“Again.”
My entire body feels like a gigantic bruise, but I pick myself up off the mat anyway, spitting another gob of blood out as I do so. Sander watches, dispassionate, as I force myself back into a combat stance, every joint aching, knuckles raw.
On the other side of the ring, the training ‘bot shifts from idle mode, standing stock-still, to combat mode, dropping into a deceptively humanlike stance of its own. It’s programmed to move like a person, even covered in a layer of synthetic material designed to make punching it feel like punching real flesh, but it’s far more dangerous than a real human, for one simple reason. It doesn’t get tired, and I do.
Of course, I brought this all on myself when I asked Sander to train me in preparation for our upcoming Combat 101 midterm. His assessment was that there’s only one area I particularly need to improve upon. My endurance.
I’m perfectly capable of holding my own in a single fight, even though I’m not quite in peak physical condition, thanks to a combination of speed, smarts, liberal use of the combat drug Midnight, and a vicious streak a mile wide. Plus a general willingness to stab people with my tail. But the midterm isn’t just going to be one fight. It’s gonna be a series of fights, potentially with no rest in between, in a hostile environment where every living thing will be out to kill me.
So- endurance. The first part of the program, which we spent the entire morning on, was increasing my physical tolerance, through good old exercise. I did enough crunches that even now, just getting back up on my feet was painful. The only thing keeping me going after a certain point was the fact that Sofie told me she thinks I’d look good with a six-pack.
The second part of the program, currently in progress, is building up my psychological endurance. Which is why I’m fighting the same losing fight, over and over again. The training ‘bot is set to the second-highest difficulty level available. Only reason it’s not at the highest, is that I wouldn’t have been able to stand up at all after facing that. As it is, I haven’t won a single round against this thing. Sander probably couldn’t have either, though. Winning’s not the point. The point is to lose, and get back up anyway.
So I get back up, even though my every instinct is telling me not to. Not because I think I’m gonna win this round, or because I want to prove something to anybody, but because Sander told me to do it. I don’t intend to tap out a second sooner than he says I can.
“Start.”
Summoning what has to be my seventh wind at this point, I run at the ‘bot, using what little rational faculties I have left underneath the bruising to try and remember how it dodged my opening attack the last few times I attempted to strike first. Right hook leaves me open for a leg sweep, left jab overextends and gets caught, plus in this state I’m nowhere near fast enough to feint successfully. Best option is to go for something… unpredictable.
Feeling my joints scream in protest, I vault forward and leap into a frontward handspring, aiming to drive my feet straight into the training ‘bot’s center of mass. It’s pretty far from a conventional maneuver, which is probably what slows the ‘bot down enough for my hit to actually connect.
I don’t get more than a few seconds to feel good about pulling that off before the ‘bot responds. Most people would have been knocked to the ground by a hit like that, but this thing’s obviously quite a bit sturdier. Its torso bends backwards, absorbing the blow, then snaps back upright a second later. A hand grasps my ankle, grip far too tight to break, and I feel the ‘bot start to spin.
It only takes two full rotations for the ‘bot to build up enough momentum, before it simply releases its grip on my ankle and sends me flying across the ring, into the ropes on the other side. Head spinning, stomach churning, I drop back down to the ground, thankful that the mat is padded.
At lower difficulty levels, the training bot fights like a human, pulling its punches and deliberately not taking advantage of its superior strength. At this level, it barely holds back, except to avoid doing any permanent damage to my body.
Once my vision has mostly cleared, I glance behind me, and see the ‘bot still in a combat stance, waiting for me to officially tap out and concede this round, just like all the others. Then I glance over to the right, where Sander still stands, staring impassively.
Gritting my teeth, I get back to my feet once again, this time favoring the leg that it used to throw me, which feels like it wouldn’t support my weight if I put too much on it. Charging the ‘bot again is out of the question, so instead I stare it down, glaring at the false face it wears to see more human than it really is.
Slowly, the ‘bot begins to advance towards me, lacking any noticeable sense of urgency. It takes a second for me to realize why- it’s waiting to see if I’ll collapse on my own, without it having to throw another punch. Thankfully, it doesn’t take much energy for me to contort my face into a sneer, and spit some blood in its general direction.
Unsurprisingly, the ‘bot doesn’t respond, except to start walking a little bit faster, perhaps recognizing that I’m not gonna go down again without a fight. Good thing, too- my legs were starting to waver a bit. As I shift my stance to better support my weak leg, however, the ‘bot surges forward without warning, and delivers a crushing blow to my sternum that makes me double over in pain, lacking the strength to even hit back.
