《Ambition's Arrow》


 Glossary

    The Imperium.


    Overview: Founded roughly 2,500 years before the present day, the Imperium is the largest polity that exists within inhabited space. Spanning tens of thousands of worlds, and encompassing countless lives, the Imperium is ruled by a bureaucracy of Nobles, individuals who possess the cognitive ¡®patterns¡¯ of the Imperium¡¯s Founders. Chief among these Nobles is the Emperor, whose authority over the Imperium is unquestioned.


    The Founders: Eight hundred and eighty-eight extraordinary individuals made names for themselves during the War of Conquest, a century-long campaign fought to establish the Imperium as the sole ruling power over all humanity. Their talents were varied, from strategists and warriors to politicians and scientists. Each of the Founders had their cognitive patterns recorded and stored within the brainband, to be passed along when they died. The inheritor of their pattern is known as a Noble, and when that Noble dies, the pattern is passed along once more, creating a ¡®line¡¯ that stretches back generations. Nobles inherit both what made their Founder great, and what made them flawed, often creating patterns and cycles which each Noble repeats, time after time.


    The Pre-Imperial Era: Otherwise known as the Warlord Era, this period saw humanity controlled by various factional rulers collectively known as Warlords. They maintained control through violence, and typically exploited their subjects brutally in service of personal enrichment. The first Emperor sought to replace this corrupt status quo, and gathered an army, beginning the War of Conquest to unite humanity and eradicate the Warlords.


    The Imperial Creed: As a society, the Imperium is dedicated to a singular cause- the permanent abolishment of death. Thanks to technology, the human mind can be stored independent of a biological substrate, but due to finite resources, not all minds can be given bodies at one time. Instead, humans are granted two hundred and fifty years of embodiment, after which their mind will be placed in storage, to be preserved for the time in which entropy is solved, and all minds can be embodied permanently. Under this creed, the permanent destruction of a human mind is the highest crime.


    Imperial Law: True capital punishment is not permitted under any circumstances by Imperial Law. Instead, the highest crime is ¡®early retirement,¡¯ wherein an individual¡¯s embodiment privileges are permanently revoked, and they are placed in storage immediately. Other important Imperial laws include the following: No mind may have more than one body at a time. No mind may have more than ten active instances of itself at one time. No cloned instance of a mind may persist independently for longer than one day.


    The Citadel: Located on Akademos, one of three moons of the Imperial capital-world Prime, the Citadel is where young Nobles are educated and evaluated. Not all Nobles are automatically considered worthy to inherit their Founder¡¯s role in the Imperium bureaucracy. In order to prepare them for that role, and test their personal character, the Citadel was founded. Nobles attend for two years, sorted into four units, which compete against one-another in a series of contests, the most notable of which are the War Games.


    The Imperial Calendar: The measurement of date and time in the Imperium revolves around the formal founding of the Imperium itself, at the end of the War of Conquest, roughly 2,500 years ago. Time before the Founding is measured ¡®backwards,¡¯ i.e. the year prior to the founding is recorded as 1 B.F., the year before that is 2 B.F., and so on.


    Imperium Technology.


    The Brainband: Humanity¡¯s greatest accomplishment. The brainband is an all-encompassing network of microscopic nanomachines that inhabit every human body, recording the present mental state and cognitive patterns of all living humans. If the life of a human is taken, their most recent ¡®backup¡¯ is uploaded into a new body, effectively resurrecting them. The brainband also allows pseudo-telepathic silent communication, transferring information via the network from mind to mind. Information can be downloaded via the brainband as well, allowing one to temporarily become an expert in a certain field or subject, although knowledge obtained this way tends not to be retained permanently the way it would be if learned the old-fashioned way. Because the brainband¡¯s nanomachines cannot cover the entirety of space, information transfer from between planets is handled by a series of relay satellites. The brainband also ¡®archives¡¯ all of its information on a series of dedicated, planetoid-sized server farms, the locations of which are a closely-guarded secret. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Resurrection: When a mind requires a new body, it goes through the process of resurrection, which involves a body being grown from raw biomass, artificially aged to the required level, and modified in various ways. A certain basic level of genetic engineering is applied to every human body, from basic quality-of-life changes like a small gland in the mouth that produces teeth-cleaning bacteria, to a unique genome sequence that removes the possibility of developing debilitating or life-threatening illnesses. Individuals are given relative freedom in designing their body, although social convention discourages significant visual modification, with an appearance that largely resembles a ¡®basic model¡¯ human considered the norm within most of ¡®polite society¡¯ in the Imperium.


    Reproduction: The basic family unit within the Imperium involves somewhere between five and fifteen individuals in a polyamorous relationship. Due to this, and to the inefficiencies of human reproduction, ordinary pregnancies are a thing of the past. Instead, humans reproduce via combining their individual cognitive patterns into a gestalt, which forms its own individual personality and consciousness, developing to a certain age without a body, eventually naming itself and creating its own first body once it¡¯s old enough. Basic education and socialization takes place entirely within the brainband, largely administered by limited AI programs, although the child¡¯s parents are allowed some input, and the ability to ¡®visit¡¯ their child within the brainband at any time.


    Copyclans: The human mind, reduced to the form of data by the brainband, can be copied. Due to Imperial law, the human mind can¡¯t be embodied more than once at a time, but non-embodied minds are permitted, so long as individual instances don¡¯t persist past a single day. These instances are known as a ¡®copyclan.¡¯ The benefits of such a system are obvious- dividing one¡¯s own work among ten additional instances of the self is merely the start.


    Teleportal Network: Imperium technology allows for the generation of small Einstein-Rosen Gates, or ¡®teleportals,¡¯ which provides the possibility of near-instantaneous transit from one point to another. These teleportals are only stable at small sizes, meaning they¡¯re mainly useful for transporting individuals and small quantities of goods. Long-term space travel is still required for bulk transit, among other things.


    Mindkiller: The only way to permanently kill someone whose mind is backed up by the brainband is to erase or irreparably damage their personality, such that resurrecting them would be pointless. The most reliable and common method of accomplishing this is Mindkiller, an incredibly potent drug that can induce permanent ego-death in a subject within less than a minute of contact. It¡¯s highly illegal, possessing Mindkiller is the second-highest crime in the entire Imperium, second only to actually using it, and grounds for immediate early retirement.


    The Meritocracy.


    Overview: A breakaway state from the Imperium, formed several hundred years after the Founding by a Noble of the line of the Deceiver Admiral, whose name has been struck from Imperial history, referred to only as the Betrayer. A long and bloody campaign was fought to prevent the rogue systems from seceding, but was ultimately unsuccessful. Strictly speaking, the Imperium does not recognize the Meritocracy as a legitimate polity, and they remain in a state of war, but due to both sides controlling certain critical resources that the other lacks in abundance, they do engage in limited trade and diplomatic relations.


    Governing Structure: Unlike the Imperium, the Meritocracy is built upon a pseudo-democratic foundation. Their core dispute with the Imperial system was the idea that Nobles are not inherently best-qualified to be leaders, despite inheriting the cognitive patterns of people who were, the Founders. Instead, leaders of the Meritocracy are chosen based on the will of the people, but from a selection of candidates who qualify for office by passing a set of challenging examinations and aptitude tests. Almost every civil service role, from military leaders to judges and politicians, and even members of the clergy, is determined by this system. Despite the instructions of the Meritocracy¡¯s first leaders, a party-based electoral system has arisen that controls which candidates are allowed to actually run for office, which sometimes results in the most qualified individuals being unable to win against someone with more institutional backing and support.

 Chapter One

    If you ask me, Demeter VII is the least interesting planet in the entire Imperium. Now, I¡¯m a little bit biased on this subject, since I¡¯ve never lived anywhere else. But I¡¯ve spent a lot of time studying what life is like on other worlds, and they all seem like they¡¯re a lot more tolerable than this one. Our weather follows a schedule. Three days of cloudless sun. Two days of torrential rain. One day of sun. One day of rain. And repeat, ad infinitum. The surface is even worse. Massive fields of crops, large enough to be visible from orbit. Every fifty miles, there¡¯s a homestead in the dead center of the field, where a single family lives. Their job is to manage the machinery that harvests the crops, and repair them on the rare occasion that they break down. Vital work, as the ¡®Demeter¡¯ class of farm-worlds provide some seventy percent of all food in the Imperium, but also crushingly boring. The only thing that¡¯s kept me going for the last few years is the knowledge that one day, I would be leaving, most likely for good.


    That day is finally here.


    I learned many things here on Demeter VII, chief among them that patience is a virtue. In that spirit, I decided to go about my day as normal, rather than allow my anticipation to make me waste the morning hours waiting. When an alert came up indicating that one of the harvesters on the very edge of our sector was reporting a malfunction, I volunteered to go check it out before anybody else could say a word. Mother Stella gave me a funny look, but said nothing else, just handed me a rifle from off the rack and sent me on my way. There isn¡¯t much in the way of danger here- an endless field of crops isn¡¯t the home territory for any predator I¡¯ve ever heard of -but it never hurts to be careful. Besides, an excursion provides me with an excuse to practice my sharpshooting away from the house, where the noise would frighten our cats.


    The hoverbike leaves a trail of dust in my wake as I race down the lane, a straight path carved through the field of corn. It¡¯s a neat, symmetrical grid, with a series of identical lanes passing through both vertically and horizontally, to allow us easy access to any of the machines that might need a repair, without having to cut through the crops to get there. One harvester acting up isn¡¯t much of a concern, considering there are tens of thousands of the things all over the planet, but it¡¯s still best not to ignore an incident report for too long. Normally, we¡¯d wait a little to see if something like this sorted itself out on its own, as they often do, but I was more interested in killing time than anything else when I volunteered.


    After a good half-hour on the bike, most of which is spent going completely straight forward, I arrive at the harvester¡¯s location. It¡¯s not too far away from the path, so I make my way into the field, shoving stalks of corn to the side until I can see the huge machine. It¡¯s identical to all of its siblings currently harvesting metric tons of barley, wheat, millet, and a hundred other kinds of grains, all over Demeter VII. As the name indicates, we¡¯re one of at least seven such farm-worlds, although there are plenty more than that, truth be told. Some are more concerned with livestock than grain, and I count myself lucky not to have been born on one of those worlds, even if it would have been more interesting than living here by some definition of the term. They say you can smell the stinking shit from orbit.


    Nothing seems amiss with the harvester initially, aside from the fact that it¡¯s not moving. They¡¯re not really supposed to stop at all, unless somebody makes them. Blinking twice at the steel-gray automaton, I access its systems manager and run a diagnostic. It takes a minute or two to complete. When finished, it reports that the machine is in 99.7% of optimal condition. The only thing not working right is a single fuse, deep within the engine. Just goes to show how a single cog not turning the right way can bring even a gigantic machine grinding to a halt.


    Popping open the harvester¡¯s hood, I pull a Q-tool from my belt and flick it open. It¡¯s similar to a multi-tool, except superior in just about every way. Instead of condensing a few dozen tools into a single package, it contains over 1,500 different tools, all entangled on a quantum level, so that the user can summon whichever one they need depending on the situation. Right now, what I need is a nano-torch, which will spray a bit of self-assembling machinery on the damaged fuse, and fix it right up- as soon as I can locate said fuse. That doesn¡¯t take very long either, as the harvester¡¯s system was kind enough to highlight its location for me. Leaning over to get a better angle, I find the panel behind which the fuses rest, and pry it open with a fingernail, before carefully aiming the nano-torch and spraying it down liberally. No sense in skimping, since that¡¯ll just mean one of my mothers or fathers or siblings would be back here in a few months¡¯ time to do the same thing.


    Once I¡¯m satisfied, I shut the panel, close the hood, and stow the Q-tool. But before reactivating the harvester- it has to be done manually, since an automatic reactivation would significantly increase the risk of it accidentally ¡®harvesting¡¯ a repair technician -I clamber on top of it and take a seat. The harvester is large enough to provide a decent view of my surroundings, even though there really isn¡¯t much to see. In fact, looking in every direction, I see pretty much the same thing. Endless fields of corn. I¡¯m far enough away from my family¡¯s home that I can¡¯t even see it, and the closest other residence is even further away. Above me, the sky is a pale, monochromatic blue, not a hint of a cloud. Come tomorrow, however, it¡¯ll be nothing but gray clouds, as the climate control satellites cause rain to pour down all over the planet. At first, there¡¯s some novelty to knowing exactly what the weather will be every day, but it quickly turns to monotony.


    Nothing on this planet is ever surprising. And conversely, nothing I can do here is ever surprising to anyone. Short of hacking the climate control satellites, perhaps, but that wouldn¡¯t serve any purpose except chaos, and I¡¯m well past the point where I would find that amusing. Besides, I doubt I¡¯ll have cause to return here again once I¡¯m gone. If my mothers and fathers are ever overcome with the desire to see me, they can come visit me wherever I am, courtesy of the teleportal network. If I never have to spend another minute under this sky again, it¡¯ll be too soon.


    It¡¯s not long before I¡¯ve had my fill, and I hop down off of the harvester, making sure to wait until I¡¯m at a safe distance before reactivating it. The machine hums to life, and resumes its task without a moment¡¯s pause. In some ways, I think of the rest of my family in much the same way. They do their duty day in and day out, with little thought for any life beyond it. I can¡¯t really blame them for their lack of ambition, either. Modern technology has made their lives exceedingly comfortable, and they¡¯re surrounded by people they love. But I¡¯m not built in that way. This planet was never going to be big enough to contain my ambitions.


