Fair Play

Kenneth A. Kousen

In the cold of the desert night, two figures huddled shivering around a flickering fire. At first glance, they looked rather alike. Both were of medium height and medium build. Both had dark hair and dark eyes. Both leaned in closely to the fire, in an effort to warm themselves.

Closer examination, however, revealed striking differences between the two men. The face of one showed an expression of worry and fear, as though expecting at any moment to be attacked. His eyes darted from side to side, peering into the darkness. His ears heard every sound, both real and imagined, from the scampering of small burrowing animals to the whistling of the wind through the rolling tumbleweed.

The other man, by contrast, was calm. He too shivered, but from the cold instead of fear. His face looked placid, except for an eerie smile. He leaned his shoulder towards the first man and spoke.

"You do not have a choice, Vol. If you are going to survive this night, you must kill me," he said.

"Shut up, Aanoch," Vol replied.

"You know full well that I would kill you if I were able. You can not watch me all night. I assure you that the first chance I get, I will slit your throat." He leaned back, satisfied.

Vol jumped to his feet. "Damn it, I said shut up! I will listen to no more of your foul treachery. If you are not silent, I will---"

"You will what? Kill me? Fine." He grinned. "Like I said, it is really your only option."

With a growl, Vol stormed away, but the cold and the darkness prevented him from venturing too far from the fire. Instead, he paced back and forth, beating his arms with his hands to keep his circulation going. Aanoch watched him intently, trying to make eye contact. Vol finally looked up, and for a moment the two stared at each other. Aanoch suddenly grinned, and lunged toward the fire.

"No!" Vol yelled, running to his aid. He grabbed Aanoch by the blanket that was wrapped around him, and threw him back onto to the ground. In the process, the blanket surrounding Aanoch fell away,

The loss of the blanket revealed another difference between the two men. Aanoch was bound hand and foot with heavy ropes.

He laughed. "You see?" he said. "You can not stop me forever. If you untie me, I will kill you. If you do not, I will find a way to kill myself. If you leave me in the desert alone, I will freeze to death. One way or another, I will be dead by morning." He paused. "And you will pay the penalty."

"You are insane. I can not help that."

"It does not matter. You will die."

Vol trembled, both from the cold and from anger. "Does your life mean nothing to you?" he said.

Aanoch grinned at him. "On the contrary," he replied. "My life is most precious. But my death means more. My death accomplishes your own, and that is a sacrifice I am willing to make."

"But what of your clan? Would you sentence them to death as well? Have you no honor?"

For the first time, the smile left Aanoch's face. "Do not talk to me about honor, you Hull cur. Your clan knows nothing about it. It is we who shall die, to a man if necessary, to achieve the extinction of the Hull clan."

Vol's eyes flashed menacingly. He seized the blanket from the ground and advanced towards Aanoch, poised to smother the bound man. Aanoch watched him calmly.

"Good," Aanoch said. "Inefficient, but effective." He bared his neck to his opponent, and closed his eyes.

With a scream of frustration, Vol threw the blanket at Aanoch and stormed off. He looked back just in time to see Aanoch moving toward the fire once again. Vol ran back and pulled Aanoch away.

"Now stop that, will you?" He grabbed Aanoch by the rope binding his wrists and dragged him away from the camp into the darkness. Aanoch made no move to interfere. Instead, he began whistling an odd, rambling tune. Vol dropped him about thirty paces from camp and returned to the fire. He sat down heavily.

"You can freeze for all I care!" he yelled to Aanoch, who just continued whistling a tuneless, melancholy song.

The Cooperation Duel was formed to accomplish what centuries of ceaseless fighting had not---the safety of people fortunate enough to have been born in a clan other than that of Hull and Malmeus. Prior to its establishment, the twin clans of Hull and Malmeus had fought an unending war of revenge and counterrevenge, each side performing successively worse acts of brutality until the senses became dulled to the horrors. Children of each clan were taught the use of weapons at an early age and then loosed upon one another. Those who survived were hard and strong, and completely dedicated to the destruction of the other side. Each atrocity brought new cries of vengeance; an eye for an eye trying to make the whole world blind.

Though many outside clans deplored the violence, the majority of the people took no action. Rather, they felt that the overall good was best served by having the Hulls and the Malmeusians continue to kill each other until both were gone, thus eliminating the problem. Unfortunately, however, innocent outsiders had a habit of `getting in the way' of traps left by one warring clan for the other. Such casualties started occurring with increasing frequency, and when Iir, the only son and heir of the plutarch, died in a Hull explosion, the situation had degenerated too far.

