The first day of the Championship passes without major incident. After the opening ceremony, the first upper-year event is held- sharpshooting, which it looks like the Locusts are going to win handily, before their contestant starts deliberately missing shots halfway through. After that, it suddenly becomes anyone’s game, and though the Grizzlies and Orca give them stiff competition, the Cranes manage to eke out a win, marking the first victory of the entire Championship.
It’s hard to fathom what could have caused a member of the Locust Unit, notorious for their strict discipline, to crack like that in the middle of the very first event. The commentators spectate that the pressure of knowing the entire Imperium was watching got to them, but that seems like a polite fiction. Anybody with a brain knows what really happened- one of the other units blackmailed the Locust contestant, knowing they were almost certain to win unless taken out of play. Adhering so strictly to etiquette and propriety at all times can be a double-edged sword- it means you’re also more vulnerable to reputational attacks. If your image is more... lax, then there’s a lot less people would be scandalized to find out about you. But if your image is spotless, then even the slightest stain can become a scandal.
Following that is the first event of our year- swimming, one of two that my Gazelles aren’t participating in. Chen Lu of the Ox Unit wins by a comfortable margin, leaving Delphine of the Komodos and Warren Harvey of the Peregrines in his wake. If there are any behind-the-scenes schemes being run to influence the outcome of that event, they aren’t visible from where I’m sitting.
Like every other event, the swimming competition is held in the Exalt Arena, with the center once again splitting open, not to reveal a stage, but a full-sized pool. I watch partly out of interest, partly in the hopes of seeing some scheme or another get executed, and partly just to keep up appearances. There’s a small section in the stands reserved for members of each unit to observe the events as they proceed, whether or not they’ve got someone participating at the time. People will be expecting to see me there, and I don’t want to disappoint them.
The Championship only lasts five days in total. Nine events, each held twice- once for the upper-years, once for us -comes out to eighteen total. Four events per day, plus two on the first day, after the opening ceremony. We were lucky enough not to be participating in anything on that first day, but we’ll be putting someone up for at least one event every day for the next four.
After a brief strategy session, to confirm that all our plans are on track for the rest of the Championship, and to make sure that the enemy hasn’t taken any action against us yet, I go to bed, feeling like a coiled bundle of pure nervous energy until the moment I put myself to sleep.
<hr>
Thankfully, the very first event of each day is an upper-year event, meaning I can afford to sleep through it. My copyclan informs me after I wake up that the Orca Unit took home their first medal, in pankration. Not terribly relevant to us, but it does pay to keep abreast of events at large.
The next event of the day, in just a few hours, is the sprint. It’s also the first one that we’ll be participating in. Tai’s about as prepared as he’s gonna get for it, so I don’t bother him, just continue with my normal morning routine, getting ready to watch him- hopefully -win us our first medal in a few hours.
Each day’s schedule is the same- two events before lunch, two events after. Most of it’s taking place over the four-day free period we have each week, so there are no classes to speak of, but they’ll be suspended on the last day when we’d normally be having them. There’s also supposed to be a brief closing ceremony in the evening after the very last event, but nothing quite so ostentatious as the one we all just participated in.
Once I’m presentable, I head out of the Hyperion Building, Sander in tow. He seems less than thrilled that the Championship is interrupting my exercise schedule, although I did promise him I’d find time for at least a quick workout every day until it’s over.
The weather doesn’t seem ideal for an outdoor event, particularly not track and field- it’s not raining, just damp and foggy, with plenty of moisture in the air. Not quite wet enough for them to reschedule the event, but probably enough to have some impact on the event. Better that it be like this today than during the endurance run, I suppose- the longer it goes on, the longer that someone takes a fall.
On the way over, we stop briefly at a cafe to get something to eat- it’s too late for a proper breakfast, but too early for lunch, so I order a pastry, and try to avoid Sander’s critical gaze. This isn’t a spot I’ve made a habit of visiting in particular, but I’ve been in a few times before, and never seen it as full as this.
More to the point, it’s not just Citadel students and the odd staff member here. The list of people approved to visit the Citadel for the Championship is relatively short, but still a couple hundred people long. Sitting two tables away, I spot someone dressed like a Noble, an older guy wearing an ash-gray suit, a leopard pin prominently displayed on his lapel- probably from the unit he was in here at the Citadel. There are two men and a woman sitting at the table with him, most likely his spouses, since I believe the immediate family members of a visiting Noble are allowed to accompany them- after a thorough security screening, of course.
While we’re waiting for our food, I get a brainband transmission from Niko.
I’m headed over to the Arena now, where are you at?
