Combat 101 is the perfect class for me today, because right now there’s nothing I want to do more than hit somebody in the face.


    Today’s opponent is named Mannix Devlin, of the Peregrine unit. A ginger, with slightly unkempt hair and a scraggly beard, plus a few scars for color. If I had to place a bet, though, I’d wager he put them there himself, to look tougher than he actually is.


    Still, that’s not to say he isn’t tough. In fact, he’s kind of handing me my ass right now. I’ve done well enough in these weekly bouts over the past month or so, but mainly with the help of Midnight, which is something I can’t guarantee I’ll always have access to. So I decided in advance that today would be the day I tried to get by without it. Instead, I’m using a classic substitute- rage.


    The Peregrine warrior throws an overhead swing, calloused knuckles colliding with the side of my head and making my vision flicker black, before he follows up with an uppercut. I stumble back, already feeling the bruises begin to form, and spit blood on the floor between us.


    It’s already quite clear that I’m too reliant on Midnight, but this fight is proving to be a wake-up call in more ways than one. I’ve been neglecting the maintenance of my body, too preoccupied with matters of the mind. Imperium technology lets us walk out of a resurrection chamber in top physical condition, but it doesn’t keep you that way forever. My reflexes are slower than they should be, my own blows not hitting as hard as they need to.


    Apparently, my mind isn’t even working as well as it should either. My hope was that last night’s meeting would have done something to divert the collective attention of my rival commanders away from me, and towards each other. But instead, it seems to have done the opposite. When I woke up this morning, the first thing my copyclan told me was that almost every available time slot in the Crucible had been booked solid during the night, well through next week. More sessions in there than anybody could possibly require, even all three other units put together. But apparently they decided to book those sessions regardless, with no intention of actually using them, just to deny me and my Gazelles the chance to use the facility.


    The slots not booked up by Starling, Hark, and Anton were swiftly snatched up by the second-year units, who need to use the Crucible for their own training. That leaves pretty much no opportunities for us to train there. Of course, the plan was to have an unproductive training session on purpose, to make them think we’re not a threat, but that’s hard to pull off if you’ve got nowhere to train.


    Just thinking about it makes my blood boil, and though I know he’s got nothing to do with it, I direct that anger towards Devlin. He may be winning this fight right now, but he’s already volunteered to be my punching bag for the day- he just doesn’t know it yet.


    Surging forward, I whip my tail out to wrap around his leg, and yank it towards me, sending him to the ground. No rule against that, just like there’s technically no rule against using combat drugs. Maybe it’s poor form, but I’m past the point of caring about that. Devlin falls, and I plant a knee on his chest, pinning one arm with my hand and the other with my tail, digging the tip into the surface of the ring to keep it held in place. Then I drive the heel of my free hand into his nose, feeling it break with a satisfying, wet sound.


    I might not have the strength to make him see stars from a blow to the head, but I know the right weak spots to hit. That’s something you have the luxury of not caring about when you’re strong. A similar point could be made about strategy in general, but I’m not exactly in the right state of mind to be making clever analogies at the moment.


    Devlin thrashes, trying to dislodge me with his legs, but I don’t shift an inch. He may weigh more than me, but so long as I restrain a certain range of motion in his limbs, there’s virtually nothing he can do to escape. Still, angry or no, I don’t have any interest in splitting his skull open, certainly not with everybody watching. People do occasionally die in these bouts, but it’s generally from hitting your head the wrong way as you fall to the ground. Beating him to death would be a little harder to justify. So instead, I drive my elbow into his windpipe, and let him choke on air for a few moments, before standing up, satisfied with my victory. He probably wouldn’t admit defeat, if he was capable of talking right now- unfortunately, spending enough consecutive seconds on the ground counts as a loss, and he’s not getting up anytime soon.


    Stepping out of the ring, I wipe sweat and blood from my face with the back of my hand, then grab a towel to clean myself properly. Not every second of this class is spent fighting, obviously- we spent a quarter of an hour at the start of class talking about capoeira. But Professor Almstedt has us fight for at least an hour every class, to make sure we ‘stay sharp.’ Clearly, I’ve fallen short of that goal, given how much I struggled against Devlin before finally turning the tables.


    Beating him doesn’t solve my actual problems, though. I need to decide if we’re even going through with the fake-training plan or not. It might be better to just train for real, considering we might only get one chance before the War Games. On the other hand, if we do that, any chance of actually convincing the other three commanders to lay off of us will disappear. And having to deal with a united front by our enemies this early in the game could throw a wrench in my entire plan.


