“So, you said there was something you wanted to talk about?”
To be honest, discussing business is just about the furthest thing from my mind right now. But that might just be due to the fact that I had my lights punched out a minute or two ago. Or possibly several hours ago- time is a little muddy for me at the moment.
At the time, my thought process was simple enough. I wanted to speak with Niko as soon as possible, seeing as I’d yet to interview him for the position of Combat Officer, and only have a day and a half before I need to make a selection. Thinking myself clever, I decided to do so in the middle of an actual combat drill, for the day’s class- bluntly named Combat 101. I’d been expecting that we would trade blows and words at the same time. Instead, Niko put me on my ass in less than a minute.
In retrospect, it was the only realistic outcome. His Noble line isn’t tactically-inclined like mine, it specializes in actual fighting. Not to mention, he’s probably had actual, formal training, whereas I’ve merely downloaded some basic combat packages off the brainband, and practiced a bit in the backyard with my brothers. Still, it’s a little embarrassing to have been taken out so easily- and in mixed company, too. Combat 101 is a mandatory class for all Citadel students, even Nobles who’ll never see a battlefield in their life once they leave. But unlike Rulership, it’s not divided by unit, so plenty of people from the other three saw me go down. At the very least it was at the hands of one of my own, but I’ll still have to put in some serious work to regain face after this.
“Yeah,” I tell him, shifting the position of the icepack on my face slightly, to give myself a better view of the other sparring sessions going on in the center of the gymnasium. It’s all overseen by Professor Almstedt, a harsh taskmaster whose surname suggests a Swedish origin, although his features don’t indicate any ethnic heritage at all. The placement of every millimeter of bone was clearly chosen to maximize combat potential, and nothing else.
“Well, do you want to discuss it now, or...?”
Niko’s wearing a sleeveless tank-top, giving me a better look at the tattoos that cover his torso, although I can’t quite focus my eyes enough to examine them in any real detail. Though his bedside manner leaves something to be desired, he did come over to sit with me after I went down, rather than simply moving on to his next bout.
“I was gonna ask if you were interested in being Combat Officer.”
“Ah.” The Stormwolf pauses, examining my expression carefully, although I feel like the bruises must obscure any emotion I’m displaying. “Did I just help my chances of getting the job, or destroy them?”
“Haven’t decided yet,” I reply, trying not to sound too bitter. It wouldn’t be fair of me to let this influence my decision, even if my pride is hurting, to say nothing of my face. “Still need to interview a few of the others. Mars turned me down, by the way, so you don’t have to worry about him.”
Hard to blame him, considering the job would come with some fairly serious risks. Unlike the position of Intelligence Officer, there’s some real competition here, and Mars was pretty high on the list before removing himself from consideration. Aside from Niko, though, it consists entirely of people I haven’t spoken to at all. That’s going to have to change, and hopefully soon, since I need to have an officer chosen before our first mock battle.
“I see. To be honest, I’d presumed you wouldn’t consider me at all. My line does have a reputation for unreliability.”
“So does mine,” I remind him, without the usual mirth that would accompany such a statement. “I think we can show everyone that those reputations don’t mean everything. But before that, I gotta talk to the other candidates. You know, the ones who didn’t kick my ass in front of half the Citadel. And before that, I have to remind all these people that I’m not a complete pushover.”
Tossing the icepack back into the bucket where it came from, I force myself to my feet, and stretch until I can feel my muscles scream. Behind me, Niko makes a concerned noise, and I wave him off more casually than I should. Heading straight into another fight is probably a bad idea, but Professor Almstedt isn’t going to let me sit idle forever, and I’d rather not have to be cajoled into rejoining the ‘fun.’
There’s an even twenty people in the class, divided amongst ten raised platforms set up throughout the gymnasium. A fight is won by ringout, knockout, or submission. I went down in the least humiliating way of the three, but that’s cold comfort. Worse still, it means that I’m going to have to win the same way to regain face- can’t just use my tail to trip someone up and toss them out of the ring for an easy victory. And I’ve gotta go after someone serious, not just pick on the weakest prospect available.