    Despite all my exaltation of the virtues of patience, I can¡¯t stop my heart from racing as I rocket through the fields back towards our homestead. In less than an hour, we¡¯ll receive access codes for Akademos, allowing our personal teleportal unit to bring me straight onto Prime¡¯s second moon. It¡¯s closer to the heart of the Imperium than most people from a distant world like Demeter VII will ever see. Until I came around, none of my parents or siblings had a hope of ever catching a glimpse of Prime¡¯s moons, much less the capital planet itself. Now, they¡¯ll be able to visit me once every year, provided they¡¯re willing to pay the necessary fee. That won¡¯t be a problem, though- the stipend they receive for living here and helping maintain the farming machinery is fairly generous, and their expenses are virtually nonexistent. Still, it¡¯s fortunate that the Citadel doesn¡¯t charge tuition, else I doubt I¡¯d be going. After all, it¡¯s the most prestigious educational institution in the entire Imperium by a mile.


    When I return home, Len, one of my fathers, is sitting on the porch and smoking. It¡¯s not real smoke, of course, just a holographic mimicry that fades into nothingness after a few moments. The metal cylinder between his fingers doesn¡¯t contain any carcinogens, either- just a small dosage of ¡®mood-fluid,¡¯ which induces a state of calm and relaxation in any who imbibe it. Personally, I find it abhorrent, having tried some on Len¡¯s recommendation many years ago. It slowed my mind down to an intolerable degree- but I don¡¯t begrudge him his vices.


    ¡°Morning, Iza.¡±


    My parents are all fairly humble people, none of whom would have named any of their children after a goddess. Fortunately, the Imperium is sufficiently advanced to the point that children are no longer known by the names their parents choose for them. I picked my own sometime around eight years old, around the time I was designing my own body. Of course, that¡¯s eight years in realtime- I was subjectively closer to fifteen by then. In the Imperium, all children spend the first ten realtime years of their life as a disembodied brain, receiving their basic education, before they can choose a name, sex, and appearance. Ordinary biological reproduction is simply immoral, considering the odds that a child might be born with a body that doesn¡¯t meet their exact specifications. What kind of a monster would force a child to live like that, when a superior alternative is readily available?


    During that gestation period, the child¡¯s mind experiences time more slowly than its body, meaning those ten years are closer to twenty from a subjective point of view. Of course, that doesn¡¯t mean they¡¯re the mental equivalent of a twenty year old person, since they¡¯ve had no practical social experiences, just simulations. That¡¯s why we still measure age by how long someone has lived in realtime, even though technology means they might subjectively be much older.


    ¡°Morning, Len. Nice weather we¡¯re having, right?¡±


    He barks out a laugh. Like most things on Demeter VII, that joke got old a long time ago, but I suppose it hits differently in this context. Some of the others are probably going to get decidedly emotional about my departure, but Len tends to be a little more reserved. As I pass him on my way into the house, he just nods and takes another hit of mood-fluid.


    Based on my impressions of what homes on other worlds are like, ours is fairly modest. It¡¯s abnormally large, yes, but that¡¯s simply necessary to accommodate a family of eighteen people. Polyamorous relationships are the standard throughout the Imperium, although they tend to consist of larger polycules on worlds more distant from the Imperial core, and smaller ones as you get closer. The main reason for that is simply that the population density of a world within the core is much higher, while it¡¯s extremely low out on worlds like Demeter VII. A three or four-person polycule would probably drive each other insane, with nobody else to talk to for miles. Having fourteen partners helps diffuse the social tension among my parents. It also tends to make for more interesting children. Since the biological aspect of reproduction isn¡¯t especially relevant thanks to modern technology, children are produced through a sort of personality gestalt of their parents. Each of them contributes a bit of their own mind, and the result is a unique personality that¡¯s inherited traits from each of their parents.


    Aside from them, I have three siblings, all of them boys. We get along well enough, I suppose. There¡¯s certainly none of the gender-based conflict you¡¯d have expected from such an arrangement before the Imperium. I suspect such discordance often arose from the fact that, due to some rather inefficient biological design, women tended to be legitimately inferior to men in certain physical aspects. That disparity led to various forms of strife, most of which have been eliminated. While resource limitations mean we haven¡¯t quite achieved full morphological freedom, we certainly aren¡¯t constrained by evolution anymore either. I can hit just as hard as any of the boys, and that¡¯s hardly exceptional. What does separate me from my siblings, however, is my mind.


    Though they¡¯re all children of the same parents, that doesn¡¯t mean their personalities are identical. The ratio of which parent¡¯s personality has the most influence is decided randomly during the gestation process, meaning each of them tends to ¡®take after¡¯ some of our mothers and fathers more than others. I, on the other hand, don¡¯t really take after any of them. I lack their humility and equanimity, which is precisely why I¡¯ve been so desperate to get off of Demeter VII, while I suspect the rest of them are unlikely to ever leave for very long. As for why I¡¯m such a metaphorical black sheep... we¡¯ll get to that soon enough.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    Our family home is modeled after a farmhouse, after a fashion. The garage, where I parked the hover-bike before heading inside, looks more like a barn, although we don¡¯t exactly keep any animals in there. We do, however, keep a handful of cats. Mother Michela likes to joke that I¡¯ll miss them more than anybody else, but she¡¯s not entirely wrong. The cats don¡¯t ask much of me, other than to be fed, and held close during a rainstorm. There¡¯s something agreeably simple about that relationship. They receive food, I receive physical affection. It requires no careful analysis of social dynamics. However, analyzing social dynamics is an important skill, and one growing up in such a large household has given me ample time to practice. Not every one of my parents loves every other equally. Some of them don¡¯t even particularly like each other. I made a chart that attempted to map their relationships to one another, until Mother Stella made me take it down. That taught me an important lesson- if you¡¯re going to make a study of the people in your life, make sure it¡¯s somewhere they¡¯ll never see it.


    The first thing I do when I get inside is hang up the rifle slung over my shoulder. Normally, I¡¯d have spent an hour or two on target practice, but it seemed like a bit of a waste of time today. Kicking off my shoes, I head straight up the stairs, waving to Father Jonas on my way past the kitchen. My bedroom is on the fifth floor, sandwiched in between two of my brothers. Byron on the left, and Cesar on the right. Our parents¡¯ bedrooms dominate the three floors beneath us, while the ground floor contains the majority of our communal spaces. It can quickly get crowded in a house with so many people, which means we spend plenty of time outside.


    Even after a relatively short excursion, my clothes are soaked through with sweat. It¡¯s just as well, since I was going to have to change them regardless. Peeling off my shirt and pants, I give myself a quick once-over in the mirror before grabbing my Citadel uniform off the top of my dresser. Like just about everyone in the Imperium, I¡¯m conventionally attractive- there¡¯s simply no reason not to be, when you can choose the way you look. Symmetrical features, no deformities or birth defects, et cetera. Some people choose to give themselves such things, typically as a sort of fashion statement, but I never saw the appeal. Imperium law prohibits fully nonhuman bodies, mainly because it would be a massive resource drain if everyone could customize their body to their heart¡¯s content. Not to mention, it would likely kick off a biological arms race, with various members of the Nobility competing to see who could craft the deadliest body for themselves.


    All that being said, I don¡¯t quite resemble the ¡®standard model¡¯ of human. Almost nobody uses a factory preset model body anymore, even if they appear to be on the surface. All our bodies come with a set of standard upgrades granting us enhanced strength and stamina, a superior sensory suite, immunity from most diseases, a far longer lifespan, and plenty more. What marks me as visibly different are mainly cosmetic changes, such as my black sclera and violet pupils, or my five-foot prehensile tail. I tend to keep it wrapped around my waist when I¡¯m riding the hover-bike, but now that I¡¯m back inside the house I can let it sway around comfortably. Such visible modifications are considered unfashionable in the more austere culture of the Imperium¡¯s inner worlds, which is precisely why I gave myself one. They¡¯ll already be looking at me as an outsider, after all. Besides, it¡¯s essentially like having an additional limb, which is exactly as useful as you¡¯d expect it to be.


    Besides that, I look relatively normal. My hair is short, brown, and curly, and my skin a shade paler than you¡¯d expect for someone who spends so much time in the sun. I gave myself well-defined muscles, mainly for aesthetic purposes, though I maintain a relatively slender frame overall. Being able to hold my own in a fight is one thing, but I don¡¯t need to be a hulking, musclebound beast. After all, my real weapon rests between my ears.


    The Citadel uniform is a deep sapphire, matching the color of the natural crystal formations of Akademos. Despite myself, I feel a thrill of anticipation as I fasten the uniform¡¯s polished silver buttons. It¡¯s not exactly the most comfortable thing I¡¯ve ever worn, but fortunately they won¡¯t be requiring us to wear it every day. Instead, we¡¯re free to dress as we please, so long as it abides by the rules, save for special occasions when the full uniform is required. The very first day being one of those occasions, naturally. Once I¡¯ve got it all done up, I attach a small pin in the image of an antelope to my lapel. Each class of the Citadel is divided into four units, all of which compete against each other. We¡¯re told of our assignments prior to arrival, though not who¡¯ll be leading our particular unit. I suspect it was no mistake that I was placed in the Gazelle unit. A reminder that I¡¯ll be surrounded on all sides by predators once I arrive.


    With the uniform, I¡¯ve more or less reached the end of my remaining preparations. We sent my bags along last night, and they should be awaiting me in my dormitory already. Adjusting my collar, I head back downstairs cautiously, getting used to the more restrictive clothing. It was tailored specifically for me, of course, including a place for my tail to come through. On my way back down the stairs, I pass by Cesar, who does a double-take upon seeing me in the uniform. He says nothing, just places a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. I gently smack the top of his head with the flat end of the barb at the end of my tail, and he flees up to his room.


    Rolling my eyes, I loosen my cuffs slightly and head down into the kitchen. Jonas is slicing up some tomatoes, and doesn¡¯t turn to look as I walk in.


    ¡°Whoever that is, would you mind getting me the ground cumin?¡±


    ¡°Sure thing,¡± I reply casually, smiling to myself as I walk over to the spice rack and retrieve the requested item. Jonas doesn¡¯t blink as I place it down next to him, despite the fact that I¡¯m sure he must have caught a glimpse of my sleeve as I did so. Clearly too wrapped up in what he¡¯s doing.


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    ¡°No problem. Making guac?¡±


    ¡°Yep,¡± he replies apologetically. ¡°Was hoping to have it ready before you left, but...¡±


    Jonas trails off, as if his brain is slowly catching up to the fact that he¡¯s talking to me, and not one of the others.


    ¡°It¡¯s no trouble. I wouldn¡¯t want to risk messing up my uniform, after all.¡±


    Knife halfway through the tomato, Jonas pauses, and slowly turns around to look at me. Unable to contain my own amusement, I fold my arms and lean against the counter, smirking. Without looking away from me, he puts the knife down and dries his hands on a rag, before taking a step closer to get a better look at me.


    ¡°Y¡¯know, I¡¯m not sure I ever truly believed it until just now,¡± he says slowly. ¡°Hell, I¡¯m still not sure I believe it. My little girl, going off to the Citadel.¡±


    After he¡¯s finished dabbing at his eyes, I step forward and embrace him. Frankly, I don¡¯t share his disbelief, but it would be cruel of me not to recognize that this is difficult for him. A few moments later, he pulls away, and lifts up my arm to examine the uniform in detail. It¡¯s not as if we couldn¡¯t get access to nice clothes out here if we wanted- after all, this thing came out of our matter-fabricator just like everything else we wear. But there¡¯s no point in fabricating fancy dresses, since we aren¡¯t exactly attending any galas, so it¡¯s still something of a novelty.


    ¡°We¡¯ve got to show this to everybody,¡± Jonas says, releasing my arm and gesturing to the other room. I glance at the half-sliced tomato.


    ¡°You sure you don¡¯t need to finish that?¡±


    ¡°Hm? Oh, I¡¯ll have your brother come help.¡±


    He goes silent for a moment, eyes distant, as he sends a message to Cesar over the brainband. Shouting up to the fifth floor would be pointless, which makes the fact that we have access to long-distance silent communication fortunate. Pseudo-telepathic communication is only one of the brainband¡¯s many features, though. It can also be used to share memories, and access virtually any bit of information you might need, pretty much instantly. A moment later, I hear the sound of Cesar tromping back down the stairs, somewhat grudgingly. Rather than stick around to witness his annoyance at having to help out around the house for once, I follow Jonas into the living room.


    While I take a seat in my usual spot, an armchair comfortably close to the fireplace, Jonas sends out a ¡®public¡¯ message on the brainband, which anybody within a short distance will receive. It¡¯s essentially the equivalent of shouting at the top of your lungs, although of course there¡¯s no equivalent of volume when it comes to this kind of communication. He¡¯s summoning everybody to our location for ¡®a surprise.¡¯ I steel myself for the ordeal that¡¯s to come.


    Father Emil is the first to arrive, merely poking his head into the room, giving me a once-over, and expressing his stoic approval with a thumbs-up before leaving. He spends most of his time monitoring the telemetry feed from the harvesters and other machines we¡¯re responsible for in our sector, although since there¡¯s rarely anything interesting to report, he actually tends to read books on military history for the most part. As a result, I¡¯ve actually been able to bond with him more than any of my brothers, mainly through debating whether I¡¯d have been able to do a better job than whichever famous general he¡¯s reading about at the time. He¡¯s still not big on flashy public displays of affection, though.


    Next, Mother Kalli and Father Nico enter, both still wearing their gardening gear, along with my youngest brother, Damon, in tow. He stares at the uniform in undisguised fascination for a moment, before tearing his eyes away and muttering something inaudible, but plausibly complimentary.


    ¡°You look wonderful, honey,¡± Kalli says, clapping her hands together cheerfully. ¡°It¡¯s such a shame Alan can¡¯t be here to see this.¡±


    She¡¯s referring to another one of my fathers, who died helping put out a crop fire last week. Since Demeter VII is a fairly isolated world, the resurrection hub that services us has a long queue, owing to the fact that it also services a dozen other worlds at the same time. He¡¯ll be back within another week or so, none the worse for wear physically or mentally, as the traumatic memories of death tend to be edited out during the resurrection process. If anything, dying is a happy accident these days, as having your consciousness put into a new body affords you the opportunity to make any edits or upgrades to yourself that you¡¯ve been thinking about. Besides, they¡¯ll be able to share the memory of this moment with him directly when he gets back.


