Once a Wolf

“But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame

Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;

And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,

The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.”

- Rudyard Kipling

Mikey Blair had to pee. He had been putting it off for the past twenty minutes, not wanting to get out of his snug, warm bunk. It was

cold

out there in comparison. He really liked summer camp, liked being in the woods of northern Wisconsin, away from his folks and the dull sameness of Elmhurst. But all the activities and running around always made him really thirsty. He drank too much water, and it had to go

somewhere

. He usually got up at least once in the middle of each night, and it was time now.

He threw the covers off, rolled out onto the cold, hard wooden floor, and padded softly towards the cabin door, to the sound of crickets outside and a lot of snoring inside. Once out the door, He went up the path a ways before turning into the woods. He was

supposed

to go to the latrine but that was a couple hundred yards away. That was too far; he couldn’t hold it that long. Even so, he wanted to make certain he was far enough away from the cabin that his cabin mates wouldn’t smell it in the morning. That would have been almost as bad as peeing the bunk.

The angel came for him just as he was finishing his business. Mikey wasn’t particularly religious – never had been – but he knew this apparition was an angel. She had to be an angel; only God made titties like those! She wasn’t dressed like an angel, though. The child expected white robes, wings, and halo and there was none of that. This was…

scarier

. Maybe she was an

avenging

angel. Whatever she was, she did have a really nice smile, dimples and all – except for her eyes. They looked sad, tired, like she had carried the weight of the world on her shoulders for a long, long time.

The angel had magically whisked Mikey out of the woods and into a place he couldn’t begin to describe, the kind of place that only a child’s imagination can truly do justice. It wasn’t Heaven; this was

better

, like a spaceship in the movies! There he stood, in this magical place, confronting this gorgeous vision of a woman - with his shorts around his ankles. He was so embarrassed, he wished he

had

peed the bunk instead. The angel was good about it. She bit her lower lip and only smiled a little as the child pulled his shorts up. The beautiful angel with the sad, tired eyes took Mikey’s hand, sat him down, and told him a story. Before returning him to the woods, the angel made him promise:

never again!

The First Day

She had been feet-dry on that desert rock only six hours. They had clashed twice already. These had been probes, really. They were feeling each other out, testing for strengths and weaknesses.

Reconnaissance

. That was nothing new for her; she had practiced the craft for a long, long time.

At six feet, she was no Shrinking Violet. Still, he was bigger, broader. Not Shaq-sized, by any means; but really solid. He was strong, too. Two hours on, her jaw still ached – and that had been a

glancing

blow. She had seen the sweeping roundhouse right from her peripheral vision and had spun in the opposite direction, away from the punch – almost. The last time she had seen that many stars had been… well, a long time ago. But that had been on another planet.

The Golganthan, as the Praetor had called him, was of porcine evolution, but not like any friendly farmyard Hampshire hog. Forget about Porky Pig, too. This one was more like a surly, three-hundred-pound Arkansas Razorback with tusks to match. Still, he was bipedal, intelligent, and she had learned to stay out of range of those massive arms. His bulk made him slower and his limbs were jointed. That was one point of vulnerability, as her spinning foot sweep had proven. How’s your head, Sparky? If you want to be King of

this

Hill, you’re gonna have to work for it.

Who gave a rat’s ass about

this

place? It was just another nameless, faceless battlefield, like all the rest. It was the ‘hill’ back home she was worried about. The rules of the contest were simple. There were two of you; one from Earth, one from Golgantha.

You fought. You won – or you died. The catch was, if

you

died, so did your planet – the

whole

planet, and all life on it. Gee, no pressure

there

…. Oh, by the way; the entire Arcturan Empire was watching you, real-time. Offices and stores closed. They even let the kiddies out of school. Wasn’t that special?

The Praetor had shown her the real-time holographic image of the starship, in orbit high above Arcturus Prime. The engineer in her admired its clean, elegant lines. It was a beautiful ‘styling statement’ – if you ignored fact that it was designed to

destroy planets

. The ship had its own portal generators; it could be anywhere in the charted Universe in moments. The Praetor assured her the coordinates for Golgantha – and Earth – had already been plotted and locked into the cruiser’s mainframe. She had asked the Praetor what they called the ship. He told her “1jb29742GL385W9.” She glibly asked if they called it “1jb” for short. That hadn’t gone over well.