That might be what I hate most about all this. how weak it makes me feel. Pain is fine- I can deal with it. What I can’t tolerate is feeling helpless. But right now, that’s exactly what I am.
The ‘bot kicks my weak leg out from under me, and as I start to fall, grabs my head and slams it into the ground. Knowing that it’s programmed to avoid permanent damage brings me little comfort in the half-second before I black out completely.
It could be seconds, inures, or hours before I open my eyes again- it’s impossible to tell. All I know is that when I do, the training ‘bot is back on the other side of the ring, in idle mode once again.
Almost reflexively, I raise my hand to wipe some blood off my face, and the pain from that small movement alone is enough to make me seize up. Accepting my inability to move, I try to tilt my head in Sander’s direction without actually turning my neck, and barely manage to make eye contact with him. His expression hasn’t changed in the slightest since we started.
“Good. Again.”
<hr>
“Blood and salt, commander. You look like you’ve been through the wars.”
“Don’t worry,” I reassure Amalia, grinning crookedly. “I feel worse.”
The scout’s expression goes from sympathy to concern, and she takes a step closer, inspecting the patchwork of bruises blossoming across my face. Maintaining even a half-smile is painful, so I drop it and let her take a look.
“What happened?” she asks, shooting a suspicious glance at Sander, where he’s standing over by the wall. I doubt she’s thinking that he did this, so much as wondering how I got beat up this badly without my bodyguard intervening.
“Studying for midterms,” I tell her with a chuckle, hastily aborted when it turns into a hacking cough. “It got… intense.”
“I see,” she intones skeptically, tilting my head to the side to get a better look at a freshly stitched-up cut. “Are you going to be okay for practice?”
“Don’t see why not. It’s just pulling a trigger.”
Amalia frowns. The translucent amber ram’s horns curled around her ears shine in the afternoon sun, streaming in through the shooting range’s skylight. Having that much glass in a building dedicated solely to firing guns seems unwise, but I’m sure it’s heavily reinforced, and I’ve got to admit it’s preferable to the harsh, artificial lighting of the Citadel’s gymnasium.
“We both know it’s not that simple.”
This confrontational side of Amalia is new to me, presumably brought forth by my pitiable state. I’m not sure if I like it. She’s reminding me of one of my mothers, and not in a good way. If I thought I was too badly hurt to be here, I wouldn’t be here.
“How about this?” I ask testily. “If you can out-shoot me, then we can discuss whether I’m too beat up to do this. Not before.”
“I didn’t come here to compete with you,” she replies, frowning even harder. “If you’re going to be like this, I’m more than happy to train on my own.”
A pang of guilt hits me as she turns away, grabbing her rifle and heading to the furthest lane on the right side of the range. Too late, I realize I’m just frustrated with myself, and taking it out on her.
Almost immediately, I want to apologize, but it’s too soon. Doing so now would just come off as insincere. instead, I grab my own rifle, a sleek single-action piece that’s only meant to be used for sharpshooting competitions, not on a battlefield, and head for the far-left lane.
The familiar ritual of affixing noise-canceling headphones, pulling gloves on over my raw-knuckled hands, and loading the rifle, helps me center myself, emotions cooling as I go through the motions. After everything’s ready, I pause, close my eyes, and take a few deep breaths, trying to imagine every distraction exiting my body, seeping out through my pores like steam. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
Once calm settles over me, I open my eyes and hit the button on the side of my booth, activating the training program. Shooting at a single, stationary target isn’t particularly good practice- instead, the range will present me with a series of different, moving targets, all of various sizes, with ‘sweet spots’ in different places to hit for a bonus to my score.
Peering down the rifle’s iron-sights, I wait patiently for the first holo-target to blink into existence. They’re much cheaper than using physical targets, though I do miss the satisfying sound of hitting a metal can sitting on a fence post at a couple hundred meters.
When the first target does pop up, I breathe in, and take two seconds before pulling the trigger. First, to identify the ‘sweet spot,’ a bright red dot on the surface of the green triangle that’s bouncing back and forth within the confines of this lane, slowly rotating as it does so. Second, to shift the gun into position to hit it- not where it is now, but where it will be in another two seconds. Thanks to the headphones I’m wearing, the gunshot is nothing more than a dull, distant bang that dies out almost instantly, any echoes not loud enough to get past the sound-suppressing filter.