    ¡°Thanks, mom.¡±


    The next hour is difficult to endure. A few of the others have the decency to just pop in momentarily, like Emil did, but most of them stick around to chat. I like praise as much as the next girl, but after the first few rounds of compliments, I start to tire of it. First they¡¯re telling me how good I look in the uniform, then how excited they are for me to be going off to the Citadel, and how they know I¡¯m going to be the top of my class. I certainly hope that¡¯s true, but they seem so thoroughly convinced that I almost start worrying I¡¯m going to let them down.


    Mother Stella insists on standing me up and straightening out some nonexistent wrinkles, and while I¡¯m trying not to fidget, a notification arrives from across the brainband. I stiffen, and she backs away swiftly, the entire room going silent in an instant.


    ¡°What is it? Did they send the transfer codes?¡±


    Unexpectedly, I find myself unable to speak. All I can do is nod. The condition seems to spread rapidly to all of the others, until finally Byron opens his mouth.


    ¡°Well, what are you waiting for?¡±


    My older brother¡¯s words are enough to release the tension in the room. From the kitchen, I hear Cesar laugh.


    ¡°You¡¯re right. I should get going.¡±


    Nevertheless, my feet remain rooted firmly in place, until Byron stands up and places a hand on my shoulder, slowly guiding me out of the living room and towards the backyard, where our teleportal unit stands. It resembles an empty doorframe now, just large enough for a single person to fit through at one time. As I upload the transfer codes, it flickers to life, a shimmering white veil filling the empty space. On the other side, my future awaits. Behind me, my mothers and fathers are gathered, watching with bated breath.


    ¡°Iza!¡±


    I turn around at Stella¡¯s anxious cry. She¡¯s got her hands clasped together nervously.


    ¡°Did you remember to pack your toothbrush?¡±


    Emil sighs. Someone must have summoned him via brainband to see me off. In the back of the crowd, I can see Len and Cesar watching as well.


    ¡°Stel, if there¡¯s anything she forgot, we can just send it to her.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± she replies, clearly not comforted in the slightest, ¡°but I want everything to be perfect on her first day.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I remembered my toothbrush,¡± I interject, before they can get into it further. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. Everything is going to be fine. You all remember what to do if there¡¯s any trouble, right?¡±


    As I speak, my eyes dart around, first looking at the large satellite dish on the roof of the house, then the hidden gun emplacements around the borders of our land, then to the door to the ¡®storm cellar.¡¯ Each one serves a different purpose. The guns are there to shoot down any unmanned attack drones. The satellite is there to detect said drones before they arrive, as well as any other forms of attack, though I doubt anyone would be willing to shell out the money for an orbital kinetic bombardment. And the cellar is for my family to take shelter in case the guns fail to do their job. I insisted on all of it. Attempts on my life at the Citadel are a virtual certainty, but I can handle those. What concerns me more is that someone might try to threaten the people I care about in order to gain leverage over me.


    ¡°We remember,¡± Jonas says reassuringly. He comes closer, and looks for a moment like he¡¯s about to pull me into another hug, before he realizes he¡¯d be inviting everybody else to join in, and wisely chooses to instead pat me on the back. ¡°You be safe out there.¡±


    ¡°I will.¡±


    ¡°Good. Now go give ¡®em hell.¡±

 Chapter Two

    The first thing I see upon stepping foot onto the moon Akademos is the Ivory Tower. It¡¯s a massive structure, easily the biggest building I¡¯ve ever seen with my own eyes. Technically speaking, it¡¯s two towers, linked in the midsection by a series of bridges and open-air walkways, each culminating in a half-circle at the top that doesn¡¯t quite meet the other side. It¡¯s the heart of the Citadel, which happens to be the second thing I see. Of course, it would be hard to miss, considering it¡¯s the size of a city.


    There¡¯s some irony to the fact that the largest educational institution in the Imperium is also the one with the fewest students. There are about one hundred and sixty of us at present, half of which are members of the incoming class like myself, while the rest are upperclassmen. You¡¯d think we wouldn¡¯t need such a massive facility considering we¡¯re so few, but then again, would Nobles tolerate anything less?


    To understand why the Citadel is so large, and why it occupies one of the moons of the Imperium¡¯s capital world, one must first understand what Nobles are. Despite the name, Nobility isn¡¯t exactly a hereditary trait within the Imperium. After all, nobody has biological children anymore, so special bloodlines aren¡¯t of much importance. Nobility is passed down via a different method entirely. You see, when a child¡¯s personality is formed, it¡¯s typically as a gestalt of their parents¡¯ personalities, all of which are arranged in different ratios. But in certain cases, another influence is present. The influence of one of the Imperium¡¯s Founders.


    Before the Imperium, there was war. It went on for so long that most people had long since forgotten life before it, and had little hope of seeing life after it. Until the 888 Founders came around. They united various factions under one banner, and subjugated the ones that wouldn¡¯t capitulate. But they had no confidence that the Imperium would persist once they were gone. History is, after all, full of stories where a father¡¯s great accomplishments are undone by their wayward son. So they found a way to ensure they never had to give up power at all. Each one of the Founders left a ¡®ghost¡¯ within the system that allocates the personality matrices of a child¡¯s parents. As such, when a Founder died, their ¡®ghost¡¯ would be passed down to a newborn child, as if he were one of their parents- but with an influence that would greatly outweigh that of all the others. Such children were to be known as Nobles.


    Each Noble inherits a number of things from their Founder¡¯s ghost. Strengths and weaknesses, skills and deficiencies, habits and traits. If a Founder was left-handed, it¡¯s exceedingly likely that all of the Nobles in their line will be too. More importantly, if a Founder had a unique competency or set of skills, their Nobles will inherit all of those, which is precisely what makes them well-suited to managing the Imperium. However, not every Noble is guaranteed to be as good at their job as their Founder was. Any number of unpredictable factors can result in an inferior specimen. As such, it was necessary to devise a way of separating wheat from chaff. That method is the Citadel. Every Noble from across the Imperium attends, without fail. Should they excel, they¡¯ll inherit their Founder¡¯s position, whether it¡¯s as a general, a minister, a governor, or the Emperor himself. Should they fail, they will be discarded without a second thought, and another candidate will be procured.


    I am, of course, a Noble. There would be no hope of a girl from Demeter VII coming to Akademos otherwise. But if I wasn¡¯t a Noble, I doubt I¡¯d ever have developed the ambition that led me to want to leave in the first place.


    Since the education of a Noble must necessarily be extensive, the Citadel was designed to be vast. From the position where I emerged, I can see a number of notable buildings that I recognize from my extensive studies of the Citadel and the moon itself. The ivied dome roof of the Garden of Grace, where a sample of the native flora from every world in the Imperium can be found. Exalt Arena, where the more athletically-inclined Nobles compete for glory and bragging rights. Since just about everyone is on a level playing field from the physical perspective, it¡¯s really more of a contest of wills, with whoever can manifest the most focus and determination emerging victorious. Gofannon¡¯s Forge, named for the Founder they called the Fractalsmith, a prodigious quantum physicist and engineer, whose discoveries resulted in the technology that formed a foundation for such devices as the Q-tool. His Noble line, and that of other Founders who specialized in building, rather than destroying, have long reigned there.


    I remain entranced by the Citadel¡¯s majesty for a minute or two, until a brainband notification shakes me out of my stupefaction. It helpfully informs me that all new arrivals are to promptly report to the Entrance Hall. Galvanized, I get moving. The brainband update included the location of my destination, although I don¡¯t need it at the moment, as there¡¯s really only one path forward- a bridge hewn from glittering sapphire, leading from my current location, the transport hub, to the outer wall of the Citadel.


    Behind me, another of the teleportal units activates, and a girl no older than nine emerges, dressed in a Noble uniform of her own. She doesn¡¯t spare me a second glance, just walks right on past, towards the Citadel. Since not all Nobles are born at the same time, each ¡®class¡¯ tends to contain people of various different ages. Some, like me, are discovered at a fairly young age, and have to wait several long, painful years before it¡¯s time to come to Akademos. Others, presumably like that girl, are discovered mere months before a semester is about to start, and get-fast tracked. On one hand, I¡¯m somewhat jealous, as she¡¯s been spared all the tedium I had to endure. But on the other hand, it gave me plenty of time to make plans, whereas she¡¯s clearly been thrown straight into the deep end.


    The bridge gleams in the bright sunlight. It has no guardrails, which I suppose is the first test they expect us to pass. While most forms of death are no longer permanent, anybody who happens to fall is probably stupid enough that they wouldn¡¯t make a suitable Noble. Beneath it, I can see a park, where some of the older Citadel students seem to be walking about, as well as others in marble-white uniforms I take to be members of the support staff. Almost every building I¡¯ve seen is made from the same marble as the Ivory Tower itself. Much of the Citadel¡¯s architecture was carved directly out of the mountains and cliffs of Akademos, giving it a multi-tiered geography that provides a refreshing alternative from the flat plains of Demeter VII.


    Though the Citadel is quite large, it¡¯s also the only settlement of note on the entire moon. Everything else has been left untouched deliberately, in order for the wildlands of Akademos to provide a fertile testing ground for young Nobles. Certain species of predator are deliberately bred to stalk the jungles, so that we might prove ourselves against them. The sky above is another change from the world where I spent my life up until this day. Thin clouds drift across the heavens, which are a gorgeous amethyst color. Beneath the peak on which the Citadel is situated, I can see a sea of mist and fog obscuring perilous, jagged stones. Nobody would get very far trying to flee this place on foot. Or attack it, for that matter, although such a thing would be exceedingly unlikely. After all, the Imperial War College is located on the nearby moon of Tacitus, where Myrmidons are trained to kill without mercy. And then there¡¯s the third moon of Prime, known as Carceri- where the worst of the Imperium¡¯s criminals and outlaws are kept locked beneath the surface.


    As I¡¯m about halfway across the bridge, I hear footsteps behind me, getting louder. Somebody is hurrying to catch up with me. Unless one of my brothers has secretly been a Noble this whole time, there¡¯s nobody on the entire moon who should recognize me except the Citadel¡¯s administrators. However, as I turn around to face whoever wants my attention, a simpler explanation occurs- he saw my tail, and was intrigued. After all, such visible cosmetic alterations to one¡¯s body aren¡¯t exactly standard in the Imperium¡¯s core.


    Appropriately, the young man approaching me lacks any sort of cosmetic changes on the same level as mine, although his hair is a brighter shade of orange than can occur naturally. Perhaps that¡¯s what passess for avant-garde this close to Prime. He certainly carries himself like a Noble, that much I can say for certain. Once he¡¯s caught his breath, he straightens and extends a hand to me, flashing a bright and friendly smile.


    ¡°Good afternoon! I am Tellis Ayedar, sixty-fourth in the line of Senna, the Corsair Captain, Lady of Retribution. My apologies for the intrusion, but I caught sight of your... appendage, and I decided I simply must know your name.¡±


    With two blinks, I access the brainband and download a primer on who his Founder ghost was. Apparently Senna was something of a roguish character, infamous for commanding raids on enemy supply lines during the War of Conquest, often in direct retaliation for prior strikes on Imperium bases. How that sort of character manifests itself in such a formal, well-heeled individual is currently a mystery to me. Evidently not all Nobles display the traits of their Founder as outwardly as others.


    ¡°Izanami,¡± I reply, shaking his hand firmly, and flashing a quick grin at him. ¡°You can call me Iza.¡±


    Tellis watches my tail closely as I swish it back and forth. It takes a moment before he realizes I¡¯m doing it deliberately to distract him, and he snaps his attention back towards me, cheeks pink.


    ¡°A pleasure. And of what line are you, if I might ask?¡±


    ¡°Seventy-first in the line of Adebayo, he of the Thousand Rings,¡± I lie.


    Plenty of Founders earned their titles within their own lifetimes. They were living legends. Others, however, only barely qualified as Founders in the first place. Most of them only received titles well after they died, in an attempt to mythologize them in the way of the more notable Founders. Adebayo is one such case, having been given that title simply because he had a habit of wearing a different ring on each finger every day of his life. He was an Undersecretary of Finance in the early Imperium, as I¡¯m sure Tellis is now learning, after a quick double-blink of his own.


    There are more than a few reasons why I¡¯m lying, even though he¡¯ll be finding out who I really am soon enough. For one, positioning myself as someone of less importance than him will give me some insight into what kind of a person he is. Being further along in the Adebayo line means that more previous Nobles of that line have washed out of the Citadel, and been replaced, than those of his line. That tends to be a pretty good metric for the quality of that Founder¡¯s heirs. More relevantly, if I told him the truth, he¡¯d probably have come up with some excuse to take his leave, if not simply ran away.


    ¡°I see, I see. And from where in the worlds do you hail?¡±


    ¡°Demeter VII,¡± I answer, after just a brief enough pause to indicate that I feel some amount of shame for being from so lowly a station before coming here. In reality, I feel nothing of the sort, but it¡¯ll help confirm his biases about me.


    ¡°Ah, a farm-world. How lovely. The Imperium rests on the shoulders of worlds such as yours, you know. I have no doubt we¡¯ll be partaking of your bounty at the feast tonight, as well.¡±


    ¡°Probably. And what about you? A local, I presume?¡±


    Tellis laughs good-naturedly. Sure, he¡¯s reeking of condescension, but not in an intentional way. It¡¯s just a natural consequence of how he was raised. Even if the rest of his family wasn¡¯t Noble, they were clearly of the upper class.


    ¡°Yes, I was raised on Prime. My father runs the main branch of the Imperial Bank in Nimbus City, so you can imagine how thrilled he was to discover I was a Noble... and then disappointed when he realized I¡¯d inherited a warrior¡¯s spirit, rather than that of a moneychanger.¡± He laughs ruefully. ¡°Something tells me he¡¯d get along quite well with you.¡±


    Well, damn. Hopefully he doesn¡¯t try to quiz me on the intricacies of the Imperial banking system, or else my little ruse is going to fall apart much faster than anticipated. I need a subject change, and fast.


