Humans for Hire

Chapter 82


Vilantia Prime, Throne City, Ministry of Culture

The Ministry of Culture was a monument to the Vilantian people. For over a thousand years the ministry had been the unchallenged guardians and judges of what was appropriate and what was uncouth. It was a position that they had kept and maintained through times of fat and times of lean, with the guiding star of the Clan Way as laid down by the First Throne being refined only as absolutely necessary by Minister Aa'benie and her ancestors for thirty three generations. They had never been led by a commoner.

Until now. Minister Larine still hadn't fully decorated her office - her ministerial robes and chain of office had been hung carefully at the door, while she listened to what was quickly becoming her favored daily activity; reviewing common-garde music. It had always been the responsibility of the Ministry to review all artistic works for their potential effects on the mindset of the citizenry. It was an easy task in most times, with the songs of generations past simply being re-arranged or set to new instrumentation. More than a few of the clans known for artistic expression were now producing works that were challenging the regime. The backlog had exploded in the past months - worse, she'd received reports from various security teams that some clans were bypassing the formal approval process entirely and simply broadcasting using ancient radio technology based on amplitude that had quickly fallen out of favor once scent-transmission had been perfected. Some of the songs were quite catchy - despite the lyrics being dangerously contrary to the Clan Way.

All of this on top of placating those who supposedly answered to her as they incessantly complained about the other ministries failure to heed their demands. What was worse was the Localgrid. Someone in the Ministry of Science had implemented independent Nodes that were uncontrolled by the Ministry, and the things one found there were deviant at best and obscene at worst. The most disconcerting of these were the Barrens; individuals who wore tight clothing to make it appear that they had shaved or in extreme cases they actually shaved themselves to look more like Terrans - an act of rebellion that thoroughly flouted the Clan Way.

It was enough to make her shed to excess. The only thing keeping her from resigning was the simple reality that the thought never entered her mind. She was here to serve the duration of her term, and then the Common House would elect her replacement.

As she rubbed her head, it almost seemed an impossible task. After a few conversations with the Throne, it was apparent that her actual job was to clean out thirty-three generations of carefully built alliances and fiefdoms so that her successor could attune the ministry to the will of all, not simply the nobles. It was a cautious process, with every action or inaction having to be calculated for the effects it would have. Still, it was a maddening situation.

A knock interrupted her thoughts, and she glanced at the door.

"Enter."

Greatlord Aa'Lafione walked in smoothly. Despite the shame accorded to his family from her sister's actions, he carried an aura cultivated by generations of Ministerial rank. He glanced about with his scent being one of deep agitation mixed with some level of expectancy. "I require this office."

"To what purpose?"

"I have issued a challenge to that barbarian Freelord for my daughter. I require this office to send a message and show him what he fights." He glanced around. "Despite the lack of authenticity, it still projects the Ministry's authority."

Larine's mind raced. Acceptance would be a poor choice - almost as poor as refusal. The rumblings of discontent were everywhere and despite recent events, Aa'Lafione's voice still carried weight.

"Initiatives are being planned. I expect your support for those initiatives at the proper time."

"You shall have it." The Greatlord's agreement was quick. Far too quick for the Minister's liking. She was going to have to be very careful when calling that favor in.

The Minister stood, donning her robe and chain before pointing at the visitor's couch. "You may issue your challenge from there."

"You could expect a greater level of support were the broadcast to be from behind that desk." The Greatlord's play was obvious.

There was a long pause before the reply was interrupted by a chime from Greatlord's tablet. Aa'Lafione growled in frustration before answering.

"I believe I ordered no interruptions. This is an interruption."

The image and voice at the other end belonged to a professionally nervous member of the Ministry's Security clan. "Yes Greatlord. However the." The adjutant paused. "The Freelord is on his way to you. He said he preferred to personally answer your challenge."

Aa'Lafione took a deep breath to roar his frustration at the poor guard when there was a triple-knock at the minister's door, this time from higher up.

___________

Terran Foreign Legion Ship Twilight Rose

Gryzzk walked with purpose to the midships shuttlebay to find the armory and security platoons standing in two perfect rows to see him off the ship. Kiole all but exploded her pride as Gryzzk paused in his spur-jingling walk to give the gentlest of touches to the bloodstripes on her uniform pants before he continued on. Collectively the scent of the platoon was a calm pride - they were giving up precious shore leave in order to allow their commander to take care of the clan, and complaining was forbidden.

At least for the first few drinks at the bar.

