Markram Battles: Omens of Doom (Part II) by M.C. Muhlenkamp Page A

grasp. I knew she felt Seven slipping away. As did I.
     
    Seven stopped in front of Thirteen. “Battles are more than winning. We will need more than victories to achieve success.”
     
    Thirteen’s reply, though a whisper, carried her full disapproval. “I am required to fight and kill my opponents, so I fight and kill them. Why should I embellish the process any more than I have to?”
     
    Seven sheathed his sword calmly and wrapped his fingers around the hilt. “You still don’t get it, do you? The battles are about excelling. They are about earning the remembrance, love, and respect of the crowd that wants to see us die. Anyone can fight. But making them love you because of it requires more than just killing your opponent. Your disregard for my orders claimed the lives of two fighters. You can’t go and fight on your own as a separate entity. We are yoked together, so we fight together. I am responsible for the safety and performance of the entire unit, not just you.”
     
    Thirteen’s anger flared at his remark. “How dare you blame me for those deaths? I acted as I thought was best under the circumstances.”
     
    “You are supposed to obey my commands, not act as you think best . We can’t afford to lose anyone else if we expect to survive. I recruited you to win.”
     
    “You recruited us to die!”
     
    Seven tightened his jaw, biting down as if to control a sudden torrent of frustration. I held my breath, expecting the worst. The Major General wouldn’t fail to notice any indication of emotion, and Seven, for the first time in a very long time, had been struggling to control himself. He narrowed his gaze. “Don’t push me, Thirteen.”
     
    “Or what?” she asked in her usual insolent tone.
     
    Seven tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword, digging his nails deep into the soft handle. “There are many things worse than death. I would really hate to be the one forced to enlighten you on the subject. Every choice you make, no matter how small and insignificant, affects this unit. I won’t let your choices squelch my goals of success. No more fighters will die because you refuse to follow my orders. You are not here to think for yourself.”
     
    “Your orders have turned us into murderers!”
     
    Seven made his way closer to her, slow and composed. The flare of exasperation in Thirteen’s expression softened, slowly receding until there was no trace of it left. Seven clenched his free hand into a tight fist, almost as if he were consciously trying to stop his fingers from reaching out to her. “Would you have rather my orders turned you into a martyr?”
     
    The unmistakable warmth in his tone surprised me. Even in the distance I could see Thirteen’s hands shaking, sending rippling vibrations through her arms and chest. “I hate you,” she said, her voice breaking.
     
    Seven leaned back slightly, the shock on his face quickly replaced by a mask of indifference. “Whatever makes you think I care?” He turned around and walked away.
     
    Thirteen’s nostrils flared in anger. She unsheathed her sword and I frowned, knowing what she would do before it happened. Thirteen threw the sword in Seven’s direction. It landed on the ground next to him, immediately drawing every fighter’s attention. I clenched my fists, hoping Seven would act as the unit leader I trained, not the Markram boy infatuated with the human recruit. The Major General’s gaze was fixed on the exchange, her limbs rigid in anxious anticipation.
     
    Seven gave a quick glance in our direction. The colored window facing the field hid us from view, but I had no doubt Seven was aware of our presence. His eyes returned to the metal blade on the floor. “I told you not to push me.” He clenched his fist and turned his attention to his unit. “Nine, front and center.” For a second no one moved. “I said front and center.”
     
    Nine walked forward, her fear and uneasiness slowing every step like shackles