    ¡°You¡¯re a member of the Ox unit?¡±


    Tapping the pin on his lapel, Tellis smiles again.


    ¡°Yes, and proud. The Emperor himself was an Oxen, during his time in the Citadel. And I see you¡¯re... a Gazelle. Fascinating.¡± There¡¯s a brief silence, as we both simultaneously realize we¡¯ve essentially run out of things to talk about. Then Tellis speaks up again. ¡°Would you like me to accompany you? I suspect we¡¯re headed in the same direction, after all.¡±


    ¡°Sure, why not?¡±


    If he¡¯d been a member of the same unit as me, I¡¯d probably have refrained from lying to him, since doing so would have risked alienating an ally. But we¡¯re going to be rivals no matter what- even if there¡¯s no personal animosity between us, we¡¯ve been set on conflicting paths by the powers that be. If my little lie ends up motivating him to do his very best to defeat me, all the better. I¡¯d hate for my time here to go to waste for a lack of worthy opponents.


    The two of us walk a ways without speaking. Tellis gives me a slight berth, due to the motion of my tail. I suspect part of the reason for his fascination with me is simple fetishization. He¡¯s expected to adhere to the more austere cultural norms of the inner worlds, while I have the freedom to do whatever I please with my body, so long as it doesn¡¯t violate Imperium law. But since he isn¡¯t even allowed to think about his own desire to modify his body more extensively, he sublimates the impulse through attraction to people who can. Of course, fetishization also tends to have an element of disgust to it, so I doubt it would be too easy to wrap him around my finger, but it¡¯s certainly a potential option.


    ¡°I must say, I consider myself something of a student of the Citadel¡¯s history, and the case of your Gazelle unit is a curious one. As I recall, it was rather unceremoniously retired after a series of crushing defeats. In its latter years, students would frequently attempt to transfer to other units before the semester even started, as they viewed being assigned to the Gazelles as a near death sentence for their ambitions,¡±


    He¡¯s not telling me anything I didn¡¯t know, but clearly he assumes I didn¡¯t bother doing even the most basic amount of research before coming here. It¡¯s always nice to be underestimated.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s discouraging. I certainly hope you¡¯ll go easy on us.¡±


    Tellis laughs, loud enough that I can see the young girl, who¡¯s far ahead of us, glance over her shoulder at him.


    ¡°Well, I can¡¯t make any promises until I know if I¡¯m to be the leader of my unit or not. Those of my line often are, but I daresay there¡¯s to be some stiff competition among our fellows. All the prediction markets seem fairly confident that the latest in the Grim Dragon line will be one of the unit commanders, and you can certainly expect no mercy from them.¡±


    Although the information on which Nobles will be studying at the Citadel in a given year isn¡¯t publicized, people pay close attention to when a Noble dies, and estimate when the next person in their line will be old enough to attend. That means we know in advance which of the big-name Nobles will be in our class. The Grim Dragon is a notable figure, more of a household name than either Tellis¡¯s Founder, or the false one whose line he thinks I¡¯m a part of. It would be no surprise if his latest Noble ends up being one of our class¡¯s unit commanders.


    ¡°Maybe they¡¯ll end up leading the Gazelles. Could be that the administrators decided it would be a fitting challenge.¡±


    Tellis strokes his chin thoughtfully.


    ¡°Interesting observation. I hadn¡¯t considered that. If you¡¯re right, I certainly look forward to facing them on the field of battle.¡±


    ¡°Well, it seems like you won¡¯t have to wait long to find out.¡±


    Indeed, we¡¯ve reached the end of the bridge. A marble wall rings the center of the Citadel, with four banners draped over it, two on each side of the gate before us. Each one represents one of the four units the members of the incoming class have been assigned to. On the left, the Ox and the Peregrine. On the right, the Komodo and the Gazelle.


    ¡°Let¡¯s hope so,¡± Tellis replies, heading through the arched gateway a few steps ahead of me. ¡°I¡¯ve certainly spent long enough anticipating this day. Drawing out the suspense much longer simply wouldn¡¯t do.¡±


    Again, I wonder to myself how the Corsair Captain¡¯s ghost could have produced a Noble like him. Tellis seems entirely too refined to ever earn himself a title like the Lady of Retribution. But then again, maybe I¡¯m the one guilty of underestimation here. It¡¯s entirely possible he¡¯s got a hidden, vicious side that¡¯ll reveal itself on the battlefield. I¡¯m not the only person capable of concealing their true nature, after all.


    From where we are, the Entrance Hall is only a short walk. It¡¯s made longer, however, by the fact that we both slow down to appreciate the scenery. Many of the buildings are in the same style as the Ivory Tower, gleaming white marble spires, while others are short and wide, with domed roofs of polished sapphire. Based on what I remember from my studies of the city¡¯s layout, the school¡¯s main facilities are arranged around the Ivory Tower, while the buildings closer to the wall are various restaurants, shops, and other such services. Since the Citadel rarely has more than a hundred and fifty students at any one time, it¡¯s not exactly a proper economy, but having those luxuries easily available to all the young Nobles is seen as imperative, so the Imperium subsidizes the various businesses that would otherwise never have nearly enough traffic to keep themselves afloat. It has to be a pretty cushy gig, if you can get it.


    Being inside of the Citadel also means, for me, being surrounded by more buildings than I¡¯ve ever seen in my life, except for pictures and video. Considering my previous baseline was one, though, that¡¯s not much of an accomplishment. I¡¯ve toured plenty of megalopolises in VR to prepare myself, but no amount of that can prepare you for being there in the flesh. Fortunately, there aren¡¯t very many people around, so I have no trouble keeping my composure. Tellis doesn¡¯t miss a beat either, though he can¡¯t completely hide his awe as we make our way through the spotless stone streets. Unlike a proper city, the Citadel doesn¡¯t have any hovercars, which makes walking around much easier. There simply aren¡¯t enough residents to make accommodating motor vehicles a necessary component of civic planning.


    Soon enough, we both seem to reach a silent agreement that we¡¯ve seen enough, and head straight for the Entrance Hall. It¡¯s pretty much dead ahead, and almost impossible to miss, considering its size. Atop the oaken double-doors, which stand open to allow us entry, is the Citadel¡¯s crest- a pair of crossed blades pointed downwards, and one in the center pointed upwards. Two latin words frame the symbol, engraved into the smooth white stone. Noblesse oblige.


    It¡¯s a sentiment many of the elite throughout human history have expressed, but never has it been so literal than in the Imperium. We Nobles are quite literally obligated to serve the people. Most view their child being born a Noble as a good thing, because it affords them opportunities the vast majority of children in the Imperium lack, but from a certain perspective it¡¯s a curse. Once you¡¯re identified, Akademos is your destination, one way or another. Try to run and they¡¯ll send Myrmidons to hunt you down and drag you back. And after you get here, you have to fight to survive. Of course, the Imperium values the sanctity of life, but there¡¯s more than just that to lose if you fail.


    I¡¯m not the type to resent the fact that I have no other choice but to be here, though. After all, I had no way to realize any of my ambitions back on Demeter VII. Here, a myriad of possibilities unfold. Many of them involve me dying, temporarily or permanently, but I intend to avoid those outcomes. I¡¯ll cut a path through to the future I most desire, even if I have to leave some bodies in my wake.


    ¡°Well, here we are,¡± Tellis remarks pointlessly, as we approach the steps leading up to the Entrance Hall¡¯s entrance. ¡°I suppose we must part ways now. When we see each other again, it will most likely be on the field of battle.¡±


    ¡°Unless we happen to attend the same lecture,¡± I reply dryly. ¡°There¡¯s more to being here at the Citadel than just combat.¡±


    While it¡¯s true that there are ordinary classes we¡¯ll be expected to attend, the competition between the various units is the most important part of our education. However, that¡¯s not what a Noble of the line of Adebayo would say. And I see no point in dropping the ruse just yet.


    ¡°Quite so,¡± Tellis responds, amused. ¡°Nevertheless, we¡¯re to be foes from here on out. And in that spirit, I say... let the best man, or woman, win.¡±


    He extends his hand once more, and I regard it silently for a moment, before clasping it firmly. Tellis smiles, and we head into the Entrance Hall together.


    An older man in a sapphire-blue robe, with white insignias marking him as a member of the school¡¯s staff, stands in the middle of the entranceway, holding a datapad in the crook of his arm. There¡¯s no need for him to ask our names, he just pulls the information straight from the brainband. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°Ayedar. You¡¯re in Room 113, down that way.¡± He gestures to the left-hand corridor. ¡°And... you. You¡¯re in 124, over there.¡± He gestures in the opposite direction. ¡°Off you go, now.¡±


    Tellis gives me a last look, nods solemnly, and heads towards the Ox unit¡¯s room. I raise an eyebrow at him, and go where I¡¯m told. My lack of a surname is fairly unusual here, evidently. Of course, it would have been difficult for my parents to decide which of their names their children would inherit, so they simply decided that it would be none of them. A fairly common practice among larger families, especially outside of the core worlds of the Imperium. Conversely, people from Prime and the other surrounding worlds tend to place more emphasis on family names and such. It¡¯s for much the same reason that there¡¯s a soft cultural taboo against extensive body modification- they¡¯re deliberately trying to retain the culture of old Earth, even as technology and social progress rapidly advances. But those taboos are harder to enforce the further you get from the heart of the Imperium, which is how you get people like me.


    Inside of Room 124 is an oval-shaped table, wide enough to accommodate about fifteen people, which is around the number I¡¯m assuming we¡¯ll have in our unit. Sixty total students in our class, divided into four units, give or take a few here and there. A quick headcount as I walk in tells me that there are currently fourteen people here, counting myself- although one of them clearly isn¡¯t a student. She looks like a teacher, judging by the way she¡¯s dressed- a variation of the Citadel uniform that comes with a tie, although hers is loose. Since we can make our bodies look as young or old as we¡¯d like, it¡¯s not as easy as it once was to gauge someone¡¯s age just by looking at them. However, based on the way she carries herself, I¡¯d estimate her to be around middle-aged, which in the Imperium would put her around a hundred and fifty years old or so. Her auburn hair looks like it would be about shoulder-length, if it wasn¡¯t done up in a messy bob. Overall, she doesn¡¯t look nearly as well put-together as I¡¯d have expected a Citadel instructor to be.


    ¡°Well, it looks like most of you are here,¡± she says, already sounding exhausted. ¡°We can probably get started. I¡¯m Professor Allison Gabrielli, and I¡¯m going to be the sponsor for your unit.¡±


    I might be making an unfair assumption, but Professor Gabrielli doesn¡¯t seem especially enthused about her role as our sponsor. Rather than take a seat, I rest my arms on the back of an empty chair and lean forward, curling my tail under my shoulder.


    ¡°Before anybody asks, I don¡¯t know who the unit commander is going to be. The Dean is going to announce all of them later. Right now, we¡¯re just going to go over some basics.¡±


    While the professor is speaking, I glance around the room at my fellow Gazelles. Much like the professor herself, many of them don¡¯t seem incredibly excited to be here. Perhaps the unit¡¯s reputation was already known to them. The first one to catch my eye is a girl with hair that errs strongly on the ¡®platinum¡¯ side of platinum blonde. As I look closer, I start to suspect it might actually be metal. She¡¯s clearly bored, resting her chin on her palm and staring at the professor disinterestedly. Another is watching Gabrielli intently, but immediately turned to look as I walked into the room, only returning his focus to the professor once he concluded I wasn¡¯t an immediate threat. Like me, he¡¯s got immediately visible physical alterations- in his case, gunmetal-gray skin and a completely bald head. He¡¯s also built like a tank. Others I see include a guy with a pair of jagged black horns jutting out from his forehead, and the barest hint of what I presume are fairly extensive body tattoos peeking out from under his collar. He, too, looks disinterested, having not even bothered to glance in my direction when I walked in.


    ¡°Obviously,¡± the professor continues, ¡°you all know who you are, and why you¡¯re here. I¡¯m not going to make you introduce yourselves. There¡¯ll be plenty of time for that later. But in case you¡¯ve completely failed to familiarize yourself with what will be expected of you here, let¡¯s review.¡±


    She taps a long, sharp nail on the table.


    ¡°You are all part of the Gazelle unit, one of four. You¡¯ll be competing with the other three units for the duration of your time here at the Citadel. That competition will take many forms, from war games, to athletics events, to how well members of your unit perform academically. While myself and the other units¡¯ sponsors may also be professors, rest assured we will be entirely impartial in evaluating your work.¡±


    The way she says that makes me suspect she means the exact opposite. Not much of a surprise. For all the Imperial propaganda about the Citadel, no institution is free of backroom deals or pure, petty tribalism. And considering how uninterested Gabrielli seems to be in doing her job at all, I doubt we¡¯ll be benefitting from any of that corruption in the way the other units will be.


    ¡°We cannot force you to attend classes or participate in other activities, nor will we punish you for failing to do so. However, abstaining will only be to the detriment of your unit, and your commander will have the authority to punish you however they see fit.¡±


    I can¡¯t imagine many of the Citadel¡¯s students would be so unmotivated as to sit out of all their classes and activities. After all, the Founders were all ambitious people, and that¡¯s one thing just about every Noble inherits.


    ¡°Your unit has been assigned quarters in the Hyperion Building. The apartments are generously furnished, but you will still be living in the same building as other people. Don¡¯t get on each others¡¯ nerves. It¡¯ll be the unit commander¡¯s job to deal with you if you do.¡±


    Being able to manage your soldiers off the battlefield is just as important as being able to command them on it. Plus, it would be unseemly for the non-Nobles of the Citadel¡¯s faculty to be punishing us, considering we¡¯re being trained to one day rule over them. Maintaining the appearance of propriety is crucial.