Gryzzk strapped in and snugged his buckles tightly before wriggling and nodding before slipping a headset on for communication. "Captain Hoban, proceed to the Ministry of Culture. You may ignore any attempts at guidance from Air Control." He glanced at the time, feeling a tiny lump of concern at his next sentence before he spoke it. "You may...indulge yourself as much as the shuttle design allows."

Hoban's undisguised glee at receiving orders to fly with the only constraint being physics was counterpointed by O'Brien's sour face as she mirrored Gryzzk's movement. "So glad I've only got coffee in my bloody stomach at the moment."

The shuttle undocked from the ship and under Hoban's guidance dropped toward the planet as if Vilantia had said unkind things regarding Hoban's parentage. Gryzzk could hear the Air Controller's pleas for Hoban to divert, slow down, or even acknowledge their existence. When Hoban opened the channel to reply, he played something from his personal music collection. Gryzzk was a little concerned about the overall theme of what he'd learned was called Outlaw Country - it seemed to be a song about a man having to answer for the wicked things that he'd done, and then the singer gathered his friends at a saloon, calling for whiskey for his men and beer for the horses. Overall it sounded like a rough form of justice was being encouraged by this particular tune as Hoban sent their shuttle down. Gryzzk activated the internal communications to talk to O'Brien.

"Do Terrans have a song about everything?"

"Pretty much, aye." O'Brien smirked and hefted a silvered cane with a heavy knob that Gryzzk hadn't noticed somehow. "Just in case someone decides to delay you, sir."

"I have a different question."

"What's that, Major?"

"Could you explain what a grizzly is?"

"Soon as you explain why we're not dressed to deliver a homebrewed ass-whipping with a side of fries." O'Brien's eyebrow lifted questioningly.

Gryzzk looked around awkwardly for a moment. "It has a great deal to do with the war. The Throne personally returned my Name to me, which means I have their favor to a certain degree. The Greatlord is being cautious with this challenge and heeding to the forms that are more...civilized. Even in a loss, he shows himself to be more distinguished than Tebul and therefore worthy of rank. As a secondary matter, the stakes are lower. The issue at hand is one Clansworn, not the entirety of the Clan."

"That does explain a few things. Anyway, a grizzly?" There was a pause. "You." She snickered for a moment. "Terran animal, big. Like twice the size of the horses we rode back when we were playing Hollywood soldiers. Very cute, but also very protective and bloody violent when threatened. It doesn't hurt that your name kinda sounds like it."

Gryzzk pondered. "I...see." He decided against further questioning as he looked out the viewscreen. "Captain Hoban, we appear to be approaching Throne City very quickly."

Hoban gave a half-chuckle. "That's because...we're going down too quick. Likely crash and kill us all."

"If that happens, please let me know."

"Of course, Major. By the way we've been denied permission to land."

"Then don't land. Hover a safe distance from the ground, and then leave as quickly as possible."

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"That'll be about twenty feet." Throne city was approaching, and Hoban made several adjustments to avoid traffic and finally slammed to a jarring halt.

In response to their stop, O'Brien slid her beret into a pocket and kicked a floor panel open to reveal lengths of rappelling rope stowed inside, along with several sets of thick gloves designed for rapid descents - essentially they were ablative armor for his hands. Two sets of the gloves were placed on a seat as Gryzzk secured his Stetson to his belt.

The ramp was dropped and ropes deployed, with the two sliding down and landing heavily on the pavement. As soon as they hit the ground, Hoban made rapid ascent and departure. The shuttle engines screamed as the ropes and ramp returned to their original placement.

Gryzzk had never been so close to the Ministry building. It was an edifice of stone and golden edgings, representing the dawn heralded by the ministry's words. The spiral columns rose higher than any building that wasn't the Royal Palace, and over the centuries had become a sprawled monument to the glory of Vilantia.

As Gryzzk took in the architecture, he realized that he and O'Brien were the object of stares. The subject of many pictures. And the primary focus of a security squad hustling up with weapons drawn but not pointed. Their leader was wearing ceremonial armor that may or may not have been useful in a fight, but his scent was confusion and anger over the disruption of the normal island of calm provided by the Ministry.

"You. You are..." He paused as he realized who he was looking at, and his scent turned into the universal scent of someone who was truly in a situation for which they were unprepared. The fact that their scents mingled with burnt glove-leather and that O'Brien was regarding the security officer with a gaze that would make the deepest stones of the ground flee in terror was not making this poor man's day better. The icing on the cake was that they were being recorded by dozens of personal tablets. This was going to be on the Localgrid rapidly, if it wasn't already.