Rather than respond with words, I shoot him my location and sit back, waiting for him to arrive. It’s not long before he does- before my order has even arrived, in fact. Clearly the staff here aren’t exactly equipped to meet this sort of demand.
“You look tired,” my Combat Officer says by way of greeting.
“Don’t let appearances fool you,” I shoot back jocularly. “I actually am.”
Niko rolls his eyes and takes a seat next to me. Neither he nor Sander acknowledges the other’s presence in the slightest. Idly, I wonder if there’s any kind of animosity between them. Some male ego-thing where each of them sees themselves as my protector, and resents the other for trying to occupy their role. Seems unlikely, though- neither of them is the type to harbor a grudge quite so base as that.
Almost immediately after Niko’s taken his seat, the bland cafe music dripping out of the speakers comes to an end, and is replaced, inexplicably, with something I find more familiar. A necropop song, to be precise.
The genre is highly experimental, and about as far from the mainstream as it gets. Instead of vocals of any kind, it uses the sounds of death- soldiers gasping out their last on a battlefield, bones cracking with sickening crunches -but arranged to an upbeat, catchy tune. About as incongruous as it gets, with regards to music. The genre’s founder claims that he was seeking to contribute to the general desensitization towards death in the population at large, viewing our collective aversion towards it a vestigial reflex, better excised than allowed to remain. I don’t know about all that, though- I just like the music.
Still, when the song first comes on, and the initial blood-curdling shriek plays, making almost everybody in the room fall silent for a moment, I’m a bit puzzled. Glancing at Niko, I raise an eyebrow, as if to ask him ‘did you do this?’, but he only shrugs, looking bemused.
Soon enough, they call my name, and I receive my pastry and tea, before heading out with Sander and Niko, leaving the other patrons to their conversations and the screams of the damned. We talk idly on the way over to the Exalt Arena, but fall silent as we approach the imposing structure, this time entering nt through the locker room, where Tai is currently preparing, but through the same doors as everyone else.
A pair of Nobles, one wearing a canary-yellow kimono, the other a suit of skintight, plated hexagonal armor, the hue of which seems to change depending on where the light strikes it, are just a few steps ahead of us as we enter, engaged in a spirited debate as they walk.
“—can’t just expect people to put up with this kind of treatment indefinitely, Bertrand!” the kimono-clad one exclaims.
“And why not?” demands his armored companion. “Their population has remained recalcitrant. Need I remind you of the fate of my predecessor, who employed your strategy of the so-called ‘softer hand’?”
I can’t see their faces, but I get the impression that the one in yellow is scowling.
“Governor Makkara’s fate weighs just as heavily on my mind as it does yours- but grinding an entire system beneath your bootheel will do little to make any of them any less recalcitrant.”
Niko catches my attention with a glance, nods to the two older Nobles, and raises an eyebrow, silently asking me if I have any idea what they’re arguing about. As it happens, I actually have a passing familiarity with the matter at hand.
Makkara was in charge of one of the Unceded Territories, I explain, as the armored Noble bellows his reply. We’re through the Arena gates now, and heading off to our reserved seats, while they’ve split off to do the same, but in the opposite direction. You’ll note I said was.
The Unceded Territories are a sort of vestigial organ to the Imperium- neither truly independent nor wholly subservient to us. They were originally free kingdoms, republics, and other polities, which had the good sense not to oppose the Imperium in our War of Conquest. In return for their fealty, they were granted special status, and given a degree of self-governance, so long as they agreed to abide by Imperium law. Client states, essentially.
Their situation was a poor one, initially- the Imperium could have crushed them at any time, even if the terms of their treaties supposedly forbade it. Words on paper are a flimsy defense against a foe with a navy bigger than yours. But then the Meritocracy was born, breaking off several vital frontier worlds and taking one of the Nine Fleets with it. All of a sudden, they had an alternative. If they disliked some change in Imperium policy. they could begin making overtures towards the Meritocracy, implicitly threatening to seek their own independence.
Our response would depend on the temperment of the Emperor at the time. Many chose to make concessions and avoid conflict at all costs, while others cracked down hard, effectively daring the Territories to make good on their threats. Oftentimes they’d back down, but more than once, they followed through, with some successfully defecting, but most being forcibly recaptured.
Sounds familiar, Niko muses. They tried to break off?
Yeah- ‘bout a hundred and fifty years ago. Didn’t go well. Would have been a great pretext to nullify their protectorate status and integrate them fully, but the Emperor at the time wanted to show mercy. So instead of dissolving their little ‘parliament,’ he just installed a system governor with veto power over them.
Niko winces sympathetically.
That’s almost worse than just rolling them over completely. Humiliating.