As my bullet passes through the target and hits the reinforced metal wall at the back of the range, the holographic triangle bursts into a shower of digital fragments, a bright red ‘+5’ appearing amidst them to let me know I got the bonus for hitting the sweet spot. All I feel is a vague, distant sense of satisfaction as I eject the shell casing from the rifle manually.
Another target appears, moving faster, sweet spot smaller. I draw breath, feel the rifle stabilize in my grip, eyes tracking a straight line from the tip of the barrel right through the target and out the other side. It’s like a sixth sense to me- part skill drilled into my bones by years of practice, part ability inherited from my Founder. It was Father Len who first taught me how to shoot, but I surpassed him in a matter of months. Now, even here at the Citadel, I’d wager there aren’t many people who can do this at my level.
The next target bursts apart, same as the first, and I keep my eyes pointed down the lane as I eject the casing and ready my next shot. Time seems to simultaneously slow down and skip forward, the moments in between each target blurring together, while the seconds before I pull the trigger seem to last a lifetime.
Before I know it, the display in the corner of my vision is saying I’ve gone through over two dozen targets. Shell casings litter the ground around my feet, but my breathing is still as steady as ever.
The final target appears, and I don’t even have to think before I act, body moving almost entirely independent from mind. My finger’s on the trigger before I even register the location of the sweet spot in my forebrain, and by the time I realize that, I’ve already fired.
Another perfect shot. Thirty for thirty. Best I’ve ever done here at the range. As the practice program powers down, I release a breath, eject the final shell casing, and set the rifle down beside me.
Slowly, as my laserlike focus begins to lessen, I feel the aches and pains of my battered, bruised body begin to return. Wincing, I step out of the booth and head over towards the wall where Sander is sitting, leaving my headphones hanging around my neck. The first thing I hear after removing them is, of course, a gunshot. Amalia’s still going, her training program seemingly on a slightly lower setting than mine.
There’s no judgment in my analysis- she’s got her own strengths, and I have my own weaknesses. But the fact of the matter is, I’ve got more strengths and fewer weaknesses. Even taking my recent missteps into account, I’ve got a higher skill ceiling than she does. My Founder was more talented and accomplished than hers, which is what makes it all the more frustrating that I feel like I’m not living up to my potential. Having some virtual no-name for a Founder means you’ll probably never be a household name across the Imperium, but it also means nobody has any real expectations of you, so it’s easier to excel.
For me, anything less than absolutely perfect is considered a failure, not just by others, but by myself.
“Good shooting,” Sander says curtly.
“Thanks,” I reply, trying not to sound too frustrated, even though just looking at him makes my bruises ache more. He never laid a finger on me, but he was the ultimate source of my pain, and even knowing it was for my own benefit, and by my own request, I can’t help but harbor a little irrational resentment.
“There’s something I’d like to discuss regarding our Combat 101 midterm.”
Maybe a bit of that resentment found its way into my voice anyway, because he’s speaking stiffly again, like he used to when we first met. I sigh internally, feeling guilty once more, and try to summon some of that calm serenity from before.
“Sure, hit me,” I say, and then find myself chuckling at the unintentional humor in my words. Even Sander seems to smile momentarily, before his serious expression returns.
“As you know, I’ve remained vigilant against attempts on your life since the day we arrived here. In that time, however, no such attempts have been made. But I suspect that the opportunity presented by the midterm, which will be conducted with minimal supervision, on the other side of this moon, outside of the Citadel’s primary security network, will be too great for those who wish you permanently dead to ignore.”
Like with everything else he does, Sander explains his point thoroughly. I get why, though. If he was careless in his argument, I might dismiss his concerns out of hand, and get myself killed. Fortunately, there’s literally nothing I take more seriously than keeping myself alive- and he’s completely right that the midterm is a perfect opportunity for whoever wants me dead.
“Agreed. So what are we going to do about it?”
Sander’s always hard to read, but it seems like he’s relieved that I’m taking this as seriously as he is.
“Preparations are, obviously, in order. Besides our training sessions, that is. Our fellow students will not be armed, but your assailants assuredly will be, and the only path to survival for you that I see is to level the playing field, as it were.”
“So I need to be packing heat. Makes sense. But how are we gonna make that work? They’ll probably put us through a screener before the exam, so sticking something in my back pocket probably won’t work.”