Ignoring the voice in the back of my head warning me this won’t end well, I march up to the victor of the most recently ended match. He’s even burlier than Niko, with a neatly-trimmed beard and tattoos of his own. Unlike Niko, his aren’t art, but rather sigils or glyphs in some unknown language, seemingly coating his entire body from the neck down. Their significance is lost on me.
“Hey!” He turns my way, as do a few others who are taking a break, and the professor himself. “You up for another round?”
“Are you?” he asks, though it’s difficult to discern whether his concern is genuine or condescending.
“Wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t.”
“Okay then.”
Beardo hops right back into the ring, and I follow suit. There are no ropes keeping us in, just a blue holographic band that’ll flash red if either of us passes through it during the fight, indicating a ringout.
“I’m Callum. Seventy-third in the line of Mphasto, the Omen. It’s traditional for those of my line to deliver a warning to their opponents before a battle. So be warned- I will offer no mercy.”
“You already know who I am. Let’s get on with it.”
As Callum was talking, Almstedt made his way over, and now he slashes his hand through the air decisively, signaling for us to begin. He hasn’t shown this much direct interest in a single bout yet, which doesn’t do much to help my nerves. I won’t let that distract me during the fight, though. In fact, I don’t intend to let anything distract me. Flexing my fingers in a way that could easily be ignored as pre-battle twitchiness, I trigger a hidden extra organ in my upper abdomen to flood my nervous system with a concentrated dose of Midnight. It’s a drug designed to induce a form of ‘combat autism’ that sharpens one’s focus drastically, making it difficult for things like emotions or distractions to get in the way during a fight.
That extra organ isn’t exactly illegal, but it’s not commonplace either. Most Myrmidons make use of it, but it’s only one of a vast number of body modifications they possess, several of which aren’t ‘street legal’ for ordinary citizens of the Imperium. I put this one in after my recent death, figuring I’d have use for it sooner or later. Most of the others here haven’t died recently, and many of them have never even died at all. So while it would be perfectly legal for them to have the same upgrades as me, I doubt most of them do, unless they were particularly forward-thinking when designing their bodies as children.
I didn’t use the Midnight during my bout with Niko, because I hadn’t been expecting a serious fight. Foolish, in retrospect. Even if we’d been play-fighting, it wouldn’t have been an environment especially conducive to discussing business. But the past is the past, and I’m not willing to pass up any advantage when it comes to regaining the respect I lost by going down so easily.
The effects of the combat drug hit almost immediately, with every thought and feeling other than winning the fight fading into background noise. Every one of Callum’s movements is hyperreal to me, like they’re the only things that exist in the entire world. When he goes for a lunging strike, I can see the path his fist will take with perfect clarity, and raise my hand to intercept it. The way it smacks against my palm reminds me of a baseball, but the associated memory of playing catch with one of my fathers is drowned in Midnight, leaving only the follow-up attack.
Calling to mind the precise location of the solar plexus takes no effort at all- another boon of the Midnight. I drive two fingers into it before Callum can draw away, and he rewards me by gasping for air that isn’t there, and dropping his arm to his side limply. Most people don’t bother rearranging their primary nerve clusters when building their bodies, because it’s too easy to make the kind of small mistake that the body-builder systems won’t detect, but will screw up your entire nervous system after a few years.
Crouching down slightly, I explode upwards, though one foot never fully leaves the ground, and swing the other around to connect my heel with his skull in a punishing roundhouse kick. A second slower and he’d have recovered from the jab, but my timing is perfect. Callum staggers back, and I wonder for a moment if he’s going to fall out of the ring. Instead, he rights himself, and I can see in his eyes that he’s reevaluating me. My embarrassment at Niko’s hands may be a boon after all, as it’s caused him to underestimate me- though that won’t do me any good after this fight, I suspect.
Giving my foe time to recover does me no good. Counting on my kick to have left him disoriented, I feint towards a right hook and catch him as he tries to dodge by hitting his right side- my left -with three quick jabs, each with increasing intensity. Callum coughs, and a spray of red stains my black shirt. He’s off-balance, exhausted after his previous fights. I can see the path to victory- all I’d have to do is push him a foot or two, and he’d tumble out of the ring. But that isn’t good enough. I need to bring him down properly, and imprint that in the minds of everyone watching. It could just be Almstedt, or it could be the entire gymnasium at this point. I have no idea. There’s nothing in my mind but the fight.