    In the corner of my eye, I can see Devlin being helped to his feet by one of the other Peregrines, swearing under his breath and glaring daggers at me. He certainly seems like the type to hold a grudge, too. Wonderful- another problem on my plate. Fortunately, class is just about over, so I can hit the showers early.


    On my way into the locker room to get rid of my sweaty workout clothes, I spot someone fresh out of the shower- a woman I recognize as being of the Komodo unit. She’s got a shock of striking blue hair, and a pair of rabbit ears protruding from her head that match the color, though they hang limply right now, weighed down by the moisture still clinging to them. This is one of the few people here at the Citadel who I actually recognize- her name is Kayla Whitehall, but she’s better known to most by her nom de guerre ‘RapidRabbit,’ under which she became a highly successful hoverbike racer. Part of her popularity was that she was a Noble, but she wouldn’t have been able to sustain it if she wasn’t talented as well.


    “I like your tail,” she says casually, as I peel off my sweat-stained shirt.


    “Thanks. I like your ears.”


    Whitehall laughs, turning to remove her towel so I can’t see anything except her back- though of course I don’t look for more than a moment.


    “Gotta wonder why more people don’t have some fun with their bodies here. It’s not like we’re gonna get fired from being Nobles or anything, y’know?”


    The boring answer is that most people still put stock in social norms, even when they’re in a position to avoid any major consequences for violating them. But I’ve learned that giving a boring, obvious answer to a question is often a quick way to kill the mood. Questions like that aren’t being asked in earnest, so much as being used as a way to open up a dialogue.


    “Maybe they lack creativity. By the way, I’m curious… can you hear anything with those ears, or are they just cosmetic?”


    “Oh, I can hear with ‘em,” she confirms, before pausing to pull her pants on with a grunt. “Pretty damn far, too. Helps with intel-gathering. Fighting’s fine and all, but I’m more of a spycraft girl at heart.”


    The combination of Whitehall’s more refined, upper-class accent and her casual, jocular way of speaking is pretty charming, I’ve got to admit. Judging by that accent and her name, she comes from a pretty well-off family, yet despite being a Noble, I somehow doubt they approve of how she conducts herself. Or her choice in hobby, for that matter- hoverbike racing is exceptionally dangerous.


    “I know how you feel,” I reply, wrapping a towel around myself, and curling my tail around my waist to avoid it dangling underneath awkwardly. “I’m supposed to be giving orders, not throwing punches. Still, I guess there’s some value in knowing how to take a hit.”


    “For sure. I love your accent, by the way. You’re from a farm-world, right?”


    “Yup. Demeter VII.”


    Having my own accent called out makes me feel a little self-conscious. I try to downplay it as much as possible, and it’s not terribly strong to begin with- after all, it’s not like my homeworld has much of a distinct culture. The only residents are single families that live on isolated homesteads amidst massive crop fields. Yet nevertheless, there’s a certain provincial-sounding accent that my family managed to pick up, and that sometimes slips into my voice. Not enough to make me sound like some hick, but apparently enough to be noticed even in such a short conversation.


    “Wow. Don’t think I’ve ever met somebody from a Demeter world before. Hope you’re adjusting all right.”


    “Just fine, thanks,” I reply, more tersely than I’d intended. There’s an uncomfortable silence, and I quickly make to apologize. “Sorry, I just—”


    “Nah, I get It. My bad for bringing it up.”


    We stand there quietly for a moment, roles now reversed- her fully dressed and me in my towel -before I speak again.


    “Well, I’m gonna go get clean. See you around.”


    “Yeah, let’s get drinks sometime! We can start a ‘hot girls with animal parts’ club or something!”


    Her enthusiasm makes me crack a smile.


    “Sure. Sounds like fun.”


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    Okay. This War Council emergency session is now online. For the second time in two days.


    Since I’m talking over the brainband, it’s a conscious choice to let my bitter frustration leak into my voice.


    We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Sofie quips, making me chuckle.


    This is about the Crucible thing? asks Niko.


    Yeah. We need to figure out if we’re still going through with the plan.


    I don’t think we have much of a choice, Grant opines. It’s evident that the other units have formed some sort of alliance against us, meaning they’ve collectively decided we’re the biggest threat. If we don’t take action to dissuade them of that notion, we may end up facing this united front for the rest of the year.


