Artaxerxes Par nodded and then regarded Maddox. “The pup of Oran has arrived.”

  “A pup turned into a wolf,” countered Maddox.

  “A wolf you may be, but I am a tiger. I shall shred you, young upstart. The Emperor was merciful with you. You have been a thorn in our side for too long. I will finish what the Emperor started.”

  Ludendorff cleared his throat. He held a silver baton.

  “Gentlemen,” Ludendorff began, addressing both, “you know the rules of the duel. I now bid you to fight fairly and honorably. Is this to the first cut?”

  “To the death,” Artaxerxes declared.

  “Captain Maddox,” Ludendorff said, “to the death?”

  Maddox nodded.

  Ludendorff stepped back, raising his baton high.

  Both Artaxerxes and Maddox raised their sabers, and, holding out their long arms, clicked tips with each other in a formal sign of adherence to the duel’s code.

  “Begin,” Ludendorff ordered, swiftly moving back.

  Maddox crouched, eyeing Artaxerxes, who smirked. The archduke placed one hand on his hip, and advanced with the other forward.

  Tentatively, their sabers clicked, wove, moved. It was the preliminary dance of the duel. Each man felt out the other, testing reflexes and resolve.

  Maddox was taken aback by the sheer speed and grace of the New Man. He loathed Artaxerxes Par, but the man was undeniably a skilled duelist, having risen high in the Empire of the New Men.

  Maddox twitched his head, willing himself to focus. He breathed deeply, embracing the Way of the Pilgrim, employing his intuitive sense. He’d trained tirelessly with humans enhanced with drugs to speed up reflexes. Surely, Artaxerxes had studied tapes of Maddox’s past duel.

  They circled each other, their blades clinking, slashing and stabbing. Both displayed defensive mastery, and like two jungle beasts, they probed and circled, testing each other for dominance.

  The stakes were high. The winner would claim the super-hauler filled with young women. Would Artaxerxes breed with the women? Maddox knew he wouldn’t. He had his wife and believed in the old dictum: one man, one wife, just like Adam had Eve. While some Old Testament patriarchs had multiple wives, it had often brought more pain and sorrow than pleasure. There was an old Chinese symbol for discord: a symbol of more than one wife under one roof. Maddox had only one wife, and he loved Meta. He desired no others. She was both his prize and beloved. Even so, he was determined to champion these other women. He believed many had been abducted. He planned to set them free and—

  “First strike!” Artaxerxes snarled.

  Maddox had already leapt back and felt hot pain in his side.

  There was bright red blood on the edge of Artaxerxes’ saber.

  Maddox berated himself. He’d let his mind drift in the midst of the duel—one of the most fatal errors one could make.

  There was a collective gasp from those watching. Among the voices, he recognized Meta’s, even from this distance. If he wanted to win, he’d better stay focused.

  Maddox tightened his grip on the hilt, his sweaty hand threatening to let it slip. The two engaged again. Despite the small wound on Maddox’s side, their blades danced in a whirlwind of thrusts and counterthrusts, exemplifying the art of dueling by two masters.

  As the duel progressed, Maddox realized he’d lost a bit of his edge. If he hadn’t spent the past few days practicing in the private gym, Artaxerxes might have proven as formidable as Emperor Trahey had been.

  “Do you know there was poison on the tip of my blade?” Artaxerxes whispered menacingly.

  Maddox shook his head in disbelief. “That’s beneath you as a New Man.”

  “Do you say that because you think I am your equal?”

  “Your better,” Maddox said.

  “Do you feel the effects yet?”

  Maddox indeed began to sense a subtle sluggishness. Was it just his mind playing tricks, or was Artaxerxes truly playing dirty? Ludendorff had inspected the blades before the duel. Maddox found it hard to believe any poison could evade the scrutiny of the Methuselah Man.

  The idea of having walked into Artaxerxes’ trap—Maddox launched a ferocious attack. His blade danced with speed, and he found himself up against what seemed like a legendary defense. How many opponents had Artaxerxes defeated before?

  “No!”