Gritting his teeth, Callum thrusts his arms forward with as much strength as he can muster, in an attempt to shove me away and buy himself some more time to recover. Shifting into a firmer stance, I deny his effort, grabbing onto his forearms so we’re grappling with each other. We’ve both got top-of-the-line bodies, meaning neither of us is going to win in a contest of strength. Fortunately, I’ve got a trick up my sleeve. My tail wraps tight around his leg, and I yank it hard to the side, breaking his stance and allowing me to force him back. Instead of pressing the advantage to drive him out of the ring, however, I sweep his remaining leg with a hook kick, and bring him to his knees.
One of the many inconvenient emotions suppressed by Midnight is pity. So I feel nothing when I grasp Callum’s skull between my hands and hold it in place, before slamming it onto my incoming knee. The tattooed man roars in pain as his nose shatters, and I let him go, allowing him to slump to the ground unceremoniously. He’s not unconscious, but he won’t be getting back on his feet any time soon either. Still, I don’t turn my back until I’m completely satisfied that he’s down and out. It’s only then that the Midnight, purpose fulfilled, begins to wear off, the counteragent erasing its influence as quickly as it set in. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
Slowly, the world outside of the ring comes back into focus. The first thing I hear is the sound of slow clapping. Not exactly a raucous ovation- it seems like most of the spectators are still silent, though whether it’s out of shock, horror, or awe isn’t entirely clear. Almstedt is the one applauding, a look of satisfaction on a face which until now has been naught but granite.
“Wonderful performance, just wonderful.”
While my focus is no longer quite so singular, feelings of pride and satisfaction are still rather distant, so I don’t even smile. The thought registers that Almstedt probably wouldn’t have offered such praise if he thought I’d immediately start basking in it, meaning he probably knows I was on Midnight. There’s some irony to the fact that I probably wouldn’t have been able to win so decisively without the combat drug, but as a result of its effects, I can’t actually enjoy the feeling of having won. That doesn’t matter, though. I accomplished my goal. That’s what’s important.
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By the time Combat 101 is over, I’m thoroughly exhausted. Thanks to liberal use of Midnight, and the fact that half the class was unwilling to get into the ring with me after what I did to Callum, I don’t lose any of my bouts. Neither does Sander, who I kept my eyes on between fights. He didn’t bother with any fancy footwork or complicated techniques, just tanked every attack and then hit back ten times as hard.
Niko keeps his distance from me after class. I’m not really upset with him, but it’s probably for the best. He’s easy to get along with, and I don’t want to let that influence my decision-making process. That’s why I decide to finish it up as soon as possible. On my way back to the Hyperion Building, I send out a brainband message to the two remaining candidates, summoning them to my apartment at their earliest convenience.
To my annoyance, one of them is already present and waiting when I arrive. Though we haven’t yet spoken, I recognize him from the files my copyclan studied. Ibrahim Zaman. He’s from Triton IV, one of many shipyard-worlds devoted almost exclusively to the construction of the Imperial Navy’s massive war machines. Humble origins don’t count for much among Nobles, as I know better than most. Zaman comes from the line of a Founder named Theodore Sterns, also known as the Duke of Flowers. He was a relative rarity among Founders, in that he occupied two distinct roles within his life, rather than just one. First, he was a warrior, which is the main reason I’m considering Zaman for this role. Then he was a regional governor, which is where he earned his title. It’s said that he kept careful track of every one of his personal confirmed kills, and after the war, planted one flower for each of them in his gubernatorial manor’s garden. The size of that garden was a reminder to his political rivals that he wasn’t to be trifled with- and some historical records suggest it continued to grow, flower by flower, even well after the fighting was done.
Ibrahim is dressed sharply, with a red rose lapel pin providing the only real bit of flair to his dark ensemble. When he sees me approaching, he stands at attention, hands behind his back, and I have to keep myself from rolling my eyes. The door to my apartment slides open, and I wave him inside without a word.