“No, it won’t,” Sander concurs. “Our best option is to ascertain the general location where the exam is slated to take place, and store weapons caches in the general vicinity for later retrieval and use.”
Before I can reply, a gunshot interrupts us, followed shortly after by the sound of a shell casing hitting the ground. Then, after a brief pause, another, and another. Amalia’s back to shooting, after a momentary break between rounds. Clearly she wasn’t satisfied by her initial performance.
Agreed, I reply, switching seamlessly to the brainband while I slip the noise-canceling headphones back on over my ears. Do you have a general idea where it’s gonna be, or are they keeping that under wraps? Because I kinda doubt you were the first person to have this idea.
The location is being kept secret, Sander confirms. I’ve already reached out to Officer Lang to see if any of her intelligence agents could be spared to find the answer, but it seems they’re all preoccupied with preparations for the Championship at present.
Sander seems unperturbed by the periodic gunshots, even beyond the point I would expect him to be simply from just having heard a lot of them in his life. More likely he’s got some kind of implant or body-mod that suppresses the sound slightly, so he can function better in combat environments. Sounds handy, actually- maybe I ought to ask him where he got his.
Well, we do have some time until the midterm. Maybe we can wait on that part until after the championship, and focus right now on the training?
Almost imperceptibly, Sander’s expression shifts, showing a hint of concern.
In the meantime, I add, you can start putting together gear for the caches. Guns, ammo, medical equipment, the works. But, uh, don’t go too crazy. Our budget’s stretched thin as-is, not sure it could withstand another of your shopping sprees.
That doesn’t do much to alleviate his concerns, despite my best efforts.
The unit’s finances can always be replenished further, he chides me. If you’re killed permanently, you are dead forever.
I know. It’s kind of implied in the name. And I’m not saying you have to chap out completely, just… exercise moderation.
Sander makes a dissatisfied grunt-sound.
Understood. I do have one other concern. While the exam is not directly monitored, there is some level of supervision, and bringing in outside equipment is strictly prohibited. As such, it will be imperative that you exercise caution when using the weapons caches, lest you receive a failing grade.
While not exactly on the same level as truedeath, failing my midterm would still be pretty bad. Avoiding that is the same reason that I won’t simply be pulling my own plug the minute I hit the ground, even though that’s gotta be the safest possible way to avoid getting truekilled while out there in the jungle, or wherever the exam ends up taking place. And it’s not just about my pride, either- a commander’s personal grades are weighted more heavily than those of their individual subordinates, when it comes to determining unit placement at the end of the year. So if I do poorly, I’m dragging everybody else down with me.
So long as none of the other students spot me with a gun, I should be okay. Or, at the very least, if they do see me with one, it’ll probably be fine so long as I don’t use it on them. Most people here are generally aware that Nobles of my line have died under mysterious circumstances with unsettling frequency while here at the Citadel, and almost nobody is foolish enough to really believe we’ve just been getting really unlucky for decade after decade. So if I explain that the gun’s only there in case someone tries to truekill me, not to cheat on the exam itself, they’ll probably be willing to not rat me out. Hopefully.
Yeah, got it. You’re gonna be on the ground there with me too, right? Since we’re in the same class? Maybe we should try and link up. I know they’ll be dropping us in at different spots, but if we each get tracker chips that are keyed to each other, we should be able to meet up while we’re down there.
I intended to identify my location to you using smoke signals, Sander admits, sounding slightly chagrined. Your method is likely more efficient. Although, is there not a chance these tracker implants will be detected in the scan before the examination begins?
I shrug.
Prob’ly not, if they’re small enough. And if they do get picked up, so what? Nobody’ll be able to tell they’re linked to each other, so we can just say our parents made us get ‘em for safety, or something. They wouldn’t fail us over something so insignificant.
At least, I hope not. The attempt on my life that took place on my very first day here at the Citadel certainly seems so suggest there’s some kid of conspiracy against me, but thus far I’ve seen no indication that it’s subverted the Citadel itself. No insurmountable obstacles or acts of obvious sabotage. So unless whoever’s running the scan has a personal grudge against me, I’m reasonably certain we’ll be fine.
Then again, I was ‘reasonably certain’ the Salzwedel heist would go fine, too. Could be that I need to reevaluate my own instincts.
Very well. I’ll begin making preparations, with your… budgetary concerns in mind.
Put your copyclan on it, I tell him, and sigh. We… have more training to do.