    None of us are even in the same room right now. When speaking over the brainband across long distances, it’s generally considered polite to give some indication of where you’re speaking from, which is how I know what the others are up to right now. Sofie is having coffee with Colleen and Ada, while Niko is busy shaking someone from another unit down over their gambling debts, and Grant is reading the news in his apartment.


    Me, I’m at the gym, bench-pressing with Sander as my spotter. This morning’s bout was a wake-up call about my physical fitness, and I need to remedy that situation as soon as possible if I want to be in good condition for the War Games at the end of the week.


    Well, isn’t that whole ruse kinda gonna fall apart after we win against the Oxen? I mean, not that it’s a foregone conclusion, but…


    Sofie trails off, sounding unsure of herself.


    It’s far from a sure thing, Grant concurs. But even if we do win, it seems unlikely to be a complete blow-out. If they see us struggling during a staged training session, then watch us win, their first assumption will be that we won by the skin of our teeth, with a hearty helping of luck. And that may not even be untrue. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    Losing on purpose is, of course, completely out of the question. There are only three War Games for each unit, facing of against each of the others in turn. Almost nobody ever wins all three, but throwing the first match and hoping we’ll be able to win the next two would be a grave tactical error.


    Okay, sure, Niko says. But even if that’s true, where are we gonna have this staged training session?


    The Crucible isn’t the only place to train, I point out between reps. We could see about using one of the athletics fields.


    Huh, good idea.


    Thanks, Sof.


    No, I’m serious. It’s highly visible, so we don’t even have to pretend it’s a secret session to get the other units to pay attention. Word will spread faster than if we tried to make it deliberately.


    She makes a good point, one I hadn’t even considered.


    Okay- but if we’re gonna do it, we need to do it soon. Maybe even tonight. Because we need time to have at least one actual training session before the War Games, maybe two if we can swing it. So the sooner we get the fake one done, the better.


    Sure thing, Niko replies. I’m almost finished with this guy, then I’ll start getting things together for tonight.


    I’ll spread the word, Grant adds. Make sure everybody knows where and when it’ll be happening.


    Great. Get on it. You two are free to go. Sofie, stay with me for a bit- the two of us need to figure out exactly how we’re going to make this thing the disaster it needs to be.


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    A few hours later, with dinner well behind us, the Gazelles and I gather in the center of the Exalt Arena as the sun’s last rays begin to fade away, leaving the harsh halogen lights the only source of illumination. The stands are sparsely populated with Nobles from other units, here to get a good look at our public training session.


    It’s somewhat irregular for the Exalt Arena to be used for something like this- but then again, so is three units coordinating to keep a fourth from using the Crucible for their training. Besides, the athletic competitions for the year haven’t begun yet, so we’re hardly displacing anybody by practicing here.


    “Uh, should we ask those guys to go away or something?” Bret asks, gesturing at the people in the stands.


    “Let ‘em watch,” I reply. “We’ve got nothing to hide.”


    Under normal circumstances, I’d much prefer not to have visible onlookers, but the whole point of this is to be seen. Not that anybody except my War Council knows that. I need their reactions to be genuine, or else the farcical nature of this whole exercise will be obvious to our audience.


    “Okay. I know it’s late, so let’s not waste any time with warm-ups. We’re gonna break into some small groups, and have one specialist instruct the members of that group in a specific subject. First off is Kat. I want you to talk to Colleen, Sander, Amalia and Mars about defensive formations.”


    As soon as I call her name, Katrina’s face goes white, and I feel a pang of sympathy for her. She’s really not suited to the role I’m foisting upon her, which is of course precisely why I’m doing it. Hopefully she’ll gain a bit of self-confidence from the experience, even if I’m counting on her anxiety to make it a disaster overall.


    “Bret. You’re gonna show Sofie, Valent, and Niko how to spot hidden traps and surveillance devices.”


    The tech expert looks surprised to have been given an important role, but swiftly turns smug, as if he knew it was coming.


    “Last up, Ibrahim. You’re gonna run combat drills for Nikitha, Tai, Ada, and Grant. They need to be able to hold their own if we’re gonna beat the Oxen this Eighthday. Got it?”


    That group is the one I think will function best, but it’s still likely Ibrahim’s desire to prove himself will lead him to push the less physically inclined members of the unit too hard.