Gryzzk held a hand up gently. "Apologies, but I have a time-sensitive appointment with Greatlord Aa'Lafione. I am here to personally answer his challenge at highsun. Would you kindly direct me to his current location?"

There was a moment for communication before the answer came. "He is in conference with the Minister. Through the foyer and take the Minister's elevator up." There was a beat. "The middle one."

"Excellent. Thank you for your courtesy." Gryzzk placed his hat on his head properly as he and O'Brien began to move forward toward the Ministry. Before they could take three paces the security squad closed ranks again, with a hesitant gesture at O'Brien's cane.

"We cannot allow you to go before the Minister so armed."

O'Brien smiled genially, but the smile didn't quite touch her eyes. "You would not part an old woman from her walking stick." The words were part question, part statement, and part threat. "Vilantia causes me pains and I would keep this as an aid."

There was an exhale and a nod before the squad parted again to allow them entry.

The purple-clad pair strode forward into the ministry with the purpose of a natural disaster, with the metallic song of Gryzzk's spurs keeping the silence from being total. The elevator ride was smooth, with the elevator attendant moving the floor selector to the Minister's floor without being bidden to do so. Her uniform was immaculate but her scent betrayed nervousness the entire time. By long tradition, nobody spoke but they pretended to enjoy the music that was being played as paintings slowly came into view through the gate bars and disappeared as they went ever higher. The paintings and scents associated were some of the finest to ever caress Gryzzk's senses, and all of them served to remind the viewer that the Ministry of Culture touched everything and everyone Vilantian.

Finally the elevator stopped and the gate was opened. There was a moment as Gryzzk saw one of the finest paintings he'd ever seen - an image of the First Throne commanding the First Aa'benie to craft the ministry building here within sight of the palace.

O'Brien flicked her eyes around as she exited first, cane in hand and guarding Gryzzk's personage. When no security arrived to detain them, she huffed softly and nodded, moving forward to the ornate door that read "Minister Larine" in gold leaf.

Gryzzk's spurs made echoing jingles as they crossed the expansive foyer to the door proper. The area itself could have easily held the ship's bridge, quarters, and conference room with enough space left over for the dayroom and mess hall. While Gryzzk was overwhelmed, O'Brien was constantly flicking her eyes about for an ambush until they arrived at the front door.

"I better knock, I suppose." O'Brien's voice held amusement at some inner joke.

"It would be polite to do so, Sergeant Major. We have five minutes." Gryzzk paused to give O'Brien a very rapid brief. "The Greatlord will announce the challenge and hit my face with a glove and set a condition. Don't react. I will be expected to return the act and counter the condition with an amendment before presenting one of my own. The one who is most severely shaken by their opponent's strike will yield their condition to the victor.There will be three conditions to be decided - the number of Arbiters, the place, and the time."

O'Brien blinked. "Okay so why the request to do it over a comm channel?"

"It is good fortune to win the setting of conditions. He could claim victory in all conditions due to my absence and failure to respond properly. Even a disgraced Greatlord is still a Greatlord, and the list of those who have similar authority and would also gainsay him in this is...short."

"Sleazy."

"Quite. I will ask you for one of the gloves we used for the ropes." Gryzzk paused. "By entering the office, you place yourself with me. You are not required to do so."

There was the sigh of a long-suffering parent from O'Brien. "Mad. Noble. Bastard. Someday you'll figure out that Terrans pretty much go as they please and do as they please. And in this moment, it pleases me to be here. Gravity well from hell and all."

O'Brien took the cane in hand and rapped on the door three times before she opened the door, taking a single step in and another to the right in a perfect chamberlain's movement - it was as if she was heralding the entry of a noble.

"Announcing the entry of Freelord Gryzzk, Major and commander of the companies of the Terran Foreign Legion. Master of the ship Twilight Rose, husband to Grezzk and Kiole, father of Nhoot, Gro'zel, Ghabri, and Glaud. Full honors upon request." The silence and shock of the two inside was enough for Gryzzk to step into the room for another surprise of sorts.

The Minister's office was far from immaculate; his inner Lead Servant immediately began prioritizing and cataloging from a corner while the rest of his consciousness turned from the minister to her guest. The Greatlord was a shining symbol of Vilantian perfection; a suit that mimicked the colors of the dawn with an pool of orange at his feet that slowly morphed to gold of dawn at his collar. At his belt hung a single crisp glove.

"Greatlord Aa'Lafione. I am Freelord Gryzzk, and I would hear your challenge for the right to give commands to one of my Clansworn."