    ¡°Question,¡± says a guy with dreadlocks. ¡°What¡¯s the procedure for transferring to another unit?¡±


    Laughter ripples through the room. I can¡¯t help but chuckle along with them. The professor, on the other hand, looks annoyed, although I can¡¯t tell whether it¡¯s because of the specific inquiry, or just at having to answer any question at all.


    ¡°If you have a legitimate grievance with another member of your unit, and all attempts to resolve it have failed, you may request a transfer to another unit. However, unless that other unit is short-staffed to begin with, you¡¯ll need to find someone from that unit to trade places with you. Furthermore, general dissatisfaction with the unit you¡¯ve been placed in is not considered valid grounds for a transfer.¡±


    ¡°Noted,¡± the questioner replies wryly.


    Before anybody else can comment or ask a question, the door to the room bursts open, and another Noble rushes in, looking exhausted. He leans against the wall, breathing heavily for a moment, before looking up at us. There¡¯s an animated, shifting gear pattern around his right eye.


    ¡°Sorry I¡¯m late,¡± he wheezes, breath still not fully caught. ¡°What did I miss?¡±


    Rather than respond aloud, one of the others simply blinks twice at him, transferring their memory of the last few minutes. He nods appreciatively, and drops into the seat next to me, brushing up against my tail and giving it a curious glance before turning his attention to the professor.


    ¡°Well, unless anybody else has an interruption they¡¯d like to make, let¡¯s move on. Your class schedules have already been arranged, and you¡¯ll receive them after the Dean¡¯s address, along with the access codes for your apartments. Some of your classes will be shared with the rest of your unit, while the others have been chosen for your individual strengths and weaknesses. That means you¡¯ll be attending them with members of other units.¡±


    Considering the wide variety of roles that the various Nobles occupy, it¡¯s necessary to separate them by specialization. Those suited to administrative and bureaucratic positions will have been assigned classes relating to those fields, while the more tactically-minded will be studying troop formations and the like. However, I imagine everybody will be expected to participate in combat-preparedness classes, considering even the laziest bureaucrat can have a world-class athlete¡¯s physique these days.


    ¡°Now, unless there are any further questions, you¡¯re all free to talk amongst yourselves until the Dean is ready to give his speech.¡±


    Without waiting to see if there actually are any more questions, Gabrielli leans back in her chair and shuts her eyes, likely accessing her brainband social media feeds. For a few moments, the room is silent, as we all look around at each other warily. I catch a younger girl with slightly unkempt hair staring at me, though she swiftly averts her eyes when I look her way.


    Eventually, the girl with the platinum-blonde hair speaks.


    ¡°Well, I think this year is already off to a great start,¡± she says cheerfully, with a guileless smile I instantly know isn¡¯t the least bit genuine. Her words do serve to lower the level of tension in the room somewhat, though.


    ¡°I¡¯ll drink to that,¡± the horned boy jokes, then pulls a very real flask from the pocket of his uniform and takes a swig. ¡°So, any bets on which one of us is going to be commander? I can promise you it¡¯s not going to be me, at least.¡±


    ¡°I heard the Grim Dragon is in our year,¡± I pipe up. ¡°That wouldn¡¯t happen to be any of you, would it?¡±


    Most of us look around the room at each other, although a few people seem to be pointedly performing their disinterest in the conversation, likely laboring under the misapprehension that apathy makes them look cool. Nobody says anything, however, until the guy with the horns points a finger at me.


    ¡°It¡¯s you, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Afraid not,¡± I answer truthfully. ¡°Besides, does that really sound like something the Grim Dragon would do?¡±


    ¡°Fair point,¡± he says, sizing me up for a moment. Whatever he sees doesn¡¯t seem to impress him much, though.


    ¡°I-it might be me,¡± the nervous girl says quietly. ¡°At least, that¡¯s what my mother said...¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± asks the hornhead. ¡°What¡¯s your line?¡±


    ¡°Finnala, the, ah, the Shieldmaiden, Master of the Valkyrie Corps.¡±


    The way she says it feels more like someone reading lines from a script, in contrast to Tellis¡¯s more confident delivery. Still, it¡¯s a Noble line with an impressive pedigree. The Valkyrie Corps is an institution that¡¯s endured since the days of the Founders, something many others can¡¯t boast of. While plenty of the more military-minded Founders had their own divisions in the Imperial Navy, many of them ended up being disbanded during a period where their Noble line produced a series of failures, resulting in their divisions being administered by a steward. The Shieldmaiden¡¯s line has had very few failures of that nature. Although, perhaps that¡¯s going to change soon, given the temperament of their latest Noble.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m fairly certain they take disposition into account when selecting a unit commander,¡± I offer. ¡°So you probably don¡¯t have anything to worry about.¡±


    ¡°Th-that¡¯s reassuring,¡± she says, though I don¡¯t get the feeling she¡¯s particularly reassured. ¡°M-my name is Katrina, by the way.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Iza,¡± I reply with a wink.


    ¡°Nikolai Genov, fifty-ninth in the line of Tsukuda Ken''ichi, the Stormwolf,¡± the horned guy says matter-of-factly, without any of the pride I¡¯d have expected. Two quick blinks and I pull all the relevant information on his Founder ghost from the brainband. The Stormwolf was a renowned warrior, one of the very first Myrmidons, but he fell from grace after the war, ultimately becoming an enforcer for an organized crime syndicate. There was even talk of stripping him of his Founder status, despite his contributions to the war effort, until he received a full, posthumous pardon after giving his life to save the Emperor¡¯s son from a truedeath assassination attempt. Since then, those of his line have generally been treated with distrust and suspicion, which they¡¯ve responded to by justifying it, many of them following in the original Stormwolf¡¯s footsteps, except for the redemption bit at the end. Of course, there have been plenty that simply did their duty without incident, but those aren¡¯t nearly as memorable as the ones that crashed and burned.


    ¡°Wow, you¡¯re totally right,¡± the blonde says. ¡°There¡¯s no way they¡¯ll make you commander.¡±


    ¡°And I suppose you think you will,¡± Genov says, although not in a tone that suggests he¡¯s particularly offended.


    ¡°Well, I wouldn¡¯t say it¡¯s likely, but if there are truly no other suitable candidates, I¡¯ll just have to rise to the occasion.¡± She flashes a saccharine smile. ¡°Sofie Lang. It¡¯s great to meet all of you. I was a five-time decathlon champion before coming here, so if nothing else, we¡¯re sure to score big in the athletics competitions. Oh, and I¡¯m the sixty-second in the line of Helene, the Silver Shadow.¡±


    Interesting that she spoke of her own personal accomplishments first, and her Noble line almost as an afterthought. That could be a sign that she¡¯s a genuine narcissist, or it could just mean she has a level of healthy self-respect that isn¡¯t predicated solely on being a Noble. Only time will tell.


    ¡°Good for you, but I don¡¯t think they¡¯re going to put an infiltration specialist in charge,¡± Genov says. ¡°Most of that job involves being away from the rest of the group for long periods.¡±


    I look to the gray-skinned behemoth, who hasn¡¯t yet said a word, just looked between the different speakers silently, his expression never shifting.


    ¡°What about you, big guy? Is there the soul of a leader under all that muscle?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he replies flatly.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m glad we cleared that up.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he says, and I swear I can see the barest hint of a smile, though it disappears before I can be completely sure.


    The kid with the gear mark around his eye is the next to speak up. Almost immediately upon hearing his voice, I can tell what sort of person he is- the kind that has minimal self-awareness in social settings, and thinks everybody is much more interested in their inane, banal contributions than they actually are. If he notices me rolling my eyes, he gives no indication.


    ¡°If we¡¯re doing introductions, I suppose I can go,¡± he smirks. ¡°I¡¯m Bret, seventy-second of the line of Sa¡¯adah El-Amin, the Wrought-Iron Eye.¡± As he taps the animated tattoo, the smirk intensifies. ¡°Maybe you can guess why.¡±


    It¡¯s difficult to put my finger on precisely why, but something about the way he speaks is intensely annoying to me. It feels like he¡¯s just regurgitating pop-cultural cliches without any understanding of what makes that kind of dialogue work, or the fact that nobody in the real world actually talks like that. The end result is that he just sounds like a poorly-programmed neural network.


    A long stretch of silence follows his statement, and he looks around the room blankly, as if wondering why nobody is engaging with his pathetic attempts at ¡®banter.¡¯ Before anybody can change the subject, however, a brainband notification pops up, informing us that we¡¯re to proceed to the Assembly Chamber for the Dean¡¯s address. At last, Professor Gabrielli stirs, the notification likely having overridden whatever privacy filters she was using to completely ignore our conversation.


    ¡°Well, I hope you all had a productive discussion,¡± she says disinterestedly. ¡°Shall we go find out which of you is going to have to wrangle all of the others?¡±


    Gabrielli¡¯s aura of sheer apathy discourages anybody from actually responding, but we all get up and follow her out of the room. On the other side of the hall, one of the other units is doing the same thing- judging by their pins, they would be the Peregrines. They¡¯re walking more or less in single file, while we Gazelles move more like an amorphous blob, most of us trying to be the ones at the very back. Towards the front, I can see Bret walking beside Gabrielli, speaking to her animatedly. I can only imagine her misery at knowing she¡¯ll have to deal with him all year. He¡¯s not the type to ever really get the message that she doesn¡¯t care what he has to say.


    The walk to the Assembly Chamber is fairly short, although extended by the fact that we¡¯re moving in a group, and that all three of the other units are also heading in the exact same direction. Fortunately, the hallways are wide, just as the ceilings above us are vaulted. As we head into the Chamber itself, it becomes clear that all four units were given slightly different sets of directions over the brainband. Specifically, we¡¯ve each been directed to assemble under one of four banners, corresponding to our unit¡¯s symbol. From left to right, there¡¯s the Komodos, the Peregrines, the Oxen, and finally the Gazelles. All of the other three are in position, standing in neat rows, before we¡¯re even all in the room. Gabrielli rests her chin on her hand as she watches us try to mimic their positioning, and only halfway succeed.


    Aside from us, the Assembly Chamber seems to be empty. It¡¯s a large room, as the name would imply, but I see no sign of the Dean. That is, until the floor before us splits open, and a stage emerges. Once it¡¯s fully risen, stairs extend from the sides, allowing our respective professors to stand next to their colleagues, who are all assembled behind the Dean. The Citadel¡¯s head administrator stands behind a podium, wearing a black suit with a sapphire tie. His face is fashionably weathered, with flecked salt-and-pepper hair and laugh lines, although I suspect he had them added intentionally to make himself seem friendlier than he actually is.


    After a moment, the other units start clapping respectfully. Most of the Gazelles follow suit, although I see a few obstinately abstaining. For my part, I do a golf clap, the perfect in-between gesture to indicate I¡¯m neither a brown-noser or a wannabe rebel. Nobody seems to appreciate the artistry of it, though, mainly because their eyes are all on the stage.


    ¡°Thank you, thank you,¡± the Dean says jovially. ¡°Thank you all for being here, truly. It¡¯s mandatory, of course, but still- I don¡¯t believe we had to send Myrmidons to bring any of you here this year. That¡¯s a real accomplishment.¡±


    Laughter ripples through the room.


    ¡°I¡¯m Dean Norman Gennis, sixty-third in the line of Enora, the Tutor. As long as the Citadel has existed, a Noble of my line has been the Dean- unless we were a student at the time. That means I¡¯ve been in the same position all of you are in right now. I know it¡¯s daunting, especially because not all of you are going to make it. But the life of a Noble is filled with hardship, so that we might make it possible for the ordinary citizens of the Imperium to live without it.¡±


    Frankly, that strikes me as meaningless pablum. Particularly because many Nobles live exceedingly comfortable lives, and many of the Imperium¡¯s ordinary citizens live with a great deal of hardship. My family is lucky enough not to, but that doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m any less aware of the plight of those less fortunate than me.


    ¡°Now, I know you¡¯re all anxious to learn who will be leading your units, but before I tell you, there¡¯s something else I think it¡¯s important to mention. I urge you to take this to heart. Your performance as an individual is what¡¯s ultimately being judged. Yes, the success or failure of your unit matters, but if you excel at your role while the rest of your unit is incompetent, you¡¯ll rise while the rest of them fall. And conversely, if the rest of your unit excels, while you¡¯re incompetent, you can¡¯t expect to benefit from their hard work.¡±


    A curious thing to be reminding us of, right before announcing unit leaders. Is he intentionally trying to sow discord in the ranks? Maybe that¡¯s standard procedure here. It¡¯s certainly not as if there¡¯s no infighting among Nobles in the rest of the Imperium. In fact, that¡¯s precisely why they have such a high turnover rate, which is how the Citadel gets so many new students on a regular basis.


    ¡°Without further ado, let¡¯s announce who this class¡¯s unit leaders will be. If your name is read, please come up onto the stage, and stand beneath the appropriate marker.¡±


    With a wave of his hand, the Dean conjures four holographic animals behind him, each with a healthy amount of space apart from the others. The komodo dragon is enlarged, to compensate for its relatively small size compared to the other, and snarling viciously. The peregrine falcon is swooping down, talons outstretched. The ox is charging, horns pointed forward. And the gazelle is leaping high, as if fleeing a hunter.


    ¡°For the Ox unit... Thomas Starling, fifty-ninth in the line of Julianna Tarkov, the Steady Hand!¡±


    More polite clapping, hardest from the Oxen themselves, as their commander takes the stage, looking rather surprised to have been chosen. The easiest way to describe him would be ¡®inoffensive.¡¯ Nothing particularly eye-catching, but nothing to scoff at either. Just a decidedly average specimen. Then again, considering he chose to look that way, it could belie a more calculating mind, who figured making himself seem less than perfectly beautiful would actually be an advantage in politics. That¡¯s certainly the arena he¡¯d be fighting in, as that was the arena of his Founder. As I download the information on her through the brainband, I discover something curious- she was the Governor of the sector of the Imperium containing Demeter VII. Meaning, if he survives the Citadel, Thomas Starling will have the authority to kill my parents on a whim. Is that a mere coincidence, or was he chosen specifically because of that connection to me? It seems a bit self-centered to assume the latter, but stranger things have happened.


