Василиса Чмелева – Parasomnia (страница 15)

"Kell, seriously?" I stared at my brother as he dropped into a combat stance, flashing an exaggerated, intimidating grin.

Kell and I shared the same dark hair color, but mine still had the waves of youth, while his had straightened with age—now always tied back in a tight low bun. On Kallinkor, long hair on men was rare, and my brother wore his like a banner of individuality and rebellion. Not that it stopped Mom from sneaking up with scissors whenever he dozed off.

"Hand-to-hand combat is essential, Itty. You’ll thank me later," he said, still grinning.

"I'm telling you, hand-to-hand combat is essential, Itty. You'll thank me one day."

"And who exactly am I supposed to defend myself from? So far, you're the only one giving me trouble," I sighed.

I'd just turned thirteen, and my wishlist included new boots—not combat experience.

"What kind of brother would I be if I didn't teach you to fight?" Kell clicked his tongue. "You're not a kid anymore—time to learn to stand your ground. Come on!"

Kell lunged abruptly and punched my shoulder.

"Ow, quit it!" I yelped, rubbing the sore spot. "I don't want to fight!"

I turned to leave, but Kell grabbed me by the belt, spun me sharply through the air, and slammed me onto the ground—though I realized later he'd cushioned the throw to keep me from breaking bones. Even so, the impact made me feel every ounce of Kallinkor's gravity.

"Get up and fight back. I won't ask nicely again," Kell growled.

"How about a crossbow then? Or even a slingshot?" I muttered, dusting myself off.

"Any fool feels safe with a weapon," my brother snorted. "But beating someone empty-handed? That's an art. And I'm going to teach you."

"Skyla, run combat mode again," I ordered, wiping sweat from my brow.

We'd been drifting through space for a year (by human reckoning), and since I'd turned seventeen aboard this ship, I'd decided to resume the training I'd abandoned after leaving Kallinkor. Back then, Kell had been my instructor—now I'd programmed the hologram to take his place.

It took the form of a crimson orb, deftly evading my strikes and forcing me to move faster, sharper—until even Skyla's motion sensors struggled to keep up. In this dance of artificial intelligence and human grit, we sparred for two hours daily, sometimes longer.

"You're fatigued, Ethan," Skyla observed, her tone almost caring. "Perhaps a break?"

"Says the one who doesn't even breathe."

"Fatigue doesn't compute for me, but even a Kallinkorian needs energy replenishment occasionally. Your clothes are already drenched."

"If I end up in a firefight with some galacto-headed freak, there won't be time for breathers. I need endurance."

"Just carry a weapon—you'll have the advantage over any attacker."

"Any fool feels safe with a gun. But beating someone bare-handed? That's art," I smirked.

"Who needs your 'art' in space, Ethan?" The hologram shifted to a blue glow, morphing seamlessly from orb to wave.

"No, activate the training function again."

"In the process of survival, all means are justified. No matter how skillful you are with your fists, the time will come when you'll have to pick up a weapon. Whether you want to or not, Ethan. Life beyond Kallinkor isn’t just a celebration of endless experiences."

"When that necessity arises, I’ll learn how to shoot. For now, we’ll train speed."

"Initiating training," Skyla announced, and the compartment flooded with crimson light once more.

This time, the hologram wasn’t pulling any punches – a three-eyed, galacto-headed predator emerged before me, its chitinous armor gleaming, a fan of blade-like tentacles swaying with the slow grace of a dancer rather than a killer. Beneath its translucent “skin,” streams of energy pulsed in elegant patterns – a meticulous simulation of every strength and weakness. Clearly, someone wanted to make sure I didn’t mistake this session for a casual warm-up.

"Watch this, Eliot!" I shouted, lunging at the orb—"We’re winning this round!"

Chapter 7. Cold-Blooded Duel

Everything has its price, but finding peace is hard —

it was sold off first.

They removed my spacesuit and gave me iron shields that looked more like shackles but were surprisingly light, almost weightless. After a long argument with the Dumonogs, I managed to keep my thermal underlayer. Small mercies.

Metal was abundant on Therpsia, and I figured these "rats" must have been hauling it off Kallinkor for years before my planet began to suffer resource depletion.