“A pleasure to meet you at last, commander. I’m Ibrahim.”
“Iza,” I reply, dropping onto the couch. “Siddown wherever.”
Both Zaman and Sander do as instructed, with the former sitting in an armchair near me, and the latter placing himself on a stool by the outer kitchen counter, where he can watch us talk. My guest seems to have accepted the presence of a hulking, gray-skinned pseudo-mute without question, which I appreciate.
“So, you know why you’re here?”
“Well,” he muses, looking amused, “unless I’ve done anything to merit disciplinary action that I’m unaware of, I suspect you want to judge my suitability for the position of your Combat Officer.”
Tired as I am, I have a bit of a hard time following his verbose sentences. It seems like he gets the idea, though.
“Yeah. You’d be responsible for helping train the unit’s combat specialists, and leading them in battle. I don’t doubt that you’re capable, strictly speaking. But I need to know if you’re suited for working with me, specifically. So... make your pitch.”
Unlike the situation with Sofie, I’m not really the one making the ‘ask’ here. There are multiple candidates, largely equivalent in qualification, who are interested in the position. If they can’t justify to me why they deserve it, I’m not going to give it to them.
“I see,” Ibrahim says, immediately seeming more comfortable. Politicians are used to selling themselves to others, even if he’s never actually been one himself. Nobles are strange in that way, displaying the traits and tics of someone in a position they’ve yet to occupy. Some part of my brain is hardwired for living on a naval destroyer, even though I’ve never so much as seen one outside of a video screen.
Straightening his jacket, Zaman runs a hand through his hair and flashes me an effortlessly confident grin. Under other circumstances, I would at least be able to appreciate the effort he’s clearly put into his presentation, but right now it just does nothing for me. Maybe it''s the lingering effects of the Midnight, or maybe I’m just in a bad mood after getting punched in the face so many times.
“As you’ve correctly identified, the question is not whether I am qualified for this position, but rather if I am the most qualified among the potential candidates. While I confess I don’t yet know you well enough to say whether our leadership styles will complement or conflict, I do consider myself highly adaptable. Those of my line have excelled both on and off the battlefield, and given the opportunity, I would do the same.”
Adaptiveness is a virtue in some circumstances, but it can also be an undesirable trait. Change your shape to fit your surroundings too many times, and you’ll find yourself unable to return to who you once were. Ambition, too, is a doubled-edged blade. You can trust someone with a cause to act in its service, but someone who seeks power for the sake of power, you’d be advised never to turn your back to. The question is, which is he?
“I guessed as much based on your profile. But what’s it all for? What do you believe in?”
“I believe in the Imperium,” he answers smoothly, without a trace of discomfort or confusion in his voice. “Our Founders ended a nightmare age of warlords and sim-slaves. The Nobility represents safety and stability, which is our duty to maintain. Against all threats, from without and from within.”
In other words, he’s a patriot, a loyalist- or he’s wearing the skin of one, because he thinks it’s the most advantageous thing for him to be at the moment. And beneath that, I suspect he’s signaling his disinterest in any sort of plans I might have to defect to the Meritocracy. It would be a bold move, and the last thing any politician wants to do is rock the boat. Defecting isn’t on my agenda, but being surrounded by Imperial loyalists won’t do me much good either.
“Great. Thank you for your time. Feel free to leave, and if you see the other candidate outside, send her on in.”
“Of course. Thank you for your time.”
Really, I should be the one saying that, considering I summoned him up here on short notice, but I’m not going to debate the point. Ibrahim stands up, straightens his jacket again, gives me a nod, and heads for the door. Behind me, Sander’s eyes track him the entire way. The door slides shut, and I wait a moment to see if our next guest will be entering immediately, before sinking deeper into the couch and closing my eyes.
Over the past few days since my arrival, I haven’t spent very much conscious time in my own apartment. Part of it is probably lingering anxiety attached to my near-truedeath experience, although the main reason is simply that I’ve been busy. Other than unpacking my bags, the only decoration I’ve been able to do is hanging up the Romulus Raptors banner I bought, and putting the gazelle statue on a table in my bedroom.