"I had hoped to spare you the indignity, common one. I suppose your time amongst such coarse assemblage has caused you to forget your place within the Clan Way." The Greatlord's gaze turned from Gryzzk to O'Brien, and after a beat he gestured to her contemptuously. "The Terran's presence is forbidden. She places herself in matters she knows nothing about."

O'Brien lifted her right arm and pulled the sleeve back just enough to expose the clan tattoo on her wrist, her scent darkening with grim fury as a withering gaze was locked onto the Greatlord. "I've fought with the Freelord. Bled for him. Wept with him. My blood, my pain, and my oath carry me where he leads. All these things and more have purchased where I stand. Move me from this spot - if you think yourself capable."

Neither minister nor Greatlord moved, and after several silent seconds O'Brien covered her wrist and returned to her position, scent calming to one of satisfaction.

Minister Larine spoke softly. "Her presence is allowed, Greatlord. Issue the challenge in accordance with the Clan Way."

The Greatlord gathered himself, considering the enormity and realizing that failure was a potential outcome. Still, he was committed, and finally smacked Gryzzk with a glove. "Arbiter, Lord A'Shanyu."

For Gryzzk the smack was harsh and painful - not from the physical blow, but because the Greatlord's gloves had been chemically doctored. His nose filled with a charred acid scent, and it was an effort to remain standing. But he finally inhaled and croaked out, "Sergeant Major, my glove."

O'Brien passed the weighted leather glove to her commander, who shifted slightly as he'd learned to do during training sessions in the company sand pit. The return smack from the glove in Gryzzk's left hand was efficient, and there was a clattering as something bounced off the wall and skittered to rest at the toe of O'Brien's boot while the rest of the Greatlord was rocked back and took a knee.

Gryzzk made his counter to the shocked scent of the Greatlord. "Five Arbiters. Lord A'Shanyu, two members of the Common House to be chosen by random lot, the Terran Ambassador to Vilantia, and the Hurdop Ambassador to Vilantia."

There was no objection from the Greatlord's slowly bleeding mouth, and the minister nodded. "Five Arbiters, as the Freelord specifies. Location."

With the second challenge - location, Gryzzk thought rapidly. This was for the commons, so their house would be appropriate. "House of Commons," and a second smack followed, but the Greatlord was prepared for the weight of the glove and moved appropriately so that it didn't daze him as much.

The return caught Gryzzk heavily and he took a knee as he heard "Vilantianic Stadium." An ancient place, built on the site of the camp where the First Throne had rested before their final victory in the Great Civilization. It was massive, with seating for tens of thousands. Through the haze, Gryzzk realized that the Greatlord planned to pack the stadium with his clansworn and win by the crowd's cheering or jeering as the situation demanded.

"Vilantianic Stadium. The time."

The Greatlord's scent was a regained confidence. "High sun, three days from now." The third strike from the Greatlord was almost casual, as if he'd already won with the choice of venue.

Gryzzk blinked his tears away before standing calmly. "Apologies, but I forgot to mention something, Greatlord."

"What information could you possible have for me?"

"Evening twilight, three days from now. And I. Am not left-handed." Gryzzk flipped his glove from his left hand to the right, the act allowing him to coil his body slightly and send a dynamic blow exploding across the Greatlord's jaw, causing a second clatter and skitter. This time it was the Greatlord who took a knee.

"Evening twilight, three days from now. You both have your Seconds; the Challenge will take place at Vilantianic Stadium, three days from now at evening twilight. Your efforts will be judged by five Arbiters. May the living gods watch over you both." There was relief and satisfaction of a sort coming from the minister as she spoke the terms.

O'Brien bent down and retrieved the objects that had skittered and clattered from Gryzzk's harsh blows. "Greatlord, I would recommend you see a dentist as soon as time allows. With luck, they'll put them back where they were." She put Greatlord Aa'Lafione's teeth on the Minister's desk where they shone wetly in the reflected sunlight. With that, O'Brien lifted her head to the minister, lowered it slightly as she acknowledged the Greatlord's station, and then opened the door in order to allow Gryzzk and her to leave.

Gryzzk's spurs made the only sound as they proceeded to the elevator. About halfway down, O'Brien finally shook her head.

"Major, once we're at the bar you're going to have to explain how two grown-ass folk slap-fighting is a reasonable way to decide the terms of a challenge."

"I'm not entirely certain I can explain the why. Only the Way."

The sergeant-major's grunt was reply enough as they exited the elevator and saw a rather frightening thing - a horde of cameras and microphones from the press, all shouting a cacophony of questions at him through the windows and glass doors of the Ministry entrance. O'Brien's eyes went wide as she surveyed the scene and spoke two words for the both of them.

"Fuckin' hell."

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