We trek our way up a long flight of stairs, until we reach the correct row, where fifteen seats have been sectioned off with velvet rope, and a small holo-sign that reads GAZELLES. Ibrahim is already here, sitting in the middle of the row with his fingers tended, examining the field before him with clinical intensity. There’s not much going on to justify his staring, to be honest- just a few Citadel staffers milling around setting things up.
Upon noticing us, he raises a hand in greeting, and upon receiving the complementary gesture from me, returns his gaze to the field. We seat ourselves a few places away from him, politely.
“It was,” I reply to Niko, making a deliberate switch to external vocalization. Having a brainband conversation in the presence of others is generally considered rude, since it makes their exclusion from the discussion rather blatant. “Maybe that was the point, I dunno. But the result has been, over the last century and a half, a whole lot of tension in that system. Which culminated not too long ago in the governor being truekilled by a group of terrorists.”
As I speak, Niko is nodding, the details of the story becoming clearer in his mind. It’s little surprise that he heard about it- this particular saga has been all over the newsfeeds for months.
“Right, and so instead of sending another governor, he sent a Noble to put a lid on things.”
“A Noble and a detachment of heavy cruisers, yeah. Different Emperor, different response. That guy in the armor was Rear Admiral Bertrand Thibault- he’s had the entire system under martial law for over two years now. Myrmidons on every street corner.”
“I’ll bet that really helped calm things down over there,” Niko laughs.
“Yeah, not exactly. If anything, the extremists have only gotten bolder. I mean, you’ve studied counterinsurgency tactics, right? You know how that shit goes. They bomb a spaceport, and by the time you’ve figured out where they planned it from, they’re halfway to pulling the next one. Meanwhile the population is already halfway against you, and every day you’re occupying their cities, more of them are turning. It’s a fucking nightmare.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Ibrahim looking our way, and I turn to him more fully, silently inviting him to weigh in.
“What would you have had the Emperor do?” he asks, in the tones of someone trying to be polite, while speaking to someone who they already think to be completely wrong. “They struck against one of his direct representatives. A response was obliged.”
“Yeah, and us punishing their entire population for something only a fraction of them did is exactly the response they were looking for. All it’s gonna do is push more people into their arms.”
It kind of annoys me that I can’t even remember the name of the system we’re discussing, much less the insurgents that assassinated the governor. It’s been on the newsfeeds long enough for me to know the basic details, but I never really bothered to pick up any more information than that. Running into the Rear Admiral here of all places was something of a surprise, though- otherwise I doubt I’d have spared the matter any thought at all, today.
“Perhaps,” Ibrahim acknowledges, and then falls silent. At first, I wonder if he’s just wary of crossing me, given what’s happened when he’s done that in the past, but then I look to my left and notice that we’re no longer alone.
“Hello, children,” says Professor Gabrielli, sounding not a whit more excited to be here than she ever is to be anywhere else. Our unit’s advisor is, as always, profoundly disinterested in anything going on around her that isn’t directly related to her social feeds. Much of the Imperium’s citizenry are virtually addicted to them, despite the relatively strict regulations that exist to keep them in check- but Nobles are held to a higher standard. Which makes it all the stranger that one of our professors is so deeply engrossed in them so often.
“Morning, professor,” I greet her, uninterested in showing more than the most basic level of politeness. She’s been a thoroughly subpar advisor to us so far, and shows no indication of turning it around any time soon, not even with midterms fast approaching.
Gabrielli takes a seat at the far end of the row, and within seconds of sitting down, her eyes are closed and she’s sinking into the telltale trance of someone fully immersed in the brainband. She can still process external stimulus like this, but it’s distant and dulled, so as not to distract from whatever banal nonsense she’s occupying herself with.
“Guess she’s gotta be here for our events,” Niko muses, observing her with detached amusement. I just roll my eyes, sigh, and turn away.
Over the next half-hour, a couple more Gazelles arrive- mostly my fellow competitors. We chatter mindlessly about topics less serious than the Unceded Territories, until it becomes clear that the event is soon to begin.
As we’ve been speaking, the stands have slowly been filling- mostly with holograms, of course. Many of the rows around us are occupied by them, and I’ve seen a few staring at us with undisguised interest. They can’t actually listen in on us, of course- all audio they receive is from the official broadcast -but some of them might be able to read lips, and it’s hardly inconceivable that one of our rival units might have paid someone to read our lips and see if we end up discussing anything important while we’re here.
If our own budget wasn’t under some stress at the moment, that’s exactly what I would have done to them- even knowing the odds of them saying anything critical aloud in so public a venue are next to nil. But then, there are a lot of things I would do with an infinite budget.