    Once the applause has died down, the Dean speaks up again.


    ¡°For the Peregrine unit... Anton, sixty-eighth in the line of Manaia, the Starhammer!¡±


    The applause starts up again for a second, then breaks off abruptly as nobody emerges from the Peregrine crowd to take the stage. Then somebody nudges somebody else, and the latter individual marches up the stairs, seemingly truly annoyed at having been chosen. The Peregrines make an attempt to start the clapping back up again, but his evident irritation makes it difficult for others to join in.


    Based on what I pull on his Founder from the brainband, I can guess why he isn¡¯t thrilled to have the coveted role. The Starhammer was a highly talented engineer, who unexpectedly rose to a command position after all other officers on her ship were killed, and performed far past expectations through the use of technology she¡¯d previously been barred from testing in the field. That was how she earned her title, by weaponizing a Dyson sphere to wipe out a huge chunk of an enemy fleet, turning the tide of an otherwise hopeless battle. However, she remained an engineer at heart, and rejected all further command postings after the war. Maybe they¡¯re forcing him into it now with the intent of trying to draw out that same genius, as the line hasn¡¯t produced much of note through allowing its Nobles to stay off the battlefield and in the workshop.


    ¡°For the Komodo unit... Lucia Hark, fifty-fourth in the line of Vance, the Grim Dragon, He Who Walks With Ash In His Wake!¡±


    To the surprise of literally everyone except the Dean himself, the person to take the stage for the Komodos is the same young girl I saw walking ahead of me when I arrived earlier. She can¡¯t be older than nine years old, but her expression is lethally serious as she takes her position next to Anton. People are clapping, but among the Gazelles I hear more than a few suppressing laughter as well. I¡¯m not among them. No matter how young its latest Noble, the line of the Grim Dragon is not to be underestimated.


    Once more, the applause slowly dies down, and I can feel every eye in the room turn to the Gazelles. Most of us are looking amongst each other. There¡¯s still no obvious candidate, at least to them. Personally, I¡¯ve known who it¡¯s going to be the entire time. But I wouldn¡¯t spoil the surprise for them. That would be cruel.


    ¡°Finally, for the Gazelle unit... Izanami, eighty-eighth in the line of Thorn, Admiral of the Deceiver Fleet, the Tyrant¡¯s Bane!¡±


    The Assembly Chamber is instantly silent. Each of my footsteps as I make my way across the smooth marble floor is like a gunshot. I can feel the eyes glued to my tail as it sways back and forth. The teachers and the other unit commanders are staring at me as well, so I flash them a grin as I take my place at the far end, right next to Tarkov.


    ¡°I hope you¡¯re all happy with your unit leaders,¡± the Dean says without a trace of irony. ¡°If not, I¡¯m afraid there¡¯s no changing them, unless your current commander dies a true death.¡±


    For a moment, I wonder if somebody is about to take a shot at me. It would certainly seem as if he was inviting them to. Perhaps they¡¯re simply too dumbfounded to even consider it.


    ¡°Now, you should all be receiving the access codes for your apartments, and your class schedules. Why don¡¯t you head to your respective dormitories, and try to get to know each other a bit better? You¡¯ve got a long year ahead of you, after all.¡±

 Chapter Three

    For most Nobles, having a much larger number of predecessors in your line is generally an indication of a Founder whose talents were never really anything special. It means most of the people who came before you failed out of the Citadel, rather than going on to serve successfully in the Imperium. In the case of the line of Thorn, there¡¯s a different reason. Yes, the people who came before me never made it out of the Citadel, but not because they failed- because they kept mysteriously turning up dead. Or going insane and murdering the rest of their unit, before being put down by Myrmidons.


    I don¡¯t intend to meet either of those fates, but I know for a fact that they¡¯re on the minds of everyone else in the Gazelle unit as we head out of the Entrance Hall and towards our dormitory, the Hyperion Building. Everyone gives me a wide berth, as I walk at the head of the group, tail swishing back and forth in sharp slashing motions.


    Despite everything, a part of me is enjoying this. And while there are very real concerns that I¡¯m going to need to address sooner or later, I decide to let that part take the wheel for right now. Grinning, I turn around to face the rest of my unit, walking backwards down the otherwise empty street.


    ¡°C¡¯mon, people. Why all the long faces?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t know,¡± calls Bret from somewhere in the middle of the group. ¡°Maybe cuz you¡¯re frickin¡¯ crazy?¡±


    ¡°My line has a bit of a bad reputation, to be sure,¡± I admit, shrugging my shoulders slightly. Then my smile turns sharp. ¡°But at least it has a reputation. All people know yours for is, what, having a metal eye?¡±


    That elicits a laugh from most of the crowd, and seems to make a few of them relax. Bret says nothing, and though I can¡¯t see his face, I can picture him fuming. I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll come up with an exceedingly clever response in a few hours time.


    ¡°All the others that came before me, they didn¡¯t understand something very important. The Tyrant¡¯s Bane didn¡¯t win by suppressing his madness, he won by directing it outwards, at his enemies. Maybe I¡¯m a bit crazy, but believe me, I¡¯m the kind of crazy you want on your side. Stick with me, and I¡¯ll make sure every one of you graduates with full honors. That¡¯s a promise.¡±


    Hopefully that didn¡¯t come off like too much of a sales pitch, but I needed to say something. If I was just silent, and let them draw their own conclusions, it would lay a bad foundation. The Nobles of Thorn¡¯s line have been associated with some pretty heinous crimes, including one so bad it got the Noble¡¯s name completely expunged from all records, meaning we now know him only as the Betrayer. But it¡¯s important that they remember the original Tyrant¡¯s Bane was, despite being a fearsome and savage warrior, ultimately loyal to the Emperor. In other words, they have no reason to be afraid of me, as long as they¡¯re on my side.


    ¡°Does that mean you¡¯ll do my homework for me?¡± calls a voice from the crowd. More people laugh, myself included.


    ¡°Tell you what,¡± I call back. ¡°You kill a few people for me, and we can talk about it.¡±


    The exchange seems to alleviate some more of the tension, and when I slow down slightly, bringing me closer to the rest of the group, nobody backs away. Turning back around to face front, I fall into step besides Nikolai, who¡¯s at the front of the pack. He regards me carefully, sun glinting off of his black metal horns.


    ¡°So, Stormwolf. I can see you¡¯ve got some tattoos there.¡± I gesture to the area just below his neck, where his body art just peeks out from under the uniform. ¡°How far do they go, exactly?¡±


    Genov barks out a laugh.


    ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll show you sometime.¡± He pauses for a moment, considering, and then continues. ¡°It¡¯s tradition for my line. Every one of us adds something new to the pattern, and it¡¯s passed down to the next one after we die.¡±


    Interesting. The information about his Founder that I downloaded didn¡¯t include that. Maybe it didn¡¯t originate with him, or perhaps it¡¯s simply a fact that Nobles of his line have chosen not to publicize.


    ¡°Have you made your addition yet?¡±


    The Stormwolf shakes his head.


    ¡°I¡¯m not allowed. Not until I leave the Citadel. Those of us that fail aren¡¯t added to the pattern.¡±


    ¡°Naturally. In that case, you should count yourself lucky you¡¯re with me.¡± I chuckle. ¡°Maybe your addition can be an image of my face.¡±


    Closing his eyes, Nikolai looks down, laughing to himself. When he¡¯s finished, he flips his hair back dramatically, and drapes an arm over my shoulder with a flourish.


    ¡°Perhaps it will be.¡±


    Slowly, so as not to alarm him, I wrap my tail around his arm, brushing the back of his hand with my tail¡¯s barb, although not the sharp tip. He regards it curiously, but doesn¡¯t draw away. Maybe he feels some kinship with me, as we share our highly visible body-mods. For that matter, we¡¯re both sporting modifications that evoke demonic imagery, him with the horns, me with the pointed tail.


    ¡°Wow,¡± says another voice. I look in the direction it¡¯s coming from, and see Sofie, her metallic platinum hair shining in the sunlight. ¡°Already using your feminine wiles to get the boys on your side, huh? Well, watch out- you¡¯re gonna have some competition.¡±


    ¡°Is that so?¡± Smirking, I reach for her arm, guiding it up so I can press my lips to the back of her hand. Her eyes widen slightly, and then she smirks right back at me. ¡°I don¡¯t know if competition is going to be necessary. I¡¯m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.¡±


    ¡°Good grief,¡± Nikolai says, mock-exasperated. ¡°You two are going to be the death of me, I can already tell.¡±


    Eyes sparkling with amusement, he pulls his flask from the inside pocket of his uniform, momentarily exposing a little bit more of his tattoo in the process, though not enough that I can get a sense of the broader pattern. Taking a drink, he gestures with it in our direction.


    ¡°No thanks,¡± Sofie says, waving it away. I, on the other hand, accept the offer with a grin. Thanks to Father Emil, I know my liquor better than most, and recognize it instantly as vodka. Not exactly a shock, considering Nikolai¡¯s name suggests Russian heritage, although obviously rather far removed, as even in the era of the Founders, Earth was a distant memory. Certain cultural traditions do persist, however, and the ones related to alcohol tend to be the strongest.


    Passing the flask back to Genov, I pull my tail away from his arm, and he lets it drop from my shoulder, though the three of us continue to walk together. Behind me, I can hear the rest of my unit beginning to converse as well, which strikes me as a good sign.


    ¡°So, Izzy. Where exactly are you from?¡±


    I don¡¯t exactly need a nickname, considering I already go by an abbreviation of my full name, but if that¡¯s Sofie¡¯s way of indicating she¡¯s not as frightened of me as the others, I¡¯ll take it. It doesn¡¯t escape me that this could well be an attempt to get ahold of information that could later be used against me, but it would be a waste of time to try to conceal where my family lives forever. It would be as easy as paying off somebody in the Citadel¡¯s Office of Records to get a look at my file. Not to mention, I¡¯ve already taken precautions to make sure my parents and siblings will be safe, so there¡¯s no harm in just answering her question normally.


    ¡°Demeter VII. Farm-world.¡± She gives me a sympathetic look, to which I just laugh. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s not all bad. Boring, yes, but comfortable. Just not my kind of place. What about you?¡±


    ¡°Beron¡¯s World. Most of my parents are executives with a local mining concern. How ¡®bout you, Nikky?¡±


    The speed at which she changes the subject makes me suspect there¡¯s more to that story, but this is neither the time nor the place to press her for details. That can wait until we¡¯ve gotten to know each other a little better.


    ¡°The Kerberos Cluster, originally.¡±If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Judging by the total lack of elaboration, he doesn¡¯t want to get into it either. That¡¯s fine by me. I¡¯ll have plenty of time to find out. For now, however, I have to turn my attention to the group as a whole, because we¡¯re about to arrive at our dormitory.


    The Hyperion Building is hard to miss, as it stands almost completely unique among the other buildings within the Citadel. Rather than smooth white marble, it¡¯s made from harsh black steel, all angles and edges, in contrast to the rounded columns that dominate the rest of the campus. Above the doorway is an asymmetrical seven-pointed star symbol worked into the metal. The mere sight of the building gives some of my Gazelles pause, but they get over it quickly, and follow me inside. It¡¯s the size of a small apartment building, with six floors of three apartments each. Everybody should already know which one they¡¯ve been assigned to, but before they can get settled in, I gesture for them to follow me towards the lounge area in the lobby.


    Our boots clack against the tiles as we walk. Most of the furniture in the lounge area seems to be made from black leather- whoever designed this building was clearly working with a theme in mind. I settle into an armchair, waiting for a moment as the others find seats of their own. A few choose to remain standing, including Bret, who I see deliberately seek out a corner to stand in, folding his arms pointedly.


    ¡°I know some of you have concerns about all this,¡± I tell the assembled group, eyes flickering over the petulant tinkerer for a moment. ¡°You¡¯ve been assigned to a unit some people think is cursed, with a sponsor who clearly doesn¡¯t care, and a commander whose line has a deservedly bad reputation. For some of you, that might be the excuse you need to just check out completely. Maybe you never wanted to be here in the first place, and this is how you¡¯ll justify giving up to yourself. That¡¯s one option.¡±


    A few people roll their eyes, or mutter under their breath at me, but I continue unfazed.


    ¡°I won¡¯t lie, not everyone is going to like the way I run things. Maybe you¡¯re already thinking about trying to transfer out. I¡¯m sure some of you have already put in a request. That¡¯s an option too.¡±


    As I speak, I¡¯m studying the faces around me. Some are stoic. Others bored. A few are hanging on to my every word. I spot a couple people whispering to each other where they think I can¡¯t see them.


    ¡°Those could be the right options for you. But there¡¯s a third option. You can not only stay, but stay and fight. In spite of all the disadvantages facing us. In spite of the fact that I¡¯m going to push harder than you¡¯ve ever been pushed in your lives. Why? Because we¡¯re going to win. And when that day comes, the looks on the faces of everyone who gave up, or changed teams, will make it all worthwhile.¡±


    For a moment, nobody reacts. Some people clearly weren¡¯t paying attention to a word I said. Others were listening, but remain unimpressed. A few, however, seem convinced. Then Sofie begins to clap. It¡¯s not exactly a standing ovation- only about a third of the unit joins in, and I¡¯m sure a few of them are just doing it to be polite. But I¡¯ve at least won some of them over. And the rest will come in time.


    I was never planning on waltzing into the Citadel and instantly commanding the loyalty of my unit- although I was fairly certain from the beginning that they¡¯d make me commander. It¡¯ll take some effort to convince these Gazelles that I¡¯m worth following. It probably won¡¯t work on all of them. But if I¡¯m to realize my ambitions, I need allies. And even though we¡¯ve got plenty of disadvantages, I look around at this group and I see people I can mold into a fearsome battalion. The potential is there within them. It¡¯s up to me to bring it out.


