The Last Stryker (Dark Universe Series Book 1) Read online

  The tip of her blade flashed red at contact, and electronic messages relaying the kill strike spread to the monitoring units. A shrill alarm blasted across the arena.

  Gotcha!

  At the sound of clapping, Ramya took her eyes off the crouching Armand Danukis and glanced at the stands ringing the spacious dueling arena. It had been near empty to begin with and it was still sparse now. Except for the trainer Maroni, who had burst into applause, there were three others who had come to cheer on Armand. They now sat with drooping faces. In addition, there was an unintroduced visitor in a dark blue coat who sat a distance away from Armand’s pals.

  Maroni held up a baton that glowed white, signaling the end of the duel. “Win to Kiroff,” he announced as he headed toward the ring.

  Armand rose to his feet and glowered. “A strike from the back, eh?” he said, baring his teeth in a vicious scowl. “Just what is expected from one of your house, come to think of it. You hearth-less vagrant insects are best at sneaking your way into other people’s territories when their backs are turned.”

  “I won fair and square, Danukis,” Ramya spat. While she cared little about the house that had never really respected her, an outsider—especially someone from a rival house like Danukis—calling her family names made her insides bristle.

  As with every Kiroff before her, being called “hearth-less” particularly stung. When the galaxy was settled hundreds of years ago, every noble family was given a piece of land where they built their hearth, erected their homes, and raised their families. Hearths were a family’s lifeline, an inheritance to be protected with life. Back in those days, when enmity and competition between houses wasn’t about wresting business deals from each other under cover of apparent civility, disputes often ended in usurping an enemy’s hearth. A hearth-less family was a refugee with no land to call their own, their nobility stripped off along with the lost land, their position reduced to bottom of societal approval. House Kiroff was unfortunate enough to lose their hearth.

  Callen Moanu, Ramya repeated the name in her mind, the name of the man who had snatched the Kiroff hearth, the name etched in the memory of every Kiroff since. Although it had happened a long time ago, and although the Kiroffs had re-built their fortunes and re-established themselves in galactic society once again, the original stigma remained fresh, thanks to people like Armand Danukis.

  “Quite like your father after all,” Armand went on as he pulled his protective headgear off. “He won the Carboni contracts just as fairly, last year and every year before that. He also won your mother’s hand honorably, didn’t he? Too bad the whore birthed a loser like you.”

  In all her seventeen years, Ramya had not known love of a mother. Nurses, governesses, boarding schools it had been, the mother Armand just called a whore was no more than Lady Sonya Kiroff to her, a dusky beauty and famous socialite whose demeanor turned icy whenever Ramya was near. All her life, Ramya had longed for her affection, and then learned to hate her with fervor. Yet, Armand’s insult lit a fire in her head in an instant. Her fists curled into balls and without a second thought, she swung as hard as she could and slammed her fist into Armand’s jaw making him teeter and fall to the shimmery mosaicked floor. Pain shot through Ramya’s hand and she winced, but the pain was worth it.

  “Kiroff,” shouted Maroni. He crossed the distance between the stands and the ring with long, powerful strides. “Stand down.”

  Boos rose from the stands. Danukis’s stupid posse, Ramya thought as she rubbed her hand.

  Maroni rushed over, grabbed her by the arm, and swung her around. “This is disgraceful, Kiroff,” he snapped. “Did you forget we have a visitor today?”

  Ramya stole a glance. The visitor, the white-haired man in blue with eyes to match, stood with his arms crossed. Behind him, Armand’s cronies were still booing to their heart’s content.

  “Stand up, Danukis.” Maroni stepped toward Armand. “Let’s look at you.”

  Armand was lying on the ground, balled up like an armadillo. What in the stars was he doing that for? It was just one punch. It couldn’t have done more than leave a bruise on his fat jaw.

  Her heart froze when Armand rose to his feet with a grunt. His gloved hands were clamped over his mouth and nose, and drops of blood trickled through his fingers and onto his combat suit.

  Not blood! Drawing blood was never good. That was a sure enough reason to be called to the administrator’s office.