  Maddox called upon his reserves. He summoned the spiritual force that powered his limbs. Utilizing every intuitive sense, he slowly—ever so slowly—maneuvered through a series of thrusts and Artaxerxes’ counterthrusts. His attacks subtly maneuvered the other’s blade off-center.

  It was a clever and desperate maneuver. Maddox surmised that Artaxerxes hoped he would tire out, and once weakened, Artaxerxes would launch his assault.

  In that moment, Maddox detected recognition in Artaxerxes’ eyes—realizing his blade was out of perfect alignment.

  Maddox struck with the speed and precision of a cobra. His blade flashed, severing the tendons of Artaxerxes’ sword arm. The New Man’s hand involuntarily opened. The saber fell to clatter onto the hangar bay deck.

  Artaxerxes saw this in horror. In the same breath, Maddox lunged, thrusting his blade into the New Man’s chest, piercing the heart. Artaxerxes’ head jerked up, his gaze locked onto Maddox. Maddox twisted his wrist, ensuring the blade inflicted maximum damage within the heart. Artaxerxes gasped for breath.

  Drawing close as he shoved the blade in deeper, Maddox whispered, “Now you die as I avenge the death of Oran. Do you still hear him plead, Artaxerxes Par? Or is that merely the whimper of life departing from you?”

  The New Man stared into Maddox’s blazing eyes, ones filled with fury and vengeance. Maddox stepped back, forcefully pulling out the blade, now red with Artaxerxes’ blood. Artaxerxes looked at Maddox one last time before blood gushed from his mouth. Dropping to his knees, the New Man slumped forward, lifeless.

  Maddox had avenged his father’s death, marking off the first name from the list of enemies who had harmed his family. Raising his bloody blade in the air, Maddox let out a triumphant shout, echoing the howls of wolves and the roar of lions celebrating their kills.

  After a moment, Maddox’s humanity began to resurface. He lowered the blade, overwhelmed by what he had accomplished. It was now time to see if the other New Men would uphold their end of the bargain.

  -20-

  Margaret Wold wanted to weep with frustration. For the past several days, no matter what she tried, she could not speak to the red-haired woman who had shown fire to resist in her eyes. The past few days had been maddening, frustrating and frightening.

  Margaret presently sat in a detention cell on a space hauler because she had caused trouble with the other women in the larger chamber.

  The vessel, of which she had gotten a glimpse from the shuttle as they lifted from Arius III, looked like an old, decrepit tramp hauler. It had old, rusty welds and deep scars; its identification number had faded with age. She had been aghast that they would travel in such a vessel. Upon entering it, the air had been stagnant and foul in places. The corridors were narrow, and the lights flickered at times. The food had a foul taste, and the water was worse.

  Several coarse-faced, brutal men acted as guards. Clint Seasons watched over everything. It seemed he had more authority than the coarse-faced men did. As for the pilot or captain, they had never seen either of them.

  In her detention cell, Margaret kept thinking and wondering what she could have done differently. Never climb up on the air cycle with Clint. That was the main thing.

  She’d tried once to flail at a guard, giving him a karate chop, as her defense instructor had taught her. The guard had laughed and swatted her aside. She’d banged against a corridor bulkhead. It had been humiliating, and brought a taste of blood to her mouth.

  Now, she sat dejected in this tiny detention cell.

  Margaret did push-ups and sit-ups. She coughed at times because the air grew rank. Then she put her mouth against the vent. She learned that if she banged on it hard enough, it would cause one of the ducts to open, and a little more air would enter her lungs. The water was so vile that once she’d vomited after taking a drink. These days, she pinched her nose and gulped the water as if she was taking a huge pill.

  It had seemed that several times the hauler entered a warp jump of some sort, and then it had fallen out. Everyone was sick afterward. Margaret was very sick. She hated it. What was wrong with the vessel? Why did they use such crappy equipment? Was it to escape detection?

  Every time one of the coarse-faced men opened her detention-cell hatch and gave her food, he seemed grouchier and angrier than before.

  Now the hatch opened again. It was time to implement her plan, one she’d been running over for hours on end in her mind.