A contestant started with nothing. As you proved your worth, you gained access to food, medical kits, clothing and other logistical supplies, increasingly complex and lethal weaponry, even teammates. To her, it sounded like one of those wretched kids’ video games – or a bad episode of

Star Trek

. Apparently, the Arcturans ate this stuff up.

The Praetor had conducted a quasi-interview, asking her name, occupation and a little about herself, in order to introduce her to her ‘audience’. He had made a big deal about her being unemployed.

Yeah, thanks, Buster; it’s a real joy for me, too

. He then asked about the special significance of her middle name in her culture. What famous person or persons had carried that name? There were a few, she knew, but no one that really stood out. She asked what significance that might have?

The Praetor avowed that in Arcturan culture, those who carried a famous middle name were thought to carry the qualities of that famous person, if not being the actual reincarnation. This was an especially popular tradition within their warrior class. She smiled sadly and shook her head, not really surprised this particular piece of macho bullshit extended beyond her own race. She observed out loud she thought that was the dumbest thing she had ever heard – which was probably not the smartest thing

she

had ever done. She started The Tournament with nothing but the clothes on her back – and the determination to win, no matter what.

In her initial inspection of the area, she had found a cave, which she now called ‘home’. An investigation of the cave itself had turned up a nearly endless maze of rear passages and chambers. One chamber had a running spring. She hesitated to drink from it without the proper testing equipment or even decon tablets. Still, she

was

thirsty and the Praetor had indicated The Arena would provide at least minimal life support.

She decided to take a chance. She was rewarded with the coldest, slightly sweet water she had tasted in a long time. It was almost like Lake Michigan water, the way it had been in her childhood - before the ocean-going ships and industrial plants had polluted it. At least, she wouldn’t die of thirst. She wondered if her opponent (she thought he was male) had found similar accommodations and imagined he had.

They had each taken their lumps in their two short, frenzied encounters. She had not dwelled on the minor injuries. With the help of her spirit guide, she would heal quickly. The Praetor contacted her, via holographic projection. He had complimented them both on their display of unarmed combat. She hadn’t really shown them

anything

; at this early stage, she didn’t want them to know what she was capable of.

They would each be granted two edged weapons; a sword and hand knife. All she had to do was ask and/or describe them, the Praetor had said, and they would appear. She should not bother asking for more lethal weaponry at this stage because it would not be granted.

In addition, the Praetor had intoned, they would each receive one teammate of Arcturan choosing. It was an unusual move at this stage of the game, he related, but they were – how did you humans put it? – ‘tweaking’ the rules to make it more interesting.

Yeah, right. C’mere, Bud; I’ll give you a ‘tweak’ you will NEVER forget!

She could just imagine the kind of ‘teammate’ they were going to saddle her with, but she would worry about that when the time came. As for the

weapons

, that choice was

easy

….

Within moments of describing where to find it, her

shinobikatana

was there: forty-two inches overall, with long, cloth-wrapped handle, wide, square

tsubo

handguard, and a black

saya

scabbard that sheathed a straight, single-edged blade. Unlike others of its kind,

this

blade had been folded two hundred times during forging for additional strength, in the traditional

samurai katana

manner.

Sharp?

Oh, yeah

. Flesh or bone made little difference; it was all in the technique. This was neither a ceremonial prop nor a decoration meant to hang over a fireplace. This was a working weapon whose predecessors had seen thirteen centuries of continuous service in the hands of other

ronin

. She had worked hard on developing her

kobudo

skills – but she wasn’t going to tell the Praetor

that

, either.

Instead of a traditional

tanto

, she chose a more modern knife, one she had grown to trust through

her

years of service; the double-edged Gerber Mark II. The knife went on her belt. The customized harness on the sword’s scabbard allowed her to drape it diagonally across her back and secure it in place, allowing her to draw the sword smoothly over her left shoulder.

She felt the ripple in the fabric of space behind her. It was a portal opening and closing; she knew that from the experience of her own transport to this place. There was no mistaking that tingly, almost crawling sensation. She sensed, rather than saw the presence behind her. She didn’t know what it was, but it was

alive

.