  Maroni pressed a button on the talker clamped to his belt. “Send Medaid to Arena 4.”

  “You bitch,” Armand hissed, and Ramya’s fists curled once more. Armand took a step forward but stopped when more blood trickled down the front of his suit, staining the front of it brown.

  “Danukis,” Maroni warned. “Watch your conduct or I’ll have to send you to the admin’s office.”

  “Why?” Armand’s charcoal black eyes flashed. “Just because she’s the heiress of House Kiroff she gets a pass after wounding me like . . . this and you hold a simple word against me?”

  Ramya didn’t hesitate to shout back. “‘Bitch’ is a simple word now? You uncivilized lout.”

  Maroni held his arms up. “Stop! No one is getting a pass,” he informed. Ramya felt her trainer’s watery brown eyes rest briefly on her, but she didn’t care to meet his gaze. She knew his bushy brows would be pulled into a knot and his lips stretched into lines. A decorated veteran of the Locusta-Vanga war, Maroni was as rigid about honorable conduct as he might have been during his time in the forces. He was clearly outraged, but his anger was the least of Ramya’s worries. The real trouble was facing the admin.

  “She should be expelled from the Institute,” Armand said.

  Right. Like I’ve killed you or something. Regardless of the frivolity of her offense or its justification, she’d be punished. No doubt about that. She had drawn blood during training, after the duel was called, and in presence of a visitor. She was going to be suspended for sure. At least for a week.

  A pair of white-clad medics rushed in and Maroni clicked his heels at Ramya. “Let’s go, Kiroff.”

  He gently but forcefully pushed her along. They stepped off the stone floor of the arena and strode along the paved walkway that cut through the lush lawns of the Commerce, Administration, and Warcraft Strategy Institute, or CAWStrat, as it was known across the galactic colonies.

  “You’re taking me to the admin?” she asked as she and Maroni walked down the white-marbled corridors of the institute.

  Maroni’s jaws tightened. “Do you expect to go unpunished after that shameful conduct?”

  Ramya breathed in deep. Of course she didn’t, but her outburst was not without reason.

  “Armand insulted my house, my mother,” she said, hoping Maroni would reconsider. “I couldn’t just take it—”

  “A true statesperson knows better than to react to random slurs, Kiroff,” Maroni cut her off, his voice tight. “After two years at the CAWStrat, you should know that. Have you been paying heed to anything we’ve been teaching you?”

  She should’ve controlled her temper better. But that was easier said than done. Particularly with Armand, whose history with her family went back generations, as did the hostility. For more than a century, House Danukis had competed with House Kiroff over political, social, and financial influence across the galaxy, but they had never been able to outmaneuver the Kiroffs. The Danukis’ jealousy was not unwarranted and Armand’s animosity toward her not unexpected.

  Maroni’s steps slowed as the duo neared the double vaulted doors of the administrator’s office. Ramya kept her gaze away from the impressive but intimidating dark-amber wood panels. She’d seen them far too many times, and none of the previous visits had left pleasant memories.

  Please, God of the stars, let Leona be in a good mood. Leona Calibe, the administrator of the CAWStrat in charge of student activities, was hardly ever in a good mood.

  “Ready, Kiroff?” Maroni paused a moment at the door. The trainer’s gaze had soft
ened, but his sympathies were useless when facing Leona.

  Two assistants were buzzing around the silver-haired administrator when Maroni led Ramya into the sprawling chamber. Leona, clad in a white coat that was tailored to fit her slender, gaunt figure, was staring out the windows that overlooked CAWStrat’s perfectly manicured lawns, her whiteness in stark contrast to the rest of the room decorated in swaths of dark colors. Leona dismissed her assistants with a careless wave of her hand as soon as the visitors were announced.

  “Hello, Lady Ramya.” Her voice was as glacial as those pale blue eyes. “We meet again.”

  Ramya forced a curt smile. They had met two days ago and a week before that, both times because Ramya had protested against the fission capsules they used in the fuel unit of the training scramjets. While running a scan on the jets, she had found a weakness in its protective sheath. In normal mode, it was perfectly safe, but it could cause a catastrophe during a crash. The CAWStrat and Leona had refused to see the issue.