  “I’m so sorry,” Margaret said, “for how I’ve acted.”

  The man leered at her. He was a brute, a big man missing teeth with splotches on his skin. Yet, he was strong, with bulky muscles. No doubt, he took steroids. He wore food-stained garments with crumbs in his mustache. The sight sickened Margaret, but she feigned fear, clutched her hands, and lowered her head submissively.

  “I know I’ve done wrong. I would do anything to get out of the cell.”

  “Oh, my pretty,” he said, “do you think you’re going to fool me now?”

  She looked up, pleading with her eyes.

  He scowled of all things. “Did you know Clint and the others don’t think we’re going to make the rendezvous?”

  “No?” Margaret said, as if aghast.

  “Matter of fact, we’ve missed it already,” he said, with fear in his eyes. “If it weren’t for the New Men, we could have all you beauties to ourselves, but…”

  “Oh,” Margaret said, “what happened?”

  He shook his head. “Never mind what happened. Here’s your food.” He thrust it at her.

  “Please don’t close the hatch right away. Could we walk the deck a bit? You could guard me. I can’t do anything to you, strong as you are.”

  “You’re trying to practice trickery, witchery on me, is that it?”

  “No, I’ve learned my lesson,” Margaret said. “I’m very sorry. Besides, look at how big and strong you are, and how thin I am.”

  His eyes roved over her. “You are a beauty, a lovely one, perhaps the most beautiful of them all. Yes, let’s walk a bit.” He looked both ways. “What can it hurt?”

  So, Margaret found herself in nearly normal gravity. It had been worse—heavier—in the cell. At times, to her surprise and dismay, she felt her step lighten. The gravity dampeners were badly malfunctioning in this wretched vessel.

  They reached a grimy observation port. He stopped and she moved closer to him. He stank of sweat, but he didn’t seem quite as brutal as the others as he daringly put an arm around her.

  “Look at the stars,” he said huskily.

  “I see them.”

  The stars, if not his muscled arm, enraptured Margaret. They were beautiful and magnificent. It was so different looking at them through a port versus when she was at home looking up at the night sky. What would it be like living among the stars? Would she ever see home again?

  Strangely, the prospect didn’t terrify her.

  The ship shuddered, and the lights flickered. For a moment, Margaret felt weightless.

  He grabbed her cruelly by an upper arm and held her in place. In a moment, the sensation passed, and normal gravity returned to the ship as the lights quit flickering.

  “What happened?” she asked, with fright in her voice.

  “I don’t know. That was strange. Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever make it to the rendezvous. They say the big liner will have gone by now, but surely the New Men will send someone for you women. But if not…” Once again, his eyes filled with lust.

  Margaret felt a surge of revulsion and horror. She knew what he intended.

  He grinned evilly as his mind no doubt whirled with rapist thoughts. He licked his lips in anticipation.

  Margaret knew this was it, what she’d planned for. Her heart hammered and she breathed fast as she stepped into him. She drove her knee hard into his groin. It must have been one of those perfect strikes because he exhaled an “oof” of foul air. He clutched his privates and crumpled onto his knees. As he did, a metal bar fell out from between his pants and belt. She didn’t know why he had it, but she picked it up. She looked at him, and he looked back with agony in his eyes.

  Margaret knew that once he recovered, he would be dangerous and would rape her. She picked up the bar. Then, using all her might, putting her body behind it, she smashed the bar against his forehead. He crumpled, a dent in his forehead and a trickle of blood appearing. He was out.

  Horrified at what she’d done and surprised at her strength, Margaret knelt and rummaged through his garments. She found a control device, a clicker, and a massive gun.

  She wouldn’t let herself become a slave again. She needed to escape. How, was the question.

  Swallowing, stiffening her resolve, Margaret embarked on a frightening adventure.

  -21-

  Margaret roved through the light-flickering corridors. The tramp hauler shook several times. Clearly, there was more than one type of malfunction. Twice she hid as a group of men strode past. They spoke in hushed whispers, worry evident in their voices. Afterward, she continued searching for others. The hauler was bigger than she had realized.

