Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Two words. Nothing else.
He turns the envelope over, then puts it down and picks up the ornate Kaldotarnib honour blade and turns that over before sliding it from the scabbard. He makes a few passes in the air, finishing with a swift double strike move. Closing his eyes, he touches the hilt to his forehead, then sheathes it.
A priceless artefact from a bitter war that still rages, accompanied by a mystery message.
He puts the blade down and picks up the envelope. When it first arrived, he’d joked with the courier about including a letter opener. That would be tantamount to sacrilege. He pulls his dagger and slices the top edge of the envelope off, then peers inside.
Tipping the single sheet onto the table, he rotates it with point of the dagger until the words become legible.
Hello, you shovel-jawed bastard, it’s Nat.
These days I’m Flag Sergeant Reece of the 51st Highlanders, but I sometimes wake wondering why you or one of your gang haven’t tipped me onto the floor.
Then I realise college days are nine years past. Well, in my timeline anyway. Not sure what the time difference from FTL transit has done on your side. One of my techs reckons it’ll be nearer thirty years for you.
Wondering why I sent you a letter? Just read it once. You owe me that much, fucker.
Don’t know what they’re telling you on the home worlds, but we are actually winning most of the time. Just my bad luck to be here for one of the times we won’t.
The Kaldotarnib are as ferocious as you’ve no doubt been told. They’re also weirdly honour-bound. Which is how you got this letter, and a beautiful blade along with it. You see, we’re stuck on Agral 3. The locals switched sides a week ago. We’ve been scrambling to get our non-combatants offworld ever since. Despite moments of glory, we’ve been massacred.
I’m huddled in a wrecked building with the last of my own. We’re all writing. There’s no way eighteen of us can stall the advance. If they keep going, the civilians crammed into the spaceport will be slaughtered.
So we’ve challenged the Kaldotarnib to an honour tournament. By their codes, those certain to be defeated can redeem their honour by facing a succession of combatants, providing they kill at least one of them.
They’ve stopped their advance while eighteen of us die in ritual single combat with Kaldotarnib bladekin. If we manage to slay one or more, the honour blade of our first kill is granted to our family, along with the last letter. If we don’t, the letter is burned along with the corpse. More importantly, us fighting one at a time will give the transports time to lift and FTL out.
It’s so fucking sad that you’re the only person I have to send this to. I left because of the bullying. Couldn’t even come back when my parents died.
I raged against you for so long. Oddly, it made me tougher. Made me kick the crap out of the bullies I came across. Nobody should have to go through what you put me through.
But –
Those kickings revealed the bullies had problems of their own. That made me think. Eventually, it made me let my rage go. Made me want to ask what fucked you up so badly.
So here it is –
Have you escaped your demons, Jon?
I hope you have. I really do.
Take care of yourself,
Nat.
Jon wipes away tears, then whispers into the silence.
“Bastard… Sorry.”