  “Drawn blood after the duel was called? That’s reaching for the bottom.”

  The news had reached her already. Not unexpected. The medics would’ve filed a report in the time it took for Ramya and Maroni to cross the arena and find their way in Leona’s office.

  “Even the presence of a visitor from the GSO didn’t deter you much, I see.”

  GSO? Ramya tried hard not to frown. The Galactic Special Ops was the premiere defense agency of the Galactic Confederacy, where most students of the CAWStrat hoped to score an internship. It was odd though that someone from the GSO would be observing a duel between juniors at the CAWStrat.

  Never mind that, Rami. Focus!

  Ramya pushed the nagging questions away. Right now she had to get out of Leona’s clutches . . . if she could.

  “Perhaps you ought to ask me why I was outraged?” Ramya said.

  Leona’s mouth fell open for a second and then she closed it forcefully, which Ramya thought resembled a crocodile’s jaws clamping over hapless prey. Next to Ramya, Maroni shifted on his feet.

  “Should I now?” Leona snapped.

  Her excuse hadn’t worked with Maroni, and there was little chance it’d work with Leona, but she had to try. “Armand Danukis besmirched my house, my mother.”

  A smile twisted Leona’s lips. “What Armand Danukis said is not the matter of this meeting. What we—”

  “How can you say that?” Ramya blurted. “What he said is the reason—”

  “Insolence! Seems like you’re intent on being a rebel instead of the statesperson we hope to make you,” Leona said. “Hardly the deportment of an heiress, and certainly not fitting the house you come from. You are nothing like the triumph this institute had in your father.”

  Some people just couldn’t help bringing up her father. The comparison wasn’t new though, her father had seen to that. Yet, it made her cringe every time.

  “I shudder to think of the possibilities,” Leona continued in a bristling monotone. “You seem like a lost cause. Reminds me of the disappointment I had in Lord Brynden.”

  Her father’s youngest brother was the dark sheep of the family. Just like Ramya, Brynden wasn’t “winner material.” While his two brothers excelled and thrived, it was said that Brynden had been swallowed by the prohibited dark arts while at the CAWStrat. Before he could graduate at eighteen with honors like his two brothers before him, Brynden had simply vanished. Ten years had passed, and no one had heard from the missing Kiroff. Rumor had it that Brynden had become an overlord at the Fringe—a bunch of quasi-autonomous star systems at the northern outskirts of Confederacy space.

  “Lord Brynden was always trouble. None of the brilliance one could expect of a great house. Now you, just like him.” Leona grated to a halt and glared, her stubborn chin pointing accusingly at Ramya.

  Maroni cleared his throat. “Armand Danukis was not exactly—” He stopped abruptly as Leona raised her hand.

  “That’ll be all, Trainer Maroni,” Leona said. “You may leave us now. I shall discuss this incident with you in a separate sitting.”

  As soon as Maroni left the room, Leona beckoned Ramya to the side of the room away from the windows. The pit of Ramya’s stomach dropped in an instant. Not the summoning! Please don’t call my father.

  Leona stopped at the darkest corner of her room where a small pedestal with a white ball on top was the only piece of furniture.

  “Since this makes for one too many transgressions on your account, I had no choice left but to summon your father,” Administrator Leona announced icily. “Please step inside. Just so you know, scowling highlights your poor conduct even more.” As Leona puttered away to turn on the equipment, Ramya glared at her back.

  As if it mattered to her father if she scowled. He couldn’t stand her anyway. He never had. In his words, she was not “winner material” and Trysten Kiroff only liked to win.

  Ramya remembered the incident on her tenth birthday, a day that was considered special for a girl. Trysten Kiroff had thrown the banquet of the century that was still talked about to this day. The gala had gone on for a week, and Somenvaar—the Kiroff family home—was lit up so bright that it could be seen all the way from Alle. Among the million gifts her parents had showered on Ramya, her favorite had been the chestnut pony her father had picked for her. For once Ramya had thought he cared. In her excitement, she had tried to scramble up the horse. She couldn’t make it to the top, but fell instead, slamming into the hard ground.