“You don’t think we’re due for another speech, are we?” Mars asks the group at large. He receives no small amount of laughter, including from me- although it’s tinged with horror at the notion of the Dean walking out and boring us all to death with yet another speech before the event can begin.
“There wasn’t one earlier this morning,” Ibrahim assures him, which I suppose confirms that at least one of us bothered to get up early and go see the upper-year teams.
“Thank fuck for that.”
“Indeed,” the future Duke of Flowers replies laconically, which earns him some laughter too. Got to admit, I may not exactly trust Ibrahim, or like his politics, such as they are, but he’s grown on me a bit as a person since we first met. Really, there’s only one member of my Gazelle Unit who I can’t describe my feelings toward as, at minimum, neutral- Bret. He’s remained just as intolerable to be around as he was the day we all arrived.
Thankfully, he hasn’t made an appearance today. Still busy with Ada and Nikitha working on Project Barbicane. I’m not the type to put all my eyes in one basket- or even most of them -but that project is going to be important come the next War Games. Hopefully he doesn’t find some way to fuck it up.
“Citizens of the Imperium,” booms a voice over the Exalt Arena’s speaker system. It’s not one I recognize, so either they brought in someone from outside the Citadel to act as announcer for the Championship, or this is a professor I haven’t met yet, who happens to possess a particularly sonorous voice. “Please welcome the competitors for the Junior Division Four-Hundred Meter Sprint.”
For a moment, I worry that they’re going to announce each competitor by name, which would be unimaginably tedious to sit through- but instead, all three of the contestants walk out together. Tai looks mildly uncomfortable in the sprinter’s uniform, but keeps his head held high next to the others. The one my eyes are drawn to, however, is the Peregrines’ entrant, Avis. Her sandy blonde hair and striking red irises are eye-catching enough, but that’s not exactly what I’m paying attention to. The sleeveless sprinter’s outfit she’s wearing puts her muscular arms on full display, paired with a set of thighs that I’m completely certain could crush my skull like an egg.
“I see you looking over there, boss,” Mars calls from a few seats over, laughing. “She’s quite a sight, isn’t she?”This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Mouth-watering,” I reply, without a hint of shame.
“You should try getting hit by her sometime. Closest I’ve ever had to a religious experience.”
Without looking in his direction, I grin and raise a hand for a high-five, which he returns over Niko’s head. My horn-headed companion just chuckles, his own attention captured by the sight of the rabbit-eared Kayla Whitehall, sporting less of a fighter’s physique than Avis, but equally athletic in her own right.
“These Nobles,” the voice continues, “will be competing on behalf of the Gazelle, Komodo, and Peregrine Units, respectively.”
As he speaks, a holographic symbol pops up above each runner’s head, displaying which team they’re representing. Interestingly, we got top billing this time. There’s probably no real significance to the order, but it does make me raise an eyebrow.
“Runners- take your places.”
On command, all three of them find a position on the track- Tai on the inside ring, a few paces behind Whitehall, who herself is a few behind where Avis is on the outside ring. The four-hundred-meter sprint is one lap around the track, so Tai’s gonna have to work hard to make up for his disadvantageous starting position. Being on the inside of the track will offset it slightly, but it still seems like a less than ideal spot, to me.
Watching the runners do a few last-minute stretches in place while they wait for everything to be ready, I wonder if it was a mistake not to try and interfere with this event. Maybe I’m just a control freak- leaving the reputation and financial security of my unit in the hands of someone else doesn’t really sit right. If I signed off on some scheme to tie Whitehall’s shoelaces together, I could at least blame myself if it failed, but with this, what am I supposed to do if Tai loses? Clap him on the back and say ‘you’ll get ‘em next time?’
As if he can sense my growing frustration, Niko puts an arm around my shoulder, bringing me closer to him so he can whisper to me.
“Relax. It’s gonna be fine.”
It takes conscious effort to drain the tension from my body and accept his words, leaning into his stockier frame for support. No doubt clips of us will be all over the gossip feeds by tomorrow, but I can’t bring myself to care too much about that. It was always inevitable people would find out about us, and there’d be no reason to expend unnecessary effort trying to cover up our relationship.
“Yeah? That a promise?”
‘If we win, sure.”
A moment later, the starting gun goes off. It’s hard to see from where we’re sitting, but the weapon looks like an antique model, probably only still in production for events like these. Of course, that only holds my attention for a split second, before I’m drawn to the three sprinters beginning their race.