The plutarch wanted to stop the fighting entirely, but he knew that was impossible. Instead, he hit upon an ingenious compromise: The Cooperation Duel. Any time a member of each clan came into conflict, they were captured by the plutarch's troops, bound together, and sent into the desert at the Tir Oasis. Their only hope for escape was to reach, on foot, the Oasis of Sil, which lay forty miles to the southwest, deep in the heart of the desert. The ultimate requirement, however, was that they must reach this goal TOGETHER. Neither side was allowed to leave without the other. If either emerged alone, he was put to death and his nearest clansman was sent out in his place. This process would continue until either a Hull and a Malmeusian both arrived at Sil, alive and together, or until there were no members of either clan left to be banished into the desert. Either way, the fighting would be over.

Naturally, both the Hull and Malmeus clans protested. They soon realized, however, that the weight of public opinion (and, far more importantly, the power of the plutarch's army) was against them. In addition, some of the more aggressive members of each clan viewed the prospect of single combat in the desert with enthusiasm. Among the most vocal of these were Vol, eldest son of the Casar of Clan Hull, and Aanoch, Warrior Chieftan of Clan Malmeus. They were sentenced to be the first pair sent into the desert; to emerge together, or not at all.

Vol slumped listlessly in front of the fire. He was no longer sure how long they had been in the desert. He only knew that what had seemed to be an adequate amount of supplies was nearly exhausted. He thought about this, and decided for the hundredth time that this must be due to Malmeusian trickery and sabotage. He certainly didn't remember using them himself, although he was forced to admit that there were several blank periods of time in his own memory since their entry into the desert.

Staring into the fire tired him. Slowly, his eyelids drooped downward and his head fell forward. A thought jolted him. If he slept now, he realized that Aanoch would freeze to death before he reawakened.

"Just a few minutes, or maybe half an hour," he muttered. "Surely Aanoch can survive that. Let him suffer, anyway."

"He will not survive. His condition is as bad as yours."

Vol rose with a start. He looked around in panic for the source of the answering voice.

"Over here," it said.

He whirled around. Directly behind him, leaning with one leg propped upon a rock, was the Stranger. He was dressed in desert garb, and had a heavy, dark beard that flecked with grey. He looked relaxed and confident, and his eyes bore into Vol with painful intensity.

"Who are you?" Vol asked.

The Stranger raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. "You do not remember?"

"No, of course not. Where did you . . . ." Vol's voice trailed off into silence. The Stranger did seem vaguely familiar, but Vol couldn't quite place him.

"No matter. Place another log on the fire and we will talk."

Mystified, but too tired to argue, Vol complied. The Stranger moved toward the fire and warmed himself. "Feel better now?" he asked.

Vol realized that he did feel better. Much of the fear had left him, and with it, much of his exhaustion. He nodded.

"Good. Then you realize that there is a solution to your dilemma."

"There is?" Vol asked, astonished. "What is it? I must know."

The Stranger regarded him with a wry smile. "You do know. You just don't remember it yet."

"Damn you, don't give me any of your riddles! Just tell me the answer." Vol thumped the ground in frustration. "I am in no mood to be trifled with."

The Stranger yawned and stretched elaborately. "All right, ask me yes-or-no questions and I will try to answer."

"I do not wish to play any foolish games."

The Stranger didn't reply.

Vol sighed. "Who are you?"

"Yes."

"Yes? What kind of an answer is `yes'?"

"No?" the Stranger inquired.

Vol rolled his eyes. "Very well, have it your way. Do I know you?"

"Yes."

"Are you a member of my clan?"

"Yes."

"Are you related to me?"

"Yes."

"Yes? That is impossible. I do not recognize you at all. How can you be related to me?"

The Stranger simply looked at him.

The shivers that had left at the Stranger's arrival now returned. Vol rose and paced back and forth in front of the fire. Suddenly he stopped and stared in awe at the Stranger.

"Are you real?" he asked, quietly.

"Real enough," the Stranger replied. "Look, leave me out of it for the time being, will you? Aanoch is dying and you are wasting time."

Vol turned and looked toward where he had left his bound companion. He realized that the whistling had stopped some time ago. "I should just let him die," he muttered.

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"Then I should go save him?"

"Yes."

Vol spat in disgust. "Surely you are not telling me I should forget all of the Malmeusian crimes and walk out of here with him."

The Stranger smiled. "No. I said that there was a way out of YOUR dilemma. Not necessarily out of HIS."

A light dawned on Vol's face, as though a long-suppressed memory had forced its way to the surface. He smiled an evil smile. "Yes," he said.

"Yes," he answered.

When Aanoch regained consciousness, his immediate reaction was to cry out with joy and relief. The frost demons that had haunted his nightmares had treated him with contempt, both for bringing about his own death, and for condemning others in his clan to the same fate. The horrible image of his younger brother Roul staggering in the desert, dying of thirst, had shaken him to the core. How foolish he had been, to force such an end on his own brother!

The image of death still hovered just beyond the horizon. Aanoch shuddered. It was one thing to speak of defying death with bravery; it was quite another thing to actually have to face it. His mind rebelled at the memory. He turned away, and accidentally looked directly into the nearby fire.

