Free Flight of the Outcast by Brad Strickland Page B

too far off-balance to prevent himself from staggering across the perimeter of the ten-meter circle.
       "Out!" shouted the warrant officer.
       "Doesn't count!" snapped Kayser, spinning around to face her again. "She kicked me from behind!"
       "That is permitted, my lord," the officer said coldly.
       "Not this time." Kayser stepped back into the circle, his face glowing with anger. "I have to teach this little Commoner Disaster a lesson."
       "It's all right," Asteria said. "I'll fight him again. Best two out of three rounds."
       "Stay in control, my lord," warned the warrant officer. "I'll count any more unfounded protests against you."
       Kayser waded in again, so worked up, so shot with adrenaline, that Asteria couldn't block every thrust. She caught a hard, stinging one just off-center of her solar plexus, and another one made her ears ring. It was not forbidden, it seemed, for an Aristo to slam a Commoner on the chin.
       But Kayser was clearly not used to a high-gravity world, even one as marginally higher as Dromia (1.02 G) was to Coriam (1.0 G—supposedly the same mass and gravity as the long-lost homeworld of humanity, Earth). His attacks had lost some of their edge, and his movements slowed. Asteria, by contrast, felt remarkably fresh. In fact, she had the momentary illusion that Kayser was moving in slow motion. She watched for her opening.
       Trying to lure him forward, she pretended to be staggered by a blow to her shoulder and backed to the edge of the circle. If she read him right, he would rush her, trying to push her outside the boundary—
       With a wicked grin on his face, Kayser suddenly snarled, "Grab her!"
       With her attention focused on Kayser, Asteria was not guarding her back. Two of Kayser's friends leaped into the circle, grabbed her arms, locking her elbows, holding her still, a stationary target. The warrant officer blasted his whistle to signal a foul, but the Aristos ignored him. "Hah!" Kayser leaped forward, his arm drawn back for a sharp blow—
       From the metal belt beneath her tunic, a wave of strength shot into Asteria. She wrenched her arms down, breaking the boys' hold on her, then swung her hands up, stunning both of the young Aristos—and it had happened so fast that Kayser still had not connected. With a strange detachment, as though she had stepped out of her own body, Asteria pivoted to her left, seized Kayser's thrusting wrist with both of her hands, and pulled as he put all his force into the useless blow. A second later, he lay sprawled on the floor, outside the circle, facedown and momentarily silent.
       "My lord," the warrant officer said, lowering his whistle, "this is the second time your opponent forced you from the ring. You lose."
       Shaking his head, his face scarlet with fury, Kayser pushed himself to his knees and then rose to his feet. He turned on his two friends, turning his anger on them. "Stupid! You were supposed to help me!" He spun around and strode off toward the men's showers.
       "My lord," the instructor called after him, "class is not over."
       "It is for me," Kayser shot back, not bothering to look around. The two boys who had grabbed Asteria—their name tapes identified them as Broyden and Gull—writhed in an agony of indecision, taking a step as though to follow their retreating leader but then losing their nerve and remaining with the class, their heads down, not meeting anyone's gaze.
       His face devoid of expression, the instructor said, "Take a demerit each, Broyden, Gull. Tell Lord Mastral that he is to take one demerit for leaving class early. The rest of you, note that Locke did not raise a protest, as she was permitted to do. I like that kind of initiative. As for you, probationary Cadet Locke, you have good speed, but you must learn to anticipate your enemy's moves. In actual combat, being fully aware of what is happening behind you as well as in front of you might make the