The Hangman's Revolution (W.A.R.P. 2)

“You will die because the Blessed Colonel wishes it,” she said calmly to Otto.

“I cannot grapple this one,” Malarkey objected. “She ain’t right in the noggin. This ain’t our way.”

Box did not bother to respond, and there was not a man in the room so noble that he did not want these two beasts to clash—except Otto, of course—and his opinion hardly mattered now, not when there was bloody entertainment to be had.

And as a bonus, thought Box, with the dry satisfaction of a chess master who has outmaneuvered a tricky opponent, what better way to ready my men for war than with a gladiatorial contest followed by an execution?

Vallicose stretched out her neck and cracked her knuckles. “Are you prepared for hell, heathen?”

This was a rhetorical question, but if Malarkey were to respond, he would admit to being far from ready. He understood suddenly the ramifications of this contest. Even if he battered this warrior woman, he would lose face with the Rams, for fighting a female for the crown was one of the embargoes he himself had introduced (fighting females at other times could not always be avoided). And if he lost to Vallicose, then he was dead anyway. It was a hopeless situation.

Vallicose punched straight out from her shoulder, and Malarkey barely managed to step wide of the blow.

Close. Very close. Otto felt the hiss from the attack as Vallicose’s fist sailed past his ear.

“Ooooooh,” said the soldiers, and:

“Zounds.”

“What ho.”

“A sov on the lady.”

Perhaps the situation is not hopeless after all, he thought. There is, mayhap, a solution. A painful solution.

Vallicose was a little overcommitted to the blow and a step off balance, and so Malarkey prodded her shoulder with a single finger, sending her tripping forward.

“Careful, girlie,” he said. “This is a genuine fight yer in now.”

Vallicose snorted and shook herself like a bull, then she threw back an elbow that would have nearly decapitated Malarkey if he hadn’t slapped it away with his palm.

“I’ll give you that one, too,” said Malarkey. “Another man would be for punishing you, but I is a gent. A commodore, if you must know.”

Yes, Malarkey was laying on the glib, but he knew a man only got so many blocks and dodges with a scrapper of this caliber; Vallicose’s skill was clear from her speed and carriage.

If I wakes up tomorrow, I will be waking up stiff and sore, Otto thought ruefully.

Malarkey avoided a couple more swings without once attempting to land a blow himself, but his luck ran out on the fifth assault, when Vallicose caught him with a vicious straight-fingered jab to the kidneys—there wasn’t a creature on the planet who could shrug that off with a grin. All Malarkey could do was pray that his insides were not ruptured and drop into a genuflection, giving Vallicose the perfect opportunity to follow her jab with a powerhouse sock to the jaw. Most souls would have left the body at this point, and even the great Golgoth was put flat on his back minus a tooth. He took himself a long moment to let the stars clear, then he climbed slowly to his feet.

“A little advice, sister,” he said, his head hanging to his chest, blood dripping from his lips. “Punch from the stomach. I know that sounds like gibberish, but it’s sound counsel.”

Vallicose danced around him. She could smell victory. This was a fine sample of the holy carnage to come this day.

“I hope you have made your peace, heathen,” she said, and she threw out a kick that Otto managed to knock aside with his wrist.

The mood of the crowd was a strange one. The Rams had wanted Malarkey nobbled and no mistake, but now damned if Otto wasn’t holding on to his principles in spite of the wrath being visited upon his person. He would not return fire on a woman for the crown.

Again and again Vallicose struck, and Malarkey either dodged the blow or did not. And when he did not the savagery took its toll, and it was clear that the Ram king could not endure much more trauma.

“Not bad,” he commented after one punch landed square on his ear, which must have stung like the devil’s brand. “From the stomach, see?”

Box was perplexed. Why would the man sacrifice himself so? Men generally gave up their own lives for one of two reasons: love, or principle. And Box found it difficult to believe that this glorified thug loved anyone enough to lay down his life. And as for principles? They were a tool, useful for justifying extreme behavior, and it was inconceivable that Malarkey would allow his own murder in the name of principle. And yet, here it was happening before him.

Unless.

Unless he was not willing to see himself murdered, but injured only.

Why? Why would he?

Of course, of course.

Box actually slapped his own forehead.

Distraction.

Box felt the cold shudder of understanding pass through him, and his eyes lifted to the ramp; he was relieved to see nothing. But then there was a movement.

There.

There was the boy, Riley, stealing toward his companion. This entire episode was a ruse.

“Get the boy!” he shouted into the mass of soldiers surrounding the brawl. “Stop him.”

But no one responded. One shout was much the same as another in this chamber of heaving humanity and violence.

Box grabbed the megaphone and pulled the trigger.

“Stop him, you idiots! Stop the boy.”

It took a moment for the message to filter through, and by this time Riley was out the door at the rear of the chamber, having abandoned his creep toward Chevie.

Box quickly revised his instruction. “To arms!” he shouted. “Positions, everyone. The Revolution begins in one minute. Forget the boy. Forget Malarkey.”

Perhaps it was part of the ruse to divide Box’s troops, to dilute their effectiveness. There was no need for coping strategies to deal with these interlopers. Their eventual deaths would simply be absorbed into the general massacre.

In the heart of the ruckus, Malarkey grinned.

“Ha,” he said, and from his bent-over position he punched Vallicose once above the right knee, which turned her entire leg to rubber and collapsed her on the spot.

“Count yerself fortunate that I am pressed for time,” he said, then ducked into the crowd, sparing one second to kick the man Peeble square in the rear end, lifting him to his tippy-toes.

“There you go, rat,” he said, dearly wishing he could linger and watch that lippy oaf Peeble writhe in the particular agony brought on by a spot-on bum kick, but this day was not won by a long shot. Otto plucked his trampled shirt from underfoot, sighing at the scuffs mashed into its silk, then slipped through the busy throngs, following Riley’s footsteps toward the underground dock where dear Lunka was waiting in something called an amphibious craft.

Box had a sudden premonition that the cogs of his finely tooled machination were spinning apart, and he was surprised that his ordered brain would even accommodate such things as premonitions.

A premonition is simply a considered consequence. A possible consequence.

Nothing had changed, he decided. The Revolution was inevitable.

Can it fail? he wondered, scanning his mind for concrete stumbling blocks.

No, he decided. Malarkey and Savano are but two loose cannons in a forest of automatic barrels. They will shortly be dead, and I will chastise myself for such inefficiency of thought.

He held aloft the radio detonator.

I will wait forty more seconds for my artillery to mount their vehicles, then blow the wall.

First the queen would die, and then the politicians.

How could the past prevail against the future? Impossible.

Box counted down, visualizing his soldiers loading up, checking each other’s equipment, and so forth. Seeing in his mind’s eye Malark