No untrained human eye would have been able to comprehend the speed and grace of her movement. It was as though she had turned herself inside-out. One moment, she had been facing the cave’s entrance; the next, she was facing it’s inner recesses in the forward stance, back straight, back leg extended, sword held firmly in hand-over-hand grip, extended straight forward, edge parallel to the ground. That edge rested lightly against the side of his neck. Her surprise nearly equaled his. They stood there for several moments, openly gaping at each other.

Finally, he glanced sideways, and slightly down.

“Thank you, but I have

already

shaven today.”

She flushed red and lowered, then spun the blade around to smoothly re-sheathe it over her shoulder. He dabbed at his neck, noting the thin trickle of blood. She fumbled for the cloth at her belt – and an apology. She offered him both.

“Um, sorry. I wasn’t expecting company so soon.”

“I’m rather glad you

weren’t

. I wouldn’t fancy the cauldrons of boiling oil streaming down from the parapets.”

Maybe she could convince him she had

really bad

sunburn; she was certainly red enough at that moment. Damn, this wasn’t like her

one bit

. She was

never

this nervous around men.

Then again, this wasn’t just

any

man. She had only seen pictures of him before; film or videotape footage from the nightly news. He was even better-looking in person. She knew he was in his early twenties, just finishing college. He had opted for military service, in his family’s tradition, but had not yet reported for duty. That explained, in part, how he could be here now. He was tall, like her; slender, yet firm. That blonde hair and those steel blue eyes made him look so much like his late mother….

He had

nothing

to compare her to. He couldn’t remember seeing another woman like her,

ever

. He could tell the Platinum hair was fairly long, but she wore it tightly pulled back, rolled into a bun and clipped in place with a kind of clamshell-like contrivance that kept it firmly balled up. She was, what? Nineteen? Twenty? Flawless complexion, thin, high-arched eyebrows, huge, wide-set sapphire-blue eyes that pulled up and back at the corners,

killer

cheekbones over a model-chic indented mid-face, narrow, delicate nose, and wide, over-full lips. Her rare smiles flashed hints of the most gorgeous dimples at the corners of her mouth. There was something about her that was absolutely –

magnetic

.

He stood almost exactly eye-to-eye with her, but well over half her height was

legs

– and that

body!

She reminded him of one of those American exotic dancers - or one of Hajime Sorayama’s warrior women. He was more than a bit apprehensive. He was face-to-face with this stunning, sexy-looking woman with sword on her back and knife at her belt. He knew nothing about her - and his security detail was nowhere in sight.

Old habits

…. Still, he couldn’t help but stare in wonder at the vision before him.

She had felt like a deer frozen in oncoming headlights. Gradually, she became aware his focus had shifted. She followed the direction of his gaze to…

dammit!

Why did men always

do that?

You would think he had never seen a pair of EE’s before in his life! Being human, she sometimes forgot her body had been intentionally designed to elicit

exactly

that reaction. Her eyes narrowed. He felt the weight of her gaze and averted his. It was his turn to be embarrassed.

“My apology. That was inappropriate of me.”

She signed expressively. Her chest heaved.

“It’s OK, she avowed. “It’s not like it hasn’t happened before. Anyway, welcome to my nightmare.”

“Erm, thank you,” he professed. “I confess I am a little bit flustered by all of this. I was locked away in my room at college, studying for final examinations. Then, suddenly, I was here - wherever ‘here’ is – confronting a beautiful woman holding a sword to my throat. Usually, that doesn’t happen until at least the

second

date.”

She laughed. He did, too.

“So, where is ‘here’?” he inquired. “How did I get here – and why?”

“I can’t answer the first question,” she responded. “As to the second and third….”

She told him what she knew, as the Praetor had explained it to her.

The Tournament had a long, proud tradition on Arcturus Prime. Their Elders had decided on this action as a necessary replacement for generations of endless internecine, then interstellar warfare that had been draining their planet’s resources and population. They had stabilized the borders of the Arcturan Empire by naked force. Arcturus Prime itself basked within its planetary force field. With the ‘shields’ raised, the planet was impervious to all outside attack. Any planet incurring Arcturan displeasure received a visit from “1jb” – and was pulverized. So, the other planets toed the Arcturan line. With major conflict with the other worlds gone, the Arcturans had begun The Tournament to satisfy their collective bloodlust without turning on each other.