Nearby fire? he thought with astonishment. He then realized that the ropes binding his wrists and ankles were gone. He was covered with a blanket, resting next to the fire in their encampment. He sat up abruptly and rubbed his stiffened joints.

"Feeling better?" said a voice behind him.

Aanoch turned and faced the speaker. It was Vol, but somehow not the Vol he had left. This Vol did not fear the darkness. Instead, he seemed to welcome it. This Vol laughed malevolently.

"Can you move?" Vol asked.

"Yes, I believe so," Aanoch answered, flexing his legs. "You saved me," he said, surprised.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"So I can exact my revenge."

With a laugh, Vol lunged toward Aanoch. Aanoch barely had time to stagger to his feet and dodge the unexpected onslaught. Vol rushed toward him again, fists flailing. One struck Aanoch on the jaw, and he lost his balance. In the process, however, he managed to trip Vol, whose momentum carried him forward until he landed in a heap a few yards away. As Vol started to rise, Aanoch looked around desperately for some way to protect himself. He saw the pile of torchwood off to the left, and seized a log. Swinging it back and forth, he yelled at Vol.

"Stay away! I don't want to have to kill you!"

Vol stood and began talking to himself.

"He really doesn't want to kill me, does he?" he said.

"Yes," he answered.

Vol laughed hysterically and jumped at Aanoch, who swung the torchwood at Vol's legs. He connected with a sickening thud, and Vol collapsed, still laughing. Crippled as he was, he began crawling towards Aanoch.

"Get away!" Aanoch yelled, but Vol kept coming forward. Aanoch ran to the other side of the fire, where he found the ropes that had until recently bound his own limbs.

"Stop!" he said. "I mean it. Do not make me tie you up."

Vol continued his crawl. With a scream of frustration, Aanoch ran to Vol. He managed to dodge Vol's punches and bites long enough to bind his wrists. Hurt or not, Vol tried to kick him, and Aanoch was forced to bind his ankles as well. He dragged Vol over to a rock in front of the fire and left him there.

Vol appeared to calm down, but as the adrenalin left his system he began to shiver. Aanoch picked up the discarded blanket and wrapped it around Vol's shoulders.

"There," Aanoch said. "Now be quiet and let me think." He moved toward the other side of the fire and sat down.

"You do not have a choice, Aanoch. If you are going to survive this night, you must kill me," Vol said.

Aanoch stared at him in astonishment. "What did you say?" he said.

"I will kill you the first chance I get. You can not watch me all night." He leaned back, satisfied.

Angry, Aanoch jumped to his feet. "No! Do not do this! Stop, or I will be forced---"

"To do what? Kill me? Fine." He grinned. "Like I said, it's really your only option."

"Please!" Aanoch begged. "We must stop this. We must break the cycle, or we will be doomed to repeat it until we both die. Does that not matter to you?"

Vol grinned at him. "Certainly," he replied. "My life is most precious. But my death means more. My death accomplishes your own, and that is a sacrifice I am willing to make."

Aanoch pulled his hair in frustration. "But what of your clan? Would you sentence them to death as well? Have you no honor?"

The smile left Vol's face. "Do not talk to me about honor, you Malmeusian cur. Your clan knows nothing about it. It is we who shall die, to a man if necessary, to achieve the extinction of the Malmeusian clan."

"You are not listening! You have not heard a word I have said!"

Vol leaned in ominously toward the fire.

Realizing what he intended, Aanoch ran toward him and pulled him away from the fire. He dragged him about thirty paces into the desert, and dumped him onto the ground. He returned to the camp and collapsed. He looked dejectedly into the fire, and listened as Vol in the distance whistled an off-key, melancholy tune.

"We are lost," Aanoch said out loud. Tears began to pour from his eyes. "I can not save him, or he will kill me. I can not kill him, or I and others of my clan will die. Somebody please tell me what to do."

"You must save him," said the Stranger.

Aanoch whirled around and faced him. "What?"

"Surely you realize there is a way out of your dilemma."

"There is? What is it? I must know."

"You do know," the Stranger replied. "You just do not remember."

Aanoch covered his face with his hands. "Of course I remember, but I do not wish to. The cycle must be broken."

"You would rather die?"

Once again, Aanoch saw the Spectre of Death hovering over him, and he could not face it. Aanoch's shoulders slumped forward. He desperately wanted to say yes, but he knew he could not. "No," he said. "I will do what I must. Yes," he said.

"Yes," he replied, as his mind slipped back into the madness.

Kenneth A. Kousen is an Associate Research Engineer at United Technologies Research Center in East Hartford, CT. When he's not writing fiction, he works on computational models for the aerodynamics inside turbomachinery. Of the two, he says, writing is much harder.

kak%utrc@utrcgw.utc.com

Quanta is Copyright(c)1994 Daniel K. Appelquist.
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