Whitehall is clearly the fastest right out of the gate, easily passing Avis by with a few strides of her distractingly long legs. It’s an advantage that doesn’t last her very long, though- a brief burst of speed at the beginning is great for a very short sprint, but this is a full lap around the track, and the others still have plenty of time to catch up.
Both Avis and Tai make a push to overtake as the three of them approach the first bend, the sound of their furious feet amplified by speakers around the arena. This is where Tai’s spot on the inside ring really comes in handy- through virtue of that alone, he recovers a good few feet. That proves to be insufficient against Whitehall’s lead, though- just when it seems like he’s closing in on her, she summons another burst of energy and pulls ahead again.
Watching that, my heart sinks. Clearly, we underestimated the athletic prowess of the Komodos’ contestant. Either that, or she has some subdermal enhancements my intelligence group wasn’t able to identify- maybe an adrenaline injector. Either way, it’s not looking good for Tai, or for us.
At this point, Avis is just struggling to keep up, her competitors clearly eclipsing her in terms of speed. It’s unfortunate, but not really unexpected. She doesn’t exactly have a runner’s physique- too much muscle mass in the wrong places. No doubt she’d wipe the floor with both of them in the ring, but this isn’t a fight, it’s a race.
While the sprinters enter the straightaway, I turn my attention to the other side of the arena, where the Komodos are sitting. Obviously, it’s hard to make much out over such a long distance, but Hark is small enough to stand out in the crowd. If she’s pleased by how well her chosen champion is doing, it doesn’t seem to show.
Thomas Starling, leader of the Ox Unit, is one of only two sitting in the area reserved for his team, a man in professorial uniform who’s presumably their advisor a few seats away. He’s cheering enthusiastically, despite the fact that nobody from his unit is even on the field. It could just be that he’s a nice guy, or an athletics enthusiast, but I find it more likely that he’s here to cultivate a positive reputation by showing support for his rivals. I suppose I could have been doing the same with yesterday’s swimming event, but that’s not exactly the image I’m trying to cultivate.
To my complete lack of surprise, Anton, the nominal commander of the Peregrine Unit, is nowhere to be seen. At the very least, his absence doesn’t seem to have demoralized Avis too much, but that’s probably because she’s used to getting nothing from him, in pretty much every respect. I wonder how much of Anton’s deficiencies are due to endemic flaws in the Starhammer line, versus his own personal failings- or, to be more precise, the failings of his parents and their substandard contributions to his psychic makeup. Genetics may no longer be up to chance, but having parents that are stupid or lazy can still set you back in life, even if you’re lucky enough to be born a Noble.
On the other hand, it’s possible to have the most driven, dedicated parents alive, and still turn out a useless piece of shit. Not likely, but certainly possible.
The Peregrines’ seating section isn’t completely empty, however. They’re positioned fairly close to us, so I can get a decent look at who’s standing in for their erstwhile leader. First to catch my eye is Chandra Singh, the literally fire-haired Peregrine Combat Officer, who I imagine is here to support Avis, her subordinate, though judging by the way she’s watching with her arms crossed, expression stony, she doesn’t seem impressed by the brawler’s performance.
Next to her is a woman I don’t recognize, wearing clothes in bright pastel colors, mirrored by what seems to either be body paint, or brightly-colored tattoos. The gaudy color scheme even extends to her hair- yet she somehow manages not to make it look like she’s a literal clown. I’m instead reminded of the fact that certain deadly plants and animals display bright colors to ward off anyone foolish enough to attack them. And sure enough, she’s even accompanied by an animal of her own, a lynx-like beast with a silver pelt, curled up in the seat beside her.
Finally, there’s a face I do recognize- the woman who was at Anton’s side, practically hiding behind him, when the Komodos stormed their headquarters during the War Games, in a match that the Peregrines lost badly. Josefine Naess. She’s clearly frail, practically the perfect picture of a nonthreatening woman, wearing white robes that seem to hang off of her sticklike appendages. Despite her physical infirmity, she’s examining the race with avid interest- seemingly uninterested in cheering Avis on, but instead simply observing like one might watch animals in a cage at the zoo.
Before I can put a finger on exactly what bothers me so much about Naess, a faint sound draws my attention. It’s shrill, a high-pitched whine that I doubt I’d even have noticed if I hadn’t been lost in thought, mostly tuning out the sounds of the crowd. The fact that I’ve got combat-grade sensory enhancements doesn’t hurt either. But even with my hearing sharpened through genetic augmentation, it’s still incredibly faint.
To at least one person, however, the sound is clearly much louder. That person, of course, is Kayla Whitehall herself. Flicking my eyes back down to the track, I watch as her blue bunny-ears twitch once, then twice, before she stumbles and falls to the ground, face contorting in pain. The ears curl in on themselves, and she presses her hands to her head, trying to block out the sound. Neither Avis nor Tai slows down, they just keep on running right ‘round the bend and into the final stretch of the race.