    Slowly, the Gazelles begin to move into their assigned groups, most looking uncomfortable with who was chosen to instruct them. Even my officers, who knew this was coming, don’t seem thrilled- just as I wouldn’t be if I was in their shoes.


    “All right, you all can split off and get started. I’ll circle around after a few minutes and see if anybody needs any help.”


    Nobody moves at first, until Ibrahim claps his hands at his group.


    “Come on, let’s get going! I want ten laps around the arena from each of you. Let’s find out how many of you are in fighting shape.”


    Galvanized by his cajoling, the techies start to jog around the track, speeding up as Zaman shouts at them to go faster. None of them are out of shape, exactly, but they certainly don’t seem to have been making physical maintenance a priority. Which I can hardly judge them for, as I’ve been doing the same thing too.


    Part of the reason I didn’t assign myself to any of the groups is that I’m still sore from my workout this afternoon. The main reason, of course, is to annoy the rest of the unit when they see me lounging around while they’re working hard. It’s a dangerous game, to deliberately attract the ire of your own subordinates, but I’ve got a plan to win them back in mind. And the ruse we’re trying to pull off here won’t work if there aren’t genuine feelings behind their frustration.


    Exchanging glances and quiet words, the combat specialists follow Kat to a quiet corner of the arena, where she sits down to think. They follow suit expectantly, but she doesn’t say a word yet. Hopefully she doesn’t freeze up completely, or I’ll have to go over there and help, so this session doesn’t end up being a complete waste of time.


    Meanwhile, Bret is animatedly lecturing his cohort on some thesis he’s developed about how to find hidden traps, which seems largely based on what he’s seen in movies, mems, and video games. The only reaction he’s yet received is a series of blank stares from the group I assigned to him. Sending two of my officers to his group was a deliberate choice, because they’re some of the only people in the entire unit I trust to get through an hour of listening to Bret talk without punching him.


    Strolling around the unoccupied parts of the arena, I examine some of the equipment, like the empty bed that’ll be filled with sand to cushion the landing of the long-jumpers, sometime before the athletics season starts. I make a mental note to have Grant look into which of my Gazelles will be best-suited to participate in those. Sofie mentioned being a gymnast of some sort before coming to the Citadel, when we first met- hopefully she’s still competent enough to carry an otherwise somewhat ungraceful group.


    While I walk, rolling my shoulders periodically to work out some of the tension in them, I take note of our observers. Lauren, the Oxen’s analyst, is present and watching us with undisguised fixation, her expression betraying no emotion one way or the other. From the Peregrines, I see Callum, his cryptographic tattoos visible on his forearms and neck. When he sees me looking, he glances away, uncomfortable- perhaps remembering the last time we fought. And finally, the Komodo representative, a man I don’t recognize, wearing sunglasses despite the hour, his hair slicked back, looking like a caricature of a bodyguard or member of a security detail. It’s impossible to tell precisely where he’s looking, but I don’t linger on him for too long- something about him makes me uncomfortable.


    Satisfied that everybody who needs to see this is seeing it, I return my attention to the exercise itself. Ibrahim’s group is finishing up their laps, looking exhausted. Grant is pouring with sweat, doubled over and breathing heavily, while to my surprise, Nikitha looks like she could keep going for another half hour. Either she popped some stimulants while I wasn’t looking, or she keeps herself in better shape than I thought.


    Kat’s started talking, finally, but at such a register that her group is having trouble hearing, and every time they ask her to speak up, she seems to shrink back into herself a little more. I gave her a pretty low-key group for a reason, but even Amalia’s gentle encouragement seems to be making her nervous.


    Dragging my feet a little, as I’m not exactly eager to head over there, I eventually make my way to Bret’s group.


    “--which is why I don’t really fuck with the Questtech series either, it’s just not responsive enough. Oh, uh, hey, commander.”


    Bret glances over his shoulder guiltily as he hears me approach. Something tells me that whatever he was talking about wasn’t related to the task I assigned him.


    “Hey. If you’re finished talking about spotting spycams and tripmines and stuff, maybe move on to talking about disabling them? Nothing too complex, of course, I mean something you could do while you’re under fire in the middle of a combat zone. We’ve got an important battle coming up, and I’m counting on you to make sure everybody is prepared.”


    This is a pretty big change in how I’ve been treating Bret, but he doesn’t seem to question my motives in the slightest, just nods seriously.


    “You got it. I’ll make sure everybody’s ready.”


