The crushing weight of that statement slammed through all the defenses he had carefully erected. Cutting straight, a saber thrust true to the heart.

Petr slowly swiveled his head (felt like the ratchety swivel of a worn gun turret zoning in to target) toward Jesup. The other tried to avoid his eyes, then seemed to suck in a breath and stare at him across the distance. Petr tried to find something within those depths to explain what happened, but he already knew. Knew and did not want to face it, any more than he wanted to face Jesup’s betrayal and the ultimate cost of that choice.

A memory from what seemed a lifetime ago surfaced. He had finally found Jesup without words; the wallowing almost broke him.

I did this. His callous arrogance would kill a valuable asset to the Clan: a valuable asset to him, a friend.

He stepped into the circle.

“Trial of Annihilation,” Petr said again. The words carved themselves in fire in the afternoon sky, unretractable, unforgiving, unrelenting. If Sha lost this battle, all those who stood with him would die, as would any sibkos carrying their genes. Every ounce of blood, every splice of gene that carried their tainted code would be spilled, expunged from the Clan’s genetic repositories and breeding programs. A surgeon’s practiced slice to remove the malignant tumor.

Such, after all, was the way of the Clans.

Such would be the way all would perish, the way Jesup would perish.

Sha nodded once, finally; a moan from amid the onlookers was the only sound.

Petr simply walked slowly toward Sha, who dropped into a low, stable stance, hands outstretched.

“You still do not look well,” Sha said. “Should we call a break first, have some fusionnaires to deaden the pain in your arm?”

Petr hesitated, confused. This talking did not fit Sha. Several scenarios rolled around in his head, but none could find purchase to materialize. Too much cotton still left, too much numbing and distance. He shrugged slowly, moved again, uncaring of the quick darts left and right made by Sha.

Almost within arm’s reach, Sha took a quick step forward and jabbed three times in succession at different parts of Petr’s body. Hammer right, chop left, thrust straight.

Petr countered each with a smooth deflection of hand and forearm, though a hair slower than Sha. Although Sha had a slim frame, his muscles were whipcords of strength and speed.

Taking a half step back, Petr tried to better gauge Sha, but felt hampered by his mind’s continued lack of interest. Of simple curiosity. It had utterly shut down upon learning of Jesup’s betrayal, was not yet recovered. He simply didn’t care. Yes, he would do his duty; he would save the Clan. But how he got from here to there no longer held interest for him.

Whether he got there, he cared not at all.

As though sensing easy prey caught in the shallows, Sha slinked left, trying to place himself into Petr’s right quarter and the weakened arm. Petr, still slack faced and unemotional, made no move to counter the tactic. With a twist kick and spin, Sha hammered a blow in toward Petr’s midsection, which his years of training deflected with a raised inward right leg and swung right arm; the dull ache spiked alive, a dragon awaking from slumber, unsheathing claw and tooth.

The two moved smoothly back and forth, trading blow for blow, with Sha landing more often, all concentrated on the weakened right side.

Through Petr’s disconnected haze, the shocks felt distant, delivered to a body viewed at arm’s length, outside of himself. Blood ran down a face not his own from a roundhouse splitting open skin under his left eye, right hand curled in three broken fingers he did not feel, torn ligaments in the right shoulder an outcry for a different face and name.

Three times he fell and each time rose.

The look on Sha’s face waxed and waned, from confidence, to arrogance, to frustration and now verged on something Petr could not put his finger on. Regardless, the fists and feet moved with preternatural speed, continued their incessant attempts to knock him down. To keep him down.

Though Petr delivered his own set of badges in return, he fell behind the damage delivered with gusto by Sha.

A particularly savage uppercut slipped past Petr’s ineffectual right-hand guard, connecting with his jaw and lifting him clean into the air before dropping him like a ’Mech with a destroyed gyro, splayed, to the ground.

Head ringing, fireworks exploding in eyes wide with anguish, Petr responded as his mind immediately rolled its disconnected body enough to the side that it could gain a purchase and began to lever itself back up.

“Stay down, surat!” Sha panted, standing at a kick’s distance. “Admit your defeat.”

Petr slowly swiveled swollen eyes in his direction, briefly felt the sting of sweat in the corners of his eyes, the copper hint of blood from broken teeth and torn gums.

Tried to understand the look on Sha’s face. Surprise. No. Fear? (Not a hint.) Disbelief. No, more. Awe.

Slowly maneuvered himself back to his feet, stood swaying for a moment; not even his mind’s indomitable will could ignore the massive trauma to his body indefinitely. Loss of blood and pain brought blackness that threatened to sweep away his cares.

Deep within the confines of such uncaring, a spark of Petr remained. The spark that cared. The spark that knew he had already paid the ultimate price for stopping Sha, for his own arrogance. Knew the price of his body a small notation on the balance sheet in an already giant column.

Clumsily moved forward.

“Stop,” Sha said again, grunting with his own pain and effort. “Admit defeat!” he thundered; Petr stopped in stunned disbelief at the completely out-of-character outburst. Another note entered Sha’s voice, something Petr could not place right away. Through the shrouds of pain that lay across his brain like a veil, it slowly surfaced: a cork popping up from too much pressure.

Respect. Honest, true respect. A warrior acknowledging the valor of another.

Creasing split lips, spitting out blood and a tooth, he gazed at Sha. Switched the gaze momentarily to Jesup, who stood impassively watching on the sidelines; dual epiphanies sprang into existence, grew and intertwined with verdant, desperate need. With understanding.

Nothing he could do would change the pain of Jesup’s betrayal. You could not expect someone, not even a Clansman, to serve for nothing; yet he made a choice as well.

Petr had already defeated Sha, shown him and those who followed him that whether Petr lived or died, regardless of the distances grown between the Khanates, the spirit of the Sea Fox Clan could not be broken, would never be sundered, not by forces without and certainly not by forces within. Realized that this strength flowed in him, could be tapped when all else failed.

Straightening, smiling, without anger, without pain or bitterness for the first time in long weeks, Petr responded, “I am Clan Sea Fox.”

Dragging in a deep breath to lungs starved of life, he launched one final assault.