Immediately, I snap back to Naess, whose expression betrays nothing. There’s no tell, of course, but I know that this was her. It’s a simple deduction. The Komodos wouldn’t sabotage themselves, the Oxen have nothing to gain without someone of their own in the race, and none of my people would have done this without telling me. The Peregrines are the only suspect left, and if any of them could be the mastermind, it would have to be Naess. Anton simply lacks the cunning to come up with an idea like this on his own. Maybe she got him to build a compact, concealable high-frequency emitter specifically tuned to Whitehall’s extra set of ears, but the idea, and probably the execution, was all her.
Quietly, I revise the Peregrine Unit’s threat rating upwards. Not high enough to displace the Oxen, much less the Komodos, but just enough to worry me slightly.
“That... was a very clever trick,” Niko comments, shooting me a sideways glance. His unspoken question is a fair one. I’d expect all of my people to clear something like this with me before going ahead with it, but it’s definitely the kind of thing I’d do without telling anybody else, just for the sake of a dramatic reveal in the moment.
“Sure was,” I reply. “Feel kinda bad I didn’t come up with it myself- but we may end up being the ones who benefit regardless.”
Indeed, as Kayla slowly begins to recover, the noise having cut out a few seconds after she fell, the two remaining competitors are approaching the finish line, and Tai has a clear lead. Avis was closer to him than she was Whitehall, but still firmly in last place even before the frontrunner was laid low. Unless Naess and the Peregrines have another ace up their sleeve, it’s starting to look like they denied the Komodos a win just to hand one to us.
Still, my breath is held right up until the moment Tai crosses the line, passing through the holographic barrier with an exultant cry, easily the most emotion I’ve ever seen the reserved surveillance specialist display.
“You think that was worth it?” Niko asks, nodding his head towards where the Peregrines are sitting. Clearly, he’s made the same deduction as me.
“To fuck over Hark? No doubt. Plus, second place is better for them than third. If they can manage to string together a few actual wins after this, they might even jump the Oxen in the ratings... ‘til the next War Games come around, at least.”
Avis finishes only a moment after Tai, but the audience is polite enough to wait until Whitehall crosses the finish line, nearly a minute later, before erupting into applause. Naturally, we cheered for Tai when he secured his victory, as did some others, but the canned fanfare doesn’t go off until all three are finished. Whitehall looks crushed, and I feel a pang of sympathy for her- humiliated in front of the entire Imperium just as a move in someone else’s power game. But her loss is our victory, this time.
“And the winner, in the Junior Division Four Hundred Meter Sprint, representing the Gazelle Unit, is Tai of the Unseen Eye!”
<hr>
By the time the final event of the day rolls around, the early-morning mist has coalesced into a thick fog, blanketing the streets of the Citadel.
In keeping with my promise to Sander, I spend some time at the gym, though not before delivering Tai my congratulations for his victory. He does seem slightly disappointed by the fact that he only won because a superior opponent was waylaid, but he accepts- not without some suspicion -my assurances that I had nothing to do with it.
Over a late lunch, I watch the Senior Division Gymnastics event, where a striking emerald-skinned Locust Unit member utterly dominates the two other competitors. She’s clearly giving it her all, after her unit’s embarrassing first-round loss. Watching the Locusts feels like looking at what Hark is going to have turned her Komodos into by the time we hit our second year here at the Citadel. I can only hope I’ve turned my Gazelles into worthy competitors by then too.
Finally, with fog choking the Citadel’s arteries, the time comes for the last event of the day. My event. Sharpshooting.
I did everything possible to put it out of my mind until now, knowing that I’d have been ridden with anxiety if I allowed myself to think about it for even a second. All that avoidance seems to have actually paid off, though. Walking out of the locker room clutching my rifle, I feel serene. Probably because I know I’m about to lose.
That’s the plan, at least. We know the Komodos have set up a grav-field generator to rig this event, but we can’t disable it remotely, so instead, Valent is standing by, ready to disrupt the signal, causing its field to fluctuate wildly. Instead of a subtle gravity shift, enough to throw my aim off, it’s going to go from weightless to twenty times the Akademos standard in the span of a second- something so obvious that even the Championship judges, infamous for turning a blind eye to blatant sabotage like what took place this morning, won’t be able to ignore it.
After that, the event will be called off, and a rematch will be rescheduled later, probably at the very end of the entire Championship. At that time, if only for the sake of propriety, the security team actually will do their due diligence and make sure there aren’t any hidden grav-field generators, or other fun surprises, before approving the event.