Originally, the contestants had been drawn from the war-like Arcturan race itself. They fought to the death, however long it took, and that was that. As time passed, that formula had gotten stale. They needed a new thrill to keep it fresh. Progress, and the introduction of Portal technology, had made that possible. They could instantly transport anything from any point in the Universe to any other point through a precisely-calculated ‘wormhole’ that could be opened and closed at will. The inclusion of portal generators on their spacegoing vessels – such as ‘1jb’ – rendered “warp drive” and other such concepts obsolete.

Now, the conflict was waged by representatives chosen from savage, emerging races culled from among the many that dotted the Universe. Previous military experience was acceptable – given Arcturan tradition, it was almost

de rigueur

– but current service was not. The Arcturans considered it more entertaining if the contestants were ‘average Joes’, not hardened professionals. A raw, undeveloped planet whose environment could provide at least basic life support for both contestants was chosen as the ‘arena’.

All things in consideration, he took it rather well.

“Then we and these –

Golganthans

, you said? – were chosen at random?”

“

They

were. As I understand it, we – Humankind – were champions once before.”

“We’ve done this

before?

” When? I’ve never heard of it.”

“According to the Praetor, that was about two millennia ago, Earth time. I got the impression the last time had been a big laugh and they are ready for an

encore performance.

”

“Damn! They really intend to destroy Earth?”

“Only if we

lose

. I don’t intend to do that.”

“I should say not! So, these Arcturans just plucked me out of thin air?”

“The polite term would be ‘random chance’. The impolite term would be ‘blind, idiot luck’. I rather think

bad

luck on your part.”

She still couldn’t believe it herself. Of all the men in the world for the Arcturans to pair her with – if it was to be a man at all - they had selected

this one

. What were the odds?

“Do you have any idea why they picked

you

?”

She sighed expressively.

“Since the last ‘Earther’ was

male

, they thought it might be amusing to see what a

female

of our species can do. Of course, the stakes will remain the same, win or lose.”

“Of course.”

“As for why

me

, as opposed to any other woman on Earth, well, I guess I was just in the right place at the right time.”

“That is a curious way of looking at it.”

“Perhaps, but I would rather be here, determining my own fate, than sitting at home while someone I don’t know has my life in their hands – and I am not even aware of it.”

“I see your point.”

There was a long, pregnant pause in the conversation.

“It’s going to be a little awkward,” she began. “I mean, your title….”

He shook his head.

“Don’t,” he reassured her. “I hear that all day, every day. To tell you the truth, I get fed up with it. There is a time and place for it and, apparently, this is neither. Since it appears to be just the two of us here, would you please call me

Geoff

? My family and friends do.”

“I would be honored, although you will have to forgive me from time to time if I call you

Geoffrey

. I rather like the sound of that.”

“Coming from your lips, I rather do, too.”

“You flatter me, Sir. Anyway, I’m Giselle.”

“

Giselle?

What an enchanting name! What is the rest of it?”

“Uh, Giselle… René Du Mont.”

“Then you are French? Or

Québécois?

I thought for certain you were American.”

“I am.”

“Then, this is your… stage name? I mean, you

look

like an actress.”

The corners of her mouth twitched upward.

“You could say that.”

“In any event, it is lovely and suits you.”

“Thank you,

Your Roy… Geoff

. I appreciate that.”

She had said it so matter-of-factly, as though she hadn’t even been aware of the change in her speech. Geoff immediately noted the broad vowels, clipped consonants and sibilant “c”. lifted an eyebrow.

“Why did you do that just now?”

“Do what?”

“That. The accent. It was like you turned a switch and suddenly, you sounded… well,

British

.”

She looked puzzled a moment. She shrugged her shoulders a little.

“Oh. I

am

sorry. It is just that, when I am around people, I tend to pick up their accents and inflections and begin using them. I am not attempting to mock you in any way. I just try to…

blend in

. I was taught to do that.”