Finally, the time came for the second wave of the duel, and I stepped into the arena. It wasn’t large. Creatures stood in a circle on makeshift balconies built from open airlocks of spaceships. The arena’s balconies rotated slowly clockwise, letting the spectators view the fight from every angle.

"What am I supposed to fight with?" I asked the Dumonog who had led me to the center of the arena.

"You must find the weapon within yourself," the Dumonog replied.

"But I have nothing on me. You took everything."

For a moment, I thought the Linguatron had overheated and mistranslated the galacto-head’s words, but the creature repeated:

"You will find the weapon within yourself. Search."

"How long do I have to fight?"

"Until the audience grows bored," the Dumonog said, retreating from the arena.

I frantically checked the pockets of my thermal suit, even though I already knew they were empty. I had nothing to defend myself with—they'd even taken my earpiece, cutting me off from Eliot completely.

The crowd roared with excitement as a towering figure, easily eight feet tall, stepped into the arena, clad in impenetrable steel armor. Each of its footsteps echoed through the air like a harbinger of something monumental. The figure’s face was concealed behind a mask that reflected a thousand shards of light cast by the harsh rays of Heliosar—as if the universe itself favored this mysterious warrior, illuminating their path.

The mask bore the delicate features of a Kallinkorian woman, her lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk—mysterious yet refined, as though she were deciding whether to toy with me or begin the battle in earnest. There was a mocking quality to its artificial expression, as if it knew something the rest of us didn’t, drawing the spectators’ gaze like a magnet.

Like me, the warrior’s hands were empty.

"Hey there," I shouted up at the towering figure. "Any last-minute advice? A safe word, maybe?"

"Try not to die in the first round," the warrior replied coldly—and something about the language sent a flicker of recognition through me. Had I heard it before?

The creatures' roar faded into the resonating gong, and the warrior lunged toward me without hesitation, leaving deep imprints in the sand. I dropped into a combat stance, summoning every hand-to-hand technique I'd ever learned.

Not an inch of exposed skin showed beneath its armor—as if it had been dipped in molten metal and left to harden into an impenetrable shell. Every strike I landed only echoed with a dull thud, leaving my knuckles raw and bleeding. The scorching heat made every breath burn, and soon I was gasping, barely dodging the warrior’s relentless advances as it drove me across the arena.

The roar of the crowd began to blur into collective laughter, and I must’ve looked like a pitiful coward, just running in circles, waiting for the final gong. The warrior, clearly growing bored with this little stroll, suddenly quickened its pace and slammed me face-first into the scorching sand. I clenched my eyes shut, bracing for a crushing blow or the full weight of its body—but instead, it leaned in, mask hovering near my ear, and hissed:

"Get a weapon from someone in the front rows. Or the crowd will demand a third fighter, and we’ll be stuck here dancing for a hundred parsecs."

"No one’s just gonna hand it over," I spat, gritting out sand that crunched between my teeth.

"No one here plays fair. Steal it."

The creature flung me aside, and I nearly tumbled all the way to the edge of the arena, right up against the spectators. They were a motley crowd—different shapes, different species—but every single one of them watched the approaching warrior with undisguised admiration.

My eyes swept across the crowd until I spotted it – a glint of metal in one creature's grasp that looked suspiciously like a Kallinkorian switchblade. Its owner was too busy placing bets on the warrior to notice me. I ducked beneath the makeshift seating—a jumble of salvaged ship parts—and crawled through the metallic jungle until I reached my mark. With surgical precision, I slipped two fingers between the debris and liberated the blade.

Emerging victorious, my triumph evaporated instantly—the warrior’s armored feet stood inches from my face.

He now wielded a long staff forged from the same impenetrable metal as his armor. The crowd erupted. Creatures shrieked with renewed bloodlust, hungry for my opponent’s next move.

"Fight," the warrior growled.

His grip tightened on the staff as he unleashed a hostile snarl. At that moment, the weapon's metal began crackling with energy. Sunlight coalesced into a single searing beam, funneling raw thermal power into the staff. With a brutal swing, the warrior unleashed a devastating arc of electricity straight at me.