    ¡°Now, you¡¯re free to go up to your rooms. If you want to hide away for a few hours, that¡¯s your prerogative, but I¡¯d encourage you to get to know the people on your floor. We¡¯ll meet up again here after dinner, and go over a few ground rules. Until then, try to behave yourselves, and don¡¯t do anything I wouldn¡¯t do.¡±


    That elicits some light laughter, most of it drowned out by the sound of people moving. They disperse, some taking the elevators, others heading up the stairs. I remain in my seat, watching them leave silently. There¡¯s plenty of conversation among them, and while I¡¯m sure some of it involves making jokes at my expense, I¡¯m willing to call it a win. Better that than the alternative.


    Once the main group has left, I notice two people who stuck behind along with me. One is the gray-skinned muscleman, whose name I¡¯ve not yet learned. He stands near the elevator, watching me wordlessly. Though his arms are folded, he manages to make it look effortlessly intimidating, rather than the pathetic attempt Bret made earlier. The other straggler, however, is someone I don¡¯t really recognize. They¡¯re a part of the unit, but didn¡¯t do or say anything memorable enough for me to fully register their presence earlier.


    ¡°Hey,¡± he says, extending a hand towards me. ¡°Nice to meet you. I¡¯m Grant. Figured I¡¯d introduce myself early. Liked the speech, by the way. Though, it could use a little work.¡±


    ¡°Are you offering?¡± I ask, returning the handshake politely.


    ¡°As a matter of fact, I am. You see, I¡¯m of the line of Kalyani, who was known as the Silent Partner. She served as a liaison between various high-ranking military officials, and their political opposite numbers. As I¡¯m sure you¡¯re aware, there tends to be some tension between those spheres, and she worked to reduce that tension, so that the war effort could proceed smoothly.¡±


    ¡°Interesting. I don¡¯t know how familiar you are with the story of the Tyrant¡¯s Bane, but he had virtually no interaction with the political elite during his campaigns, and he did well enough. What makes you think I¡¯m any different?¡±


    Despite what it might sound like, I¡¯m not actually jumping to my own defense, so much as trying to make him argue for his own value.


    ¡°Well, your Founder already had a command post, and a large number of loyal subordinates. You may be our commander in name, but without the loyalty of the unit, that isn¡¯t good for much. And judging by the rather tepid response to your remarks, it may be an uphill battle to change that.¡±


    Rising from my seat, I head towards the elevator, Grant following me immediately. As I step inside, the gray-skinned boy joins us, though he stands on the opposite side of the elevator as we head up. My room is on the top floor.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure I share your pessimism,¡± I reply. ¡°But your overall point is well-taken. I assume you have more in mind than simply being my speechwriter, though.¡±


    ¡°Indeed,¡± he says, running a hand through his hair. ¡°I can keep my ear to the ground among the others. Gain their confidence, and help convince them to follow you.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I reply firmly, tail tapping against the elevator wall for emphasis. ¡°If they¡¯re going to follow me, it has to be of their own volition. I won¡¯t countenance manipulation.¡± As Grant opens his mouth to argue, I speak over him. ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean I don¡¯t have my uses for you, though. What I need is an aide-de-camp. Someone to manage the details, so I can focus on the bigger picture. Keep track of how everyone¡¯s grades are doing. If someone is struggling with a particular subject, arrange for someone else who¡¯s capable to tutor them. When they have grievances, they can bring it to you, and you can decide if it¡¯s worth my attention.¡±


    Eyes hard, I stare at him, giving no ground to his easy smile and smooth way of speech. I may not have grown up in the heart of the Imperium, but I¡¯m no provincial rube either.


    ¡°Can you do that, or is lying all you¡¯re good for?¡±


    The facade falls from Grant¡¯s face. No more grin, no more casual lean against the railing. He doesn¡¯t respond right away, just considers the question silently. This is what I was looking for- the person underneath the persona. Is he truly as soulless as he made himself seem, or is there something useful at his core, that I could mold into a valuable ally?


    ¡°I can do that,¡± he says at last.


    ¡°Glad to hear it,¡± I reply, offering him my hand to shake again. This time, my grip is firm and confident. ¡°We¡¯ll be having the first meeting of the War Council at the end of the week. Prove that you can be useful. Bring me three action items, minimum. And don¡¯t waste my time, or I¡¯ll have you at the front of every forward action for the rest of the year.¡±


    Grant nods, looking somewhat shaken, but resolute. The elevator dings, and he steps out at the fifth floor, leaving me alone with the brute. I pause for a moment, looking away from him, and take a breath. That was the first time I ever really tried... whatever it was I just did. It went well enough, although I hadn¡¯t intended to set a date for the first War Council when I started speaking. Now I have to find more people to join it, or I¡¯ll be the one that looks like an idiot.


    Composure quickly regained, I look back at my silent companion. He meets my gaze without blinking.


    ¡°So, what¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°Sander Rebane,¡± he replies.


    ¡°Iza,¡± I reply redundantly, feeling somewhat disoriented by his totally flat affect. ¡°Good to meet you.¡±


    ¡°Likewise.¡±


    The elevator stops again, saving me from more awkwardness, and we both disembark. Following the brainband marker, I head towards my room, at the end of the hall. Hexagonal windows allow light to shine into the hallway, which would otherwise be rather bleak, what with the black tiles on the floor and black metal walls. Maybe putting us in this building was a ploy to make us all depressed. Or perhaps giving us the only jet-black building in a city of white marble was meant to label us as ¡®black sheep.¡¯


    My apartment¡¯s door slides open soundlessly as I approach. The first thing I see are my bags, arranged neatly in the center of the room. We packed up half my bedroom and sent it here in advance of my arrival, although the apartment already has most of the basic furnishings you¡¯d expect, so there was no need to bring along blankets or silverware of my own. Looking at the decor, however, I start to consider redecorating. It¡¯s bland, as if a team of experts was brought in to make the room look as inoffensive as possible. Something tells me everyone else is looking at pretty much the same thing right now, too. Though I¡¯ve never slept in a hotel before, I¡¯ve seen enough films to know that this is what they look like.


    While I pace around the apartment¡¯s living room slowly, something tickles the back of my brain. A faint sense that something isn¡¯t quite right. Freezing in place, I focus on that sense, trying to narrow it down to the source. After a moment, I hear it- a faint humming sound, quiet but increasing in intensity. By the time I notice it, however, it¡¯s already too late. There¡¯s a muffled sound not unlike a gunshot, and I feel something strike me. Looking down, I see a metal dart sticking out of my chest.


    Slowly, I start to reach for it, but my arms don¡¯t want to move. My mind is moving sluggishly, as if I¡¯ve had too much to drink. Then I feel a pair of hands grasp my head and twist it violently, and everything goes black.

 Chapter Four

    When I wake up, it¡¯s in a void without form. It reminds me of a certain kind of dream, where you¡¯re watching events occur from a disembodied perspective, with no body of your own. As soon as I think about my body, I realize with a start that I don¡¯t have one. It¡¯s a discovery that would make my heart race, if I still had one.


    A pinprick of light appears in the center of my vision, and I focus on it instantly. Swiftly it comes into focus- my body, viewed from the outside. Eyes open but blank, arms outstretched, tail standing straight up. With a thought, I make it rotate around, momentarily appreciating my own form. It¡¯s starting to become clear where I am. I¡¯m dead.


    Or, to be exact, I was dead. The brainband preserved my consciousness, and downloaded it into a ¡®blank¡¯ brain, which is currently sitting in a vat of shifting biomass, which will soon become my new body. All of my memories are intact except for the last few seconds, which the system automatically suppresses in the event of a violent or painful death. Grimacing mentally, I give the command to unlock them, and feel a surge of psychic pain as the experience of having my neck snapped bursts back into my mind. Fortunately, it¡¯s over in an instant, like ripping off a bandage. Whoever killed me took care to make it as quick and painless as possible.


    Figuring out who did it, and why, can come later. Right now, I¡¯m going to focus on the one upside of having been killed on my first day at the Citadel- the opportunity to update my body. This is my first death, so I¡¯ve been pretty much stuck with the same meat-suit that I¡¯ve had since I was a kid, although it¡¯s obviously aged along with me.


    There aren¡¯t many changes I want to make, in all honesty. However, the system pops in with a few helpful recommendations, such as adjusting the position of my tail by about a half-inch, to improve weight distribution. That¡¯s not a feature I remember from when I originally designed my body. Maybe the technology has improved, or maybe Nobles just have access to better tech.


    As I explore the options available, the latter starts to seem more and more likely. There are choices that I know for a fact weren¡¯t on the table for someone from Demeter VII. Noting that I had a puncture wound on my old body when I died, the system offers to give me slightly thicker skin, which it assures me won¡¯t impede movement or add significant weight. That, along with a few other surprises, go in my metaphorical shopping cart. If I had a mouth, I¡¯d be grinning.


    Externally, my new body looks identical, save for the removal of a tattoo of a thorn on my thigh that I¡¯d been covering up for years. Under the surface, however, it¡¯s a marked improvement over the old model. Nothing game-changing, of course. Serious modifications are still illegal under Imperium law. But this system seems to interpret that law a bit more loosely than the one I used last time, and I take full advantage of that fact.


    As soon as I¡¯ve confirmed all my choices, everything goes black once more. An indeterminate amount of time passes in the blink of an eye, and the next thing I know, I can feel again.


    The first thing I feel is cold. Although that¡¯s mainly because I didn¡¯t fully register that I was feeling warm until I was dumped unceremoniously out of the tank of warm water I was floating in. The water sloshes around me, pouring down a grate on the ground, as I lay on the ground, freezing, unable to move.


    Slowly, experimentally, I try to use my arms. After a few tries, they begin to respond, and I push myself onto my back, shivering in the cool air. That has to be intentional- maybe the rapid temperature change is meant to shock people into consciousness. I still want to murder whoever designed it that way, though. Eventually, my legs start to work again as well, and I manage to pull myself upright, before immediately losing my balance and stumbling into the nearest wall.


    I remain like that for a minute or two, eyes firmly shut, breathing shakily. Once I¡¯m reasonably confident that I can stand, I do so, and open my eyes to look around the room. It resembles a shower, but with a large, empty glass pod in the place of the showerhead. The floor is damp with the last drops of the water I was suspended in. Over to one side is a rack with a towel, and a neatly folded Citadel uniform. I wrap myself in the towel, grateful for the warmth it presents, and swiftly dry myself from tip to tail.


    With the initial shock of resurrection beginning to pass, I get dressed, and slowly start to ponder the circumstances of my first death. First comes the general context. For the past several decades, almost every Noble in the line of Thorn has died permanently before leaving the Citadel. None of them were killed on their very first day, though. Should I feel honored that they¡¯re taking no chances with me, or insulted that they didn¡¯t even bother giving me a chance to prove I was worth killing?


    More importantly, who gave the order? The most popular theory is that it¡¯s the Emperor himself who ordered every Noble in my line to be killed. After all, we have a habit of starting uprisings or masterminding assassination plots against him. It¡¯s not exactly a stretch to say that he might have just decided the safest option was to never allow another one of us to survive the Citadel. Other than that, I don¡¯t really know.


    What I do know, however, is that the person who killed me isn¡¯t the same person who was trying to kill me. A broken neck is no way to truekill someone. And it¡¯s certainly a lot less subtle than whatever that dart was. So either there are two different people trying to kill me, one of whom is a lot dumber than the other, or the person who snapped my neck was actually trying to help me.


    Truedeath isn¡¯t easy to accomplish. The most common method, a substance called Mindkiller, takes up to a minute to work. It has to, because the whole point is to destroy someone¡¯s personality irreparably. Killing a body is temporary, but killing their mind is permanent. So, if that dart was loaded with Mindkiller, whoever snapped my neck could have been trying to ensure I died, and was resurrected, before it had a chance to turn my mind into a puddle of psychic goo.


    Once I¡¯m finished dressing, the door opens, and I make my way out, still somewhat unsteady on my feet. Fortunately, all my muscles have been artificially aged, so I¡¯m not going to have to get twenty years of muscle memory back the hard way. However, there¡¯s still a bit of a mind-body disconnect in the first few minutes after you come back, or so I¡¯ve been told. Hopefully it doesn¡¯t last any longer than that. This may be my first death, but I sincerely doubt it¡¯s going to be my last.


    Out in the hall, a woman in a Citadel staff uniform is waiting for me. She¡¯s got some streaks of gray placed strategically in her hair to make her look matronly and nonthreatening, but I don¡¯t let my guard down- although in my current state there really isn¡¯t much I could do to defend myself. Fortunately, she doesn¡¯t make a move, just gives me a sympathetic smile.


    ¡°First time, dear?¡±


    ¡°Afraid so,¡± I reply. The words sound strange to my ears, unfamiliar.


    ¡°It¡¯s always the hardest,¡± she says. ¡°And on your first day, too.¡±


    She glances at the door which I presume leads outside. This must be the Citadel¡¯s medical facility.


    ¡°There¡¯s somebody here to see you,¡± the nurse says at last, somewhat nervously. ¡°He says he was the one who killed you. I can send him away, if you¡¯d like.¡±


    ¡°No, I- I need to talk to him.¡±


    This time, my voice sounds less like that of a stranger. The nurse looks concerned, but opens the door, allowing me to walk out into the lobby. It¡¯s sterile and brightly-lit, in a way that makes me slightly uncomfortable. Under better circumstances, I¡¯d be able to hide that discomfort, but right now I¡¯m in no state to do so. Raising a hand to shield my eyes from the light, I find my way to one of the many empty seats.


    The nurse moves as if to put a hand on my shoulder, but draws back as I pull away. No sense in taking chances, when she could have a hidden Mindkiller needle in her palm. Now looking even more concerned, she gestures to the other side of the room, where the only other occupant is sitting.