Some indistinct amount of time later, three sharp knocks at the door rouse me from my semi-slumber. Before I can even get up off the couch, Sander is moving, his footfalls surprisingly quiet given his size. The door slides open, and I hear a woman’s voice, speaking in what I’d call an ‘upper-class’ accent, or at least an affectation of one.
“You’d be the bodyguard?”
“Yes. You’re here for the interview?”
“I suppose so.”
Sander moves aside, and I sit up straight, adjusting my hair to make it less obvious I was half-asleep a moment ago. The next candidate is named Colleen, although apparently she’s also gone by Colin in the past. Gender isn’t exactly a fixed state these days, especially when you can switch up your sexual topography whenever you die. I’ve never had much interest in being anything but a woman, but I won’t begrudge anyone else their preferences.
“Good afternoon, commander,” she says stiffly as she enters the room. Her wardrobe seems to be almost the inverse of Ibrahim’s, consisting of white track pants and a matching jacket, zipped up nearly all the way to her neck. Over her shoulder, she’s carrying a sheathed katana, which has been on her person every time I’ve seen her so far.
“Hey. Come, sit.”
The way she moves reminds me a bit of Sander. They’re both perpetually tense, as if just waiting for the moment where it’ll be necessary to release all their built-up energy. A useful trait for a warrior, but I’m not sure how well it’ll serve someone in a leadership role.
“So. I’m looking for a Combat Officer. Are you interested?”
“If chosen, I will serve to the best of my ability,” she responds, seating herself in the same armchair Ibrahim sat in, with the sword in her lap.
“Not exactly what I asked. Are you, personally, interested in the position?”
Colleen’s lips twitch in the direction of a frown, and she brushes a strand of auburn hair out of her eyes, keeping the other firmly on her blade.
“A good soldier exists only to excel at the role to which they are assigned. I neither seek nor reject higher rank. Those matters are entirely to your discretion.”
Drumming my fingers on the armrest of the couch, I contemplate the swordmaster silently. Her line is of Klane, the Mantis, who had a similar affinity for bladed weapons, which were found in his hands often enough to earn him an appropriate moniker. He was an officer, but not of especially high rank, and it was his personal combat prowess that earned him the status of Founder, not his abilities as a leader.
If I appointed her, I’m sure Colleen would be serviceable, but that isn’t all that I’m looking for. Her approach would be rigid, strictly adherent to fundamental principles, and above all, predictable. That would do fine for a commander like the Grim Dragon, but I can’t see it working well with my own tactics.
“Okay. Thanks for your time.”
Whether or not she’s surprised at how short our meeting was, I can’t tell. She just slings the blade back over her shoulder, gives me a curt nod, and walks out, heels clacking against the floor. Looking over my shoulder, I catch Sander’s eye, and beckon him closer. He acquiesces obediently, sitting on the couch a safe distance away from me.
“So, whaddaya think about those two?”
My companion considers the question carefully. I can almost see him turning it over in his head. That’s not to say he’s stupid, of course. Just that he’s not given to hastiness. I can appreciate that, more than I would someone who just talks to fill silence, or to hear the sound of their own voice.
“She appears formidable. He is more difficult to evaluate. It is challenging to discern which parts of his presentation are genuine, and which are not.”
“Sure, that tracks, but I mean, what do you think of them as potential officers?”
“That is not exactly my area of expertise.”
It takes some effort not to roll my eyes.
“I wasn’t asking for an expert opinion, I just want your take. You look at things in a different way from me, maybe you picked up on something I didn’t.”
Sander seems unconvinced, but draws breath to speak regardless.
“Zaman is... uninspiring. He seems too concerned with how he appears to others. It seems doubtful that he would be capable of enforcing sufficient discipline upon his subordinates. Conversely, Colleen would likely be a harsh taskmaster, something certain members of the unit would likely react poorly to.”
Smart money says he’s talking about Kat there. Surprisingly perceptive of him.
“Hm. Good points. Thanks.”
Leaning back, I close my eyes and open a brainband channel to Niko. He accepts the connection request almost immediately.
Congrats. Job’s yours.