you think I don't pay for that? I had to leave my country and abandon all my friends and family. I can't ever go back to the States as me. I have to skulk around like a-"
"Thief?" Mike said, nastily. "And believe me, we're all well aware of what you gave up. We get reminded of it enough. You've pissed the last year down the drain, feeling sorry for yourself and playing at being a soldier. Meanwhile, we do all the work. Hell, same on this mission! Who got those cargo manifests? Vickie did. What were you doing? Pissing about. Who found out Cheriss had been at the club? I did. What were you doing? Pissing about. Face facts, Cochran, you've not been much of a leader these last few days. You nearly got us killed in the warehouse with your damn fool idea to make the run in broad daylight. You do understand that, don't you? We could have died because you made a mistake! And as for your little sparring session with Vickie..."
Mike made to storm out of the room, but Vickie blocked his path. "What about it?" she asked, her voice calm, but her body language broadcasting her mood clearly.
Mike looked at her blankly, before turning and placing the sword on the bed. When he spoke, his voice betrayed a temper barely under control.
"Did it not occur to either of you," he began. "That such blatant displays of Force ability are not exactly calculated to keep us covert? I mean, let's ignore for a second that you were bouncing around like you were on cocaine. Let's look at how you ended the fight, shall we?
"Not only did you use telekinesis to pull Vickie's legs from under her," he said, pointing at Josh, "but you did it in as blatant a display of Force use as I've ever seen! What do we reckon, fifty, sixty people there? And how many of hem will have noticed that Vickie's little fall was completely unprompted, that she had her feet yanked from under her, by someone standing ten feet away! We are," he continued, "bloody lucky no-one realised right then and there what had happened."
He paused, panting for breath. Becki stepped in between the three of them, in an attempt to bring peace.
"Mike, I'm sure they didn't mean--"
"Of course not," Mike said, his voice low. "They didn't mean, and they didn't think. Mind you, I suppose I can allow Vickie a little slack. It's not like she doesn't have enough on her mind right now," he said, looking at his friend to gauge her reaction.
He was rewarded with Vickie's mouth dropping open, as her gaze snapped from Becki to him.
"What do you mean?" Becki asked.
"Not for me to say," Mike replied, his eyes still on Vickie. "But things would be plenty interesting if Vickie was honest with us."
"Mike..." Vickie began, her voice catching in her throat.
"I'm surprised you didn't notice, Becki. I mean," he added, his gaze shifting to Becki as his voice changed tone. "You were standing right there. Hell, you saw the whole match, so there was probably a lot I missed." Over Becki's shoulder, he could see Vickie's shoulders sag in relief, but the look he shot her was unmistakable. I'm onto you, he thought. The look on Vickie's face suggested she'd heard and understood.
"What are you talking about?" Josh asked, his face flushed. He stood stiffly, as though reverting to his military training was the only thing keeping him from crossing the room to punch Mike's lights out.
"Let me put it in simple terms for you, Jedi Cochran," Mike said. "Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to the Dark Side. Sound familiar? Or did you just go through the process without acknowledging it?"
"What do you mean?" Becki asked, her expression bewildered."I mean, wingmate, that our team leader was two steps from decapitating Vickie back at the Club. And he was that close because, for a few seconds, he went over to the Dark Side. Now, I'd be prepared to believe that it was just for those few seconds, for the good of the mission. I'd be prepared to put all this behind us, apologise for what I've said, and get on with this mission, except for one thing."
He walked over to Josh, and stood face to face with him. Scant inches separated the two, and Mike could see straight into the American's eyes.
"I know you enjoyed it," Mike hissed. Josh's response was as simple as it was effective. His right arm swung up, the forearm catching Mike across his face and sending the Brit crashing to the floor. Josh's eyes burned as he looked down at his team-mate, then they widened as Mike unfolded upwards, his lightsabre suddenly in his hand, the blade hissing as it erupted from the emitter.
And then Josh's own lightsabre was in his hand, a telekinetic tug yanking it from its holster, the blue blade flashing out from one end, and crashing into Mike's own. The two men stood, blades crossed in front of them, their eyes locked on one another. Blood seeped from Mike's mouth, making his sneering face all the more feral. Josh's own face was almost blank, but a slight smile played on his lips, its cruel intent obvious to everyone in the room.
"You're a fine one to talk," he snarled. "You've done nothing but get into trouble since you got here. First that bar fight you got into because of some stupid woman. Oh, but you tried to cover that up, didn't you? And then chasing after those guys you found, in another bar, and getting yourself knocked unconscious, with all of your ID on you, just waiting for a thief to pick you off. And now you take that damned sword, and risk bringing all of the Parisian police down on our heads."
Mike's own face contorted still further as Josh's words hit home. He rallied, however, and continued staring Josh in the eye. The two men stood, immobile, their lightsabre blades hissing in protest at the continued contact.
"Maybe I've made a few mistakes, Jedi. But nothing I've done put anyone at risk. And I haven't killed anyone, either, unlike someone I could mention. I didn't run into a firefight like a typical fighter jock, all loaded with war shots and with my trigger finger itchy. How many people did you kill, Josh? One? Two? What's up, Josh, you get angry with Vickie because you didn't kill enough people in the warehouse?"
"Your hands aren't exactly clean," Josh hissed. The two men broke contact, pulling their blades back, preparing for another attack.
"Stop it!" Becki and Vickie cried, almost simultaneously. Vickie unleashed a wild Force blast that sent the two men sprawling, their lightsabres clattering uselessly to the floor. Becki quickly jumped in to snatch the weapons up, while Vickie moved between the two men. Mike and Josh scrambled to their feet, glowering at each other. Mike dragged his forearm across his face, wiping the blood away. The silent stare down ended only when Mike laughed.
"Some leader," he said, simply. "Why don't the three of you try and work out what we do next. Between you, you might have enough smarts to think of something. And after all, you're all getting on so well together," he added, looking at Vickie.
On that, he slammed out of the room, heading for one of the apartment's unused rooms.
[1] Hello. What would you like?
[2] We are looking for someone who may have been here.