Amalia, my fellow Gazelle competitor, knows all this. It wouldn’t have been fair to her not to provide advance warning of the plan. She didn’t exactly seem thrilled when I told her, though. She’s rule-abiding enough not to question me to my face, but I get the sense that she’d have preferred we just report our suspicions about the grav-field generator, rather than go through with a complex plan to ruin the entire event.
There are some practical problems with that plan, but at the end of the day, it’s just not my style.
Neither of us so much as looks at the other as we stride out of our locker room, the Ox and Komodo sharpshooters doing the same from opposite sides of the arena. If this was going to be a real competition, Scáthach would be the one to watch. She’s got the kind of confidence you only develop after having your initial, false confidence beaten out of you- and then coming back around to beat the shit out of the people who kicked your ass in the first place. Stojanov, the Ox Unit’s entrant, doesn’t seem confident at all. Angry, maybe- chip on his shoulder, something to prove -but that doesn’t scare me nearly as much as Scáthach’s self-assured stride.
The weight and heft of the rifle is familiar in my grip, though mainly from target practice. This isn’t the kind of weapon you’d bring onto a battlefield unless you had no other options.
In this moment, I almost feel grateful for having to participate in the opening ceremony yesterday, because it prepared me for having so many eyes looking down on me. Of course, all I had to do then was not fall on my face. Now, the people in the stands have actual expectations of me- and worse still, I know for a fact I’m not going to meet them.
Somewhere up there, Niko, Sofie, and the rest of my Gazelles- minus one or two, I’m sure -are cheering for me. I’m not normally one to find much comfort in that sort of thing, and today is no exception. For at least some of them, I’m sure their enthusiasm is tinged with irony, knowing as well as I do that this isn’t going to go as planned.
“Contestants,” booms the voice of the announcer, still as anonymous to me as he was this morning. “Take your places.”
Obedient as lapdogs, the four of us do as instructed. A firing range has been constructed in the center of the arena, with precisely four lanes- I suppose that implies the Senior Division won’t be fielding more contestants than us, when their turn to do this event comes around. Somewhere in or around the range, I know, a gravity-field generator has been hidden. And that’s not just inference either- I’ve got Valent in my ear, confirming that very fact.
Status? I ask the Conjuror, as I step into my lane and flip the rifle up into position.
In position, he replies. Even over the brainband, his words have a hint of artificial French flavor, which I’m certain he thinks makes him sound mysterious, and perhaps alluring. The worst part is, he actually kinda pulls it off. Either he’s naturally charming, or I’m just more willing to tolerate that sort of thing from someone who actually gets results.
Grab-field generators can’t be disabled remotely. They’re hard-coded to prevent that, for obvious safety reasons. At most, we can hope to modify the field’s intensity, producing a distortion that will be too obvious for anyone to ignore. But we can’t exactly test that it works until the event actually starts. If Ada was wrong, or gave us a faulty piece of tech, it’s possible the plan will be dead on arrival, and I’ll just have to try my best in an event literally rigged against me.
What happened with Whitehall this morning is a helpful reminder that I’m not the only one allowed to scheme, either. The Peregrines aren’t involved in this event, but that doesn’t mean they won’t try to interfere for reasons of their own.
“Ready,” the rumbling voice of the announcer intones. With varying degrees of speed, the four of us each disengage the safeties from our weapons. Stojanov actually seems to fumble with his for a moment, and I feel a brief spike of secondhand embarrassment shoot through my heart.
Standing by for your order, Valent informs me calmly.
“Begin!”
In each of our lanes, an identical holographic target springs to life. A simple blue circle, with a narrow red aperture in the center. The kind of target I could hit blindfolded- and the perfect baseline. Valent sends me a wordless query, asking if he should activate the device, but I don’t reply yet. I want to see what I’m up against.
Without hesitating, I take aim and shoot, then watch carefully to see where the bullet hits. There’s no doubt in my mind that, under normal circumstances, I would have struck the dead center of the target, right through the red bullseye. But instead, the mark on the target showing where I hit is a few centimeters down. The distortion would be almost imperceptible- is almost imperceptible -to anyone with an untrained eye. Certainly Stojanov is unaware, cursing under his breath as his shot is an inch off the mark.
Scáthach, on the other hand, has hit the target dead-on. No surprise there. She’s had access to the grav-field generator for days now, been practicing with it active. It would take me at least one more shot to get a good sense of the exact magnitude of the distortion, before I could start to compensate for it. And assuming she didn’t happen to miss two shots, that would put her ahead of me, guaranteeing the Komodos a win.