    Behind him, I see Sofie make a pained face. Keeping my own expression neutral, I send her a wordless pulse of sympathy through the brainband.


    Hurrying away while Bret sets to work imparting his wisdom upon a captive audience, I catch sight of Ibrahim’s group beginning their drills in earnest. He’s demonstrating a series of fairly simple CQC moves for them to repeat, which appears to be proving quite challenging. Eventually, frustrated, he simply steps forward and uses the move on Tai, immediately flipping the lanky surveillance expert on his back. Tai grunts in pain, and Grant takes a step back, surprised by the sudden display of violence. Ada moves forward, kneeling down to make sure Tai is okay, while Ibrahim folds his arms and sighs exasperatedly.


    Pleased that things are going as poorly as I’d hoped over there, I pace over to Kat’s group, shooting her an encouraging smile as she silently pleads with me for help.


    “Doing okay over here?” I ask blandly, pretending I can’t tell they clearly aren’t.


    “Um, I was just telling them about some of the stuff in that biography of my Founder you said I should read,” Kat replies, glancing at the rest of her group as if hoping one of them will back her up.


    “Yes, it’s... quite interesting,” Colleen says carefully.


    “Good to hear. Keep it up.”


    Humming contentedly to myself, I leave Kat to resume her impromptu seminar. It’s good to know she took my suggestion to read up on her Founder seriously, though just quoting from a biography won’t be enough- she’s got to internalize the ideas within and apply them to herself.


    I’ve still got high hopes for Kat, despite how ill-suited she seems for command. The fact that she’s giving this assignment her best shot is a good sign, even if I’ve got no illusions about how useful her advice will actually be. To the eyes of our enemies’ intelligence agents, it’ll likely seem like a blunder on my part to put her in charge of anything, but it’s serving a different purpose than what it looks like. My best fighters don’t really need a lecture on defensive tactics, but Kat does need some experience talking about the subject, and having to put your thoughts into words for other people to understand will be a much better way of gaining that experience than just reading a tactics primer by herself.


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    Things continue in that same vein for about two hours. At one point, in the middle of one of Ibrahim’s endless drills, Grant collapses to the ground, too tired to move, and refuses to get back up. Fifteen minutes into some rambling story Bret’s telling, with barely even a tangential relation to the topic he was supposed to be talking about, Niko snaps at him to ‘get to the fucking point already.’ And eventually, Kat runs out of things to say, leaving me to have her group join Ibrahim’s for some extra combat training, something she’s no more eager about than her previous assignment.


    There are no spectacular blow-ups, but it’s an absolute travesty of a training session by any reasonable standard. After a while, the onlookers from the other units all leave, clearly concluding that any further observation would be a waste of their time. It might be too much to hope that the other units will all cancel their excess Crucible reservations, but if this doesn’t force them to reevaluate their assessment of us, I have no idea what will.


    Once the last of them- Lucia’s mysterious sunglasses-clad spy -is gone, I swiftly signal every group to bring their current activities to an end, and join me back in the center of the arena, where we started out. Most of them are silent, and the ones who aren’t are moaning and groaning quietly at the fact that they’re being forced to move at all.


    “Well, I think we can all admit that could have gone better,” I tell them cheerfully.


    “Gee, ya think?” Bret says, clearly expecting a chorus of laughter to accompany him. Instead, he gets silence, and a few pointed looks from the people he subjected to his terrible jokes over the past two hours. I’m going to need to find a way to reward Niko and Sofie for enduring that.


    “I certainly do think,” I reply. “In fact, let’s all take a minute to reflect on how we can do better next time, okay?”


    Just because the onlookers are gone, doesn’t mean we aren’t being watched- so I can’t say what I need to say out loud. This is just a bit of plausible deniability to cover for me giving them the rundown of why that just happened, over the brainband.


    I know that sucked. I know. But I promise you, that was intentional. The people I put in charge weren’t given any time to prepare, and this is hardly the ideal environment for any kind of training in the first place. But we needed the other units to see us struggling, so they’d discount us as a threat.


    Most of the unit is now staring at me, expressions varying between confusion and annoyance.


    You... set us up to fail? Ibrahim asks.


    Yep. And you all did great at it. So pat yourselves on the back, and take tomorrow off. Because the day after that, we’re gonna have a real training session, and I’m gonna make sure you’re all in top shape for the War Games. And the best part is, the people who were watching that show we all just put on? They’re not gonna be the slightest bit prepared for us.