    ¡°That¡¯s him over there. Just call if you need me, dear.¡±


    As she heads over to sit behind the desk, I take a look at my murderer. His gunmetal-gray face is familiar, but I can¡¯t recall his name. Maybe the trauma of dying distracted me. Thanks to the brainband, I can quickly access the memory of him telling me.


    ¡°Sander Rebane,¡± he said. He meets my eyes, and doesn¡¯t react in the slightest as I get up and march over to him.


    ¡°Get up.¡±


    He complies silently.


    ¡°Come with me.¡±


    Without a word, he follows me out of the building. The bright sunlight stops me in my tracks as I walk out the front door, but he doesn¡¯t try to touch me, just watches. After a moment, I adjust and keep moving. At first I don¡¯t have a particular destination in mind. Then I realize I¡¯ve been unconsciously heading back towards the Hyperion Building, and stop again, this time pulling up the location of the park beneath the bridge that I saw when I first arrived. Apparently, there¡¯s an entrance not far from here. Turning on a dime, I start walking in that direction, and Rebane continues to follow.


    ¡°How long has it been?¡±


    ¡°Four hours,¡± he replies. Then he draws breath, and speaks without having been spoken to, for the first time that I¡¯ve seen. ¡°You should know, I--¡±


    ¡°Did it to save me. I know,¡± I interrupt, a slight undercurrent of annoyance in my voice. ¡°It was Mindkiller, right? In the dart?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Anybody else nearly get truekilled?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe so, but I haven¡¯t had time to check. I searched your apartment for any further traps, found none, and proceeded to the resurrection facility to meet you immediately after.¡±


    That¡¯s definitely the longest sentence I¡¯ve gotten out of him so far. We head down a short flight of stairs into the park, where several patches of green grass and multicolored flowers are spread out across a marble path that looks so spotless you could eat a meal off of it. I make a beeline for a bench under the shade of a tree, and Rebane follows, sitting a healthy distance away from me.


    ¡°What I¡¯m trying to figure out,¡± I say slowly, feeling the beginnings of a headache building up already, ¡°is whether someone arranged for you to save me, so I would trust you. Because it¡¯s pretty goddamn convenient you were right there to break my neck when I got hit with that dart.¡±


    Rebane is quiet for a few moments, expression as impassive as ever.


    ¡°If that is the case, it was arranged without my knowledge. Furthermore, my presence was not coincidental. I was shadowing you, as I correctly estimated a high probability of an assassination attempt occurring within your quarters.¡±


    That wasn¡¯t exactly the response I was expecting. Not that there was anything in particular I was expecting. My mind isn¡¯t operating at full capacity right now. For a moment, I worry that I¡¯m suffering partial effects of the Mindkiller, but if that were the case, there¡¯s virtually no chance it wouldn¡¯t have been detected by the resurrection systems. More likely, I¡¯m just disoriented from having been brought back to life, and from seeing and hearing the world through literally fresh eyes and ears.


    ¡°That so?¡±


    ¡°Yes. You are my commanding officer. It is my duty to protect you. Particularly considering that other Nobles of your line die much more frequently than any other.¡±


    Part of me is still trying to wrap my head around the fact that someone of his size was ¡®shadowing¡¯ me.


    ¡°You still haven¡¯t said anything to convince me that this wasn¡¯t a setup to get me to trust you.¡±


    ¡°If so, it would be an exceedingly poor one,¡± he comments. ¡°You identified the possibility almost immediately.¡±


    ¡°Right, but that could be intentional. It¡¯s so obvious that I discard the possibility, and start to trust you... then you finish the job when I¡¯m least expecting it.¡±


    ¡°I am not capable of doing so. My line is that of Gunnar, the Resolute.¡±


    Rebane offers no explanation, so I get it from the brainband instead. The name sounded familiar, but only once I get the information download does it click. Gunnar was the bodyguard of the first Emperor. He died over fifteen hundred times in the Emperor¡¯s service, and Nobles of his line have done so tens of thousands more times since then. Not once in the entire history of his line has one of his Nobles betrayed the Emperor, despite attempts to blackmail them, threaten their parents, or their spouses, or their children, or otherwise gain leverage over them. It¡¯s a convincing argument in Rebane¡¯s favor- but it¡¯s also convenient. Almost too convenient.


    Then something else clicks. It¡¯s far too convenient for an unfailingly loyal bodyguard to have been placed in my unit, particularly when I¡¯m at risk from assassination attempts. But that doesn¡¯t mean my enemies put him there. It could very well be an ally instead. Someone with a vested interest in keeping me alive, who could arrange for Sander to be assigned to the same unit as me. Who, I don¡¯t yet know. But it¡¯s the only explanation that makes sense.


    ¡°Okay. I believe you.¡±


    ¡°I am glad.¡±


    He doesn¡¯t question why, just accepts it. I could get used to having him around. In fact, I¡¯m going to have to get used to it.


    ¡°If you¡¯re gonna be my bodyguard, we might have to work on your conversation skills. But that can wait. You¡¯re already trained, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes. I am fully certified, and prepared to serve as your security chief. Furthermore, my room is directly adjacent to yours, and I was informed prior to my arrival that my schedule would be identical to that of my unit commander, so that I could provide protection at all times.¡±


    Just looking at him was enough for me to figure that out. I¡¯m willing to bet that his gray skin isn¡¯t just a cosmetic choice. He¡¯s probably given himself every possible defensive enhancement that¡¯s legal within the Imperium, and maybe some that aren¡¯t.


    ¡°Good. I¡¯m giving you full authority to requisition whatever equipment you need to do your job. Spend as much of the unit¡¯s money as you need. It¡¯s no good to me if I¡¯m too dead to use it.¡±


    Each unit gets a monthly stipend, plus whatever else we earn from winning various competitions against the other houses. The initial reserve we¡¯re all provided with is fairly generous, but part of the job is to manage it carefully, mainly so the more administratively-minded Nobles have something to do. I¡¯ll have to figure out which of the Gazelles will be handling that soon, especially if we¡¯ll be starting at a deficit compared to the others. I doubt Sander is the type to overspend, though.


    ¡°Understood. Will you be needing my presence during the War Council?¡±


    For a moment I wonder how he knows I¡¯m planning on forming a War Council at all, before I remember that he was in the elevator alongside Grant and I when I mentioned it.


    ¡°Yeah. And I want the entire Hyperion Building wired up before we meet. Plus, we should look into how that dart-trap was installed in the first place. I¡¯m sure whoever did it covered their tracks well, but it¡¯s still worth figuring out how they did it, so we can make sure it doesn¡¯t happen again.¡±


    ¡°Understood.¡±


    ¡°Also, don¡¯t tell anybody about what happened yet. They¡¯ll need to know, but not before we¡¯ve made sure the building is secure. That includes Citadel staff, by the way.¡±


    Reporting the truedeath attempt to the administration would be a mistake. At worst, it would alert the would-be assassins, and at best, they¡¯d simply do nothing. After all, something like two dozen other Nobles in my line have been killed in similar circumstances, and they haven¡¯t done a damn thing. We live or die on our own merits here.


    ¡°Affirmative. Would you like me to begin now?¡±


    ¡°Not yet,¡± I answer with a sigh, massaging my temple. ¡°We still need to go to dinner.¡±


    <hr>


    By the time we get to the Entrance Hall, dinner is already in full swing. The Citadel doesn¡¯t have a single dedicated cafeteria- students are free to eat at any of the various restaurants throughout the city. But on the first day of a new semester, all of those restaurants prepare a platter for the students to sample together. It¡¯s probably the only time save for the end-of-year feast that we¡¯ll all be eating together.


    My headache has mostly passed, thankfully, but I¡¯m still not at peak performance quite yet. Each unit has their own table, and I find an empty seat in the middle of ours, while Sander takes one a short distance away. Just having him around makes me feel like I can relax, although I¡¯m doing my best not to fully drop my guard just yet. The odds of him genuinely being a spy are miniscule- there have been dozens of other Nobles in his line before, and not one of them has ever betrayed their master. But that doesn¡¯t necessarily mean he¡¯s as competent as his Founder was. I can¡¯t assume he¡¯s capable of protecting me completely, even if I can be pretty confident that he wants to.


    ¡°Hey, boss,¡± someone says as I take a seat. It¡¯s the guy with dreadlocks, who asked our sponsor about how to transfer out of the unit. He nods in Sander¡¯s direction with a grin. ¡°You two have a good time?¡±


    I suppose that¡¯s a reasonable assumption to make about what we were doing, considering neither of us has been seen for several hours. I just laugh, and spear a dumpling with my fork.


    ¡°Oh, yeah. He knocked me dead.¡±


    At least for tonight, I don¡¯t have to worry about my food being poisoned, since that would mean everybody else would have also been exposed. Just in case, though, I make sure to grab something off a dish that it looks like other people have eaten from. The platter positioned near where I¡¯m sitting looks like Asian cuisine. Back on Earth, each one of the specific national cultures would probably have been its own restaurant, but now there are hundreds of planets worth of other regional cuisines, so they all get lumped in under ¡®Asian.¡¯ Eventually, it¡¯ll just be thrown in along with hundreds of other styles as ¡®Earth food.¡¯ If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Idly, I wonder what Sander did with my corpse. Probably had the janitorial staff come in and pick it up for recycling, if I had to guess.


    ¡°Don¡¯t think I caught your name,¡± I say to dreadlocks. He raises an eyebrow at me.


    ¡°Don¡¯t remember throwing it.¡±


    ¡°Funny,¡± I reply sardonically, picking up some duck off a tray and dropping it on my plate, along with a healthy heaping of the accompanying sauce. ¡°Are you gonna be cute with me all year?¡±


    He puts a hand to his chest, face the picture of mock-surprise. I think he even manages to blush.


    ¡°You think I¡¯m cute? Why, boss, I don¡¯t know what to say.¡± He looks over at Sander, who¡¯s watching me implacably while he chews on something the way an industrial thresher might. ¡°And whatever will your lover think?¡±


    Despite myself, I laugh.


    ¡°First of all, he¡¯s not my lover. And second, even if he was, I sincerely doubt he¡¯d care. Doesn¡¯t seem like the romantic type.¡±


    Dreads chuckles, dipping a sushi roll in soy sauce.


    ¡°What about you, boss? Are you the romantic type?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d tell you to stick around and find out, but I usually like to at least know someone¡¯s name before I make them an offer like that.¡±


    ¡°Well, when you put it like that...¡± He grins, and extends a fist across the table, which I bump. Easier than shaking hands over the fish platter. ¡°You can call me Mars.¡±


    ¡°Your parents tell you that people would think you were arrogant for naming yourself after a god?¡±


    ¡°Oh, yeah. Yours?¡±


    ¡°You bet.¡±


    We share a laugh, and I instantly like him even more. It seems to signal the end of the conversation for now, though, as he goes back to his food and I get to work on mine. As it turns out, coming back to life leaves you pretty hungry, since your new stomach is completely empty. Some of the others give me strange looks as I dig into the various offerings with gusto, but most of them just carry on with their own conversations.


    Keeping my ears open, I hear snippets of several different discussions. Most of them are related to less than serious matters. Sports rivalries, celebrity gossip, that sort of thing. Not even Nobles are immune to banality, although I imagine if ordinary people knew that these were the conversations we had, it would break some of the illusion for them.


    Having grown up fairly isolated, I suppose my conception of what ¡®ordinary people¡¯ think of Nobles may not be entirely accurate. My family lives in enough comfort that they can afford to not really have opinions on political matters. Even before I knew for sure I was a Noble, however, I followed the goings-on of the Imperial court closely. The impression I got was that most people have legitimately bought into the notion that the Nobility are uniquely qualified and capable, which is why they¡¯re the ones in charge. My view has always been a little more cynical, although until today, I¡¯d never actually met another Noble before. It¡¯s evident that most of them are basically just normal people who happen to be more talented in a specific discipline than the average person. But there are a few who have the sort of presence that makes me understand how they got the term ¡®Noble¡¯ in the first place.


    ¡°Hey, Izzy!¡±


    Sofie is calling me from a few seats down. I might have to speak with her about calling me that in front of the rest of the unit. Making them all address me as ¡®Commander¡¯ would be a little too formal for my tastes, but I don¡¯t want things to get too casual. Some amount of discipline is going to be necessary if we¡¯re to succeed. There¡¯s a difference between a request from a friend, and a command from an officer. One, you can ignore. The other, you¡¯ll follow, even if you¡¯d really rather not.


    ¡°What¡¯s up?¡±


    ¡°Wanna know what odds the prediction markets are giving us to be ranked higher than all the other houses by the end of the year?¡± she asks.


    ¡°Sure, hit me.¡±


    ¡°Eight hundred and eighty-eight to one!¡±


    A wave of laughter goes down the table, and I let myself get caught up in it. Some are laughing fatalistically, or because everyone else is doing it. But I can see in the eyes of a few people, like Mars, that they¡¯re laughing for the same reason I am.


    ¡°Sounds like easy money to me,¡± I reply loudly, after most of the laughter has died down. It elicits a handful of cheers, though none incredibly enthusiastic. Maybe I really should get Grant to write my speeches for me.


    Our little uproar hasn¡¯t attracted much attention from the other tables. We¡¯re at the far end of the room, with the Oxen being the only unit close enough for me to get a good look at them. I spot Tellis, sitting at the right hand of his commander, Thomas Starling. He¡¯s conversing animatedly with a serious-looking girl who has ink-black eyes and matching black veins extending outward from them. More evidence for my thesis about him being attracted to people with visible body modifications. Starling himself is eating quietly, seemingly ignored by the rest of his unit.


    From what little I can see of the Komodo unit, they seem to be dining in relative silence. Perhaps the Grim Dragon¡¯s demeanor has infected the rest of them already. Or maybe Hark just demanded that they maintain a professional bearing at all times. Having a nine year