Better to foul up the whole thing than let that happen.
Do it, I instruct Valent, marshaling all my self-control to keep from smirking. Nothing shifts perceptibly, but a second later, he sends another wordless pulse informing me that it’s done.
The next shot I take doesn’t make it halfway to the target before hitting the ground like a brick. No question what Valent did- turned the intensity up as high as it would go. With the range being displayed on massive screens above the arena, to show every detail of the event, it’s perfectly clear to the crowd what just happened. A bullet doesn’t just shoot straight out of a gun, then suddenly drop straight to the ground without warning. Something is wrong.
As murmurs and gasps spread throughout a crowd that should be chanting and cheering for the competitors they’ve chosen to support, I allow myself a small smile. That alone might be enough to tell Hark that I was the one behind d the plan to screw up her plan- but at this point, what can she do about it?
My next shot veers off wildly to the right, crossing over into Stojanov’s lane and hitting his target. Beside me, his bullet does the same, and to her surprise, so does Scáthach’s. Amalia’s the only one of us who, positioned at the far right end of the range, just has her third shot go straight into the wall. Fortunately, this range, temporary though it may be, was built sturdily- otherwise that bullet would have gone right through the wall and into the crowd.
Much to my amusement, that’s precisely what my next bullet does, shooting off at an upward angle and flying into the stands. There’s no cry of pain, so I have to assume it hit a holographic ‘attendee,’ which is almost disappointing. Beside me, Stojanov has clearly cottoned on to the fact that this isn’t normal, as he’s put down his gun, folded his arms, and turned away from the range to face the crowd with a surly expression.
Beside him, Scáthach is just chuckling, clearly not too upset that her rigged contest has quickly deteriorated into a farce. She can’t be too attached to ideas like honor, if she was willing to countenance such a scheme, but at the same time, I suspect that she’s pleased it didn’t work out. Now, the two of us can have a real contest- once this joke has been dispensed with.
For my part, I continue shooting, each time finding myself impressed by the new ways Valent has twisted and bent the laws of gravity. Since there’s no true ‘up’ or ‘down’ in space, a grav-field generator has to be able to project in every possible direction- although to my disappointment, it can’t exactly ‘curve’ gravity. Watching a bullet do a flip in midair would have been the cherry on top of this whole delicious sundae.
It’s actually something of a surprise that the announcer never speaks up to call the event to an early close. Perhaps the administration thinks that allowing things to proceed as normal is the best way for them to save face. I’m not convinced, but then again, there rally s ere’s really no way they come out of this looking good.
As the last target blinks into existence, and I eject yet another shell casing from the rifle in my hands, I detect a surge of alarm from Valent.
Commander, wait! I-
His warning comes too late. Before I can register the meaning of his words, my finger has already curled ‘round the trigger, moving on pure reflex.
As before, the bullet moves as one would expect it to for a moment, before it passes the invisible threshold of the gravity field. But this time, instead of shooting straight up, or veering off to the side, it freezes for a moment, just long enough for me to realize what’s wrong.
The gravity field can be channeled in any direction one so chooses- even straight backwards. And at a high enough intensity, it’s powerful enough to redirect even a speeding bullet. I’m quick enough to put all that together- but nowhere near quick enough to avoid what’s coming.
A howl of agony tears its way out from my lips, as the bullet pierces my shoulder, moving just as fast back in my direction as it was when I shot it. Dropping the rifle, I clutch the area around the injured spot, feeling hot blood already beginning to seep through my fingers.
My eyes are screwed shut as I try to hold back another, more pathetic sound. Even through the pain, I cling to a single thought- I will not shed a single tear here, in front of the entire Imperium. The crowd is shocked, but not quite silent- murmurs of concern and curiosity carry throughout the stands. Was this, too, somehow part of my scheme? Or was it never my scheme at all?
All resentments momentarily forgotten, Amalia drops her gun and rushes over to me, gently removing the hand gripping my wounded shoulder tight so she can examine the injury. Slowly, I force my eyes open, proud of my own stubborn refusal not to let the pain I feel show any more than it has to.
Commander, I didn’t- that wasn’t me, Valent whispers urgently over the brainband. Still not quite capable of responding verbally, I send a wordless pulse telling him that I know. There’s only one person who could have done this- Hark.
There’s a medical team already rushing to our position, as Stojanov and Scáthach watch, silent. Distantly, I can hear the announcer’s voice, calling this event to a close, and assuring the spectators that a thorough inspection will be held before we try again. But though this wound is far from lethal, it’s already done the damage it needed to. When this event is held again, I won’t be competing.
We’re fucked.