  Her father had laughed with the guests and causally walked over to her side. Ramya had noticed the anger burning in his pale-gray eyes as he towered over her.

  “All my firstborn and the heiress of this magnificent house can do is make a spectacle of herself and make me hang my head in shame,” her father spat through gritted teeth.

  “I’m sorry,” she had whispered, trembling like a leaf, wanting to melt into the ground.

  “Take the horse away,” her father had ordered a servant. “Destroy it. I don’t want to see it ever again.”

  “Father,” Ramya had dared to call him pleadingly.

  His eyes were stones when he looked at her. “You should know. I can’t tolerate seeing things that embarrass me. You’re lucky you happen to have my blood in you.”

  It had been a birthday to remember.

  “Lady Ramya, stand tall,” Leona’s sharp voice cut through the fog of memories and hit Ramya like a whip. She stiffened and holding herself as erect as she could, turned toward the pedestal.

  Leona had powered up the communication channels and a second or two later, the white ball lit up, forming the projection of a room above it. A man, dark-haired with mirthless, pale gray eyes stared out at them from the vaporous projection.

  “Lord Paramount Kiroff, my greetings,” Leona addressed Trysten Kiroff, placing her palms over her heart, five fingers outspread in a manner appropriate for greeting the head of a great house. Ramya’s father simply nodded halfheartedly, his annoyed gaze skimming over Ramya before returning to Leona once more.

  “Greetings, Leona,” he replied, his voice as cold and dour as his gaze. “I have your report.”

  Ramya stiffened, her gut twisting into a tight knot. The witch had sent a report on the dueling incident already? She scrutinized her father’s pale face, trying to assess the depth of his anger.

  “It’s a series of lamentable misconducts, Lord Kiroff,” Leona said. “Far too many to ignore any longer, I’m afraid to say.”

  Ramya didn’t miss Leona’s nervous gulp when she paused. Just like everyone else, the administrator was afraid of Trysten Kiroff. He was rumored to be ruthless in his business dealings, and Ramya knew he could be cold. No one dared cross him or his house.

  “Lady Ramya went berserk at her duel with Armand Danukis this morning,” Leona stated.

  Berserk? Really? Ramya stole a glance at her father. Was that a quiver in his brow?

  “After the duel was called, she—”

  “Your report has enough of that inf
ormation, Leona,” her father interrupted. “I assume you’ve requested this meeting for more than simply restating the facts. Am I mistaken?”

  “Um, no, you are not, Lord Paramount Kiroff,” Leona replied. “I wanted to inform you in person that we will have to suspend your daughter for a month.”

  A month? The witch had to be joking!

  A telltale frown rippled across her father’s forehead. “We?”

  “The council of administrators, of course.”

  Her father sat back and tapped his chin thoughtfully. “In the ten minutes that have passed since the incident, you’ve had time to call a council, decide on a punishment, and then request a meeting with me. That’s impressive. Seems to me you’re determined, quite immensely so, to bring my daughter to justice.”

  Leona shifted on her feet and her jaw tightened. Ramya held back a snicker with every bit of willpower she possessed.

  Leona’s voice trembled as she replied, “Thank you, Lord Paramount. Those words of praise mean a lot coming from you. This afternoon we shall send your daughter home for her suspension.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  Silence, taut and bristly, fell over the dark corner for a second or two. Then Leona squawked.

  “You don’t understand. I did not intend to discuss the situation but only to inform you of our decision.”

  “I understand your intent,” her father replied, impatience making his words speed up. “But this is what needs to happen. You shall revise your decision and decide on a lesser sentence. Have her assist you after instruction hours, for instance.”

  “But—”

  “I’m a busy person, Leona. And right now, I’m pondering the proposal you sent last week for modernizing the CAWStrat’s space dome.” Her father held up a binder emblazoned with the CAWStrat logo. “You wouldn’t want me to be distracted while I’m working on that, would you?”