  Finally, she heard feminine voices. Had the guards allowed them to roam freely, like the guard she’d struck with the crank bat?

  Thinking the guards might be detaining these women, Margaret pulled out the massive gun, a hand cannon. Upon examination, she recognized it as a .55 Slam Master that fired .55-grain bullets. This was insane. The man who owned it must have been mad. She feared that even if she strained with all her strength, the recoil might cause it to smash her in the face, maybe break her nose. She could use it to threaten, but she didn’t plan on shooting the Slam Master.

  She checked the weapon. Having grown up on Arius III, where hunting was common, her father had taught her how to handle guns. This was a revolver. She checked the chambers: they were loaded with massive bullets. Stunned, she proceeded down the corridor, holding the gun in both hands.

  She turned a corridor corner and came face-to-face with the red-haired and another woman, taller with intense eyes. They both wore blouses, overalls, and shoes.

  “What are you doing?” the red-haired woman demanded.

  “She’s armed,” the other observed.

  “Yes,” Margaret said. “But why are you two free?”

  The other two exchanged glances.

  “This is startling, don’t you think?” the red-haired woman asked.

  The other, a brunette who wasn’t as striking as her companion but exuded a unique aura, perhaps of Asian descent, said, “I believe we’ve found our candidate. What do you think?”

  “Unquestionably,” the red-haired girl said. “Look, she even has a weapon. Do you know how to use that?”

  “Certainly,” Margaret said. “But what are you talking about? A candidate for what? I don’t understand.”

  “We’re not what we seem,” the redhead said.

  That prompted a cautionary response from her companion, “Should you even tell her that?”

  “We’re all in this together,” the redhead said. “Thus, we might as well.”

  “We’ve done all we can,” the Asian woman said. “Now we must leave. Do you dare to come with us? What’s your name anyway?”

  “Margaret Wold. And I wish I knew what you two were talking about.”

  “My name is Carissa,” the redhead said, “and this is Lanka.”

  “Hello,” Margaret said, extending her hand.

  “None of that,” Lanka said. “We must move, and we must hurry. Time is limited.”

  “Hurry where?” Margaret asked. “What’s happening?”

  “The ship is in danger,” Lanka said.

  “We must run if we’re going to make it,” Carissa said.

  “What about the other women?” Margaret asked. “Can’t we help them?”

  “Not anymore,” Carissa said. “Now it’s time to help ourselves.”

  Margaret joined them as they dashed through the corridors. They seemed to know precisely where they were going.

  At one point, as they turned a corner, they ran into three coarse-faced men. The men gasped upon seeing Carissa and Lanka, who swiftly drew beamers and shot them in the chest. The men fell, blood pouring from their ghastly wounds.

  “You killed them,” Margaret said in horror.

  “We had no choice,” Carissa said. “Come.”

  As they continued down another corridor, an alarm rang harshly.

  “This way,” Carissa said, leading them toward—

  “That’s an escape hatch,” Margaret said, recognizing the symbol on it.

  “She’s a smart one,” Lanka said sarcastically.

  They opened and dashed through the hatch.

  Carissa called out, “Help me, Margaret.”

  Together, they pushed the hatch shut with a clang. They raced through a short corridor and another hatch, closing it, too. Hurrying to crash seats, they strapped themselves in.

  “All right,” Lanka said. Her hands danced over the console as if she knew exactly what to do.

  Cabin lights switched on and an engine began to purr. Fresh air blew into the small compartment.

  “Get ready,” Lanka said. “Three, two, one—ignition.”

  An explosion sounded, and Margaret felt herself pressed hard against the seat.

  Moments later, the force lessened and then weightlessness enveloped the tiny craft and them. Margaret struggled to keep her stomach contents down. Twice she heaved but clenched her teeth, refusing to vomit.

  “You don’t like weightlessness,” Lanka said, as if that was a mortal sin.

  “I’m not used to it,” Margaret said. “Is this an escape pod?”

  “Indeed,” Lanka said. “Now, shut up for a moment.” She returned her attention to the console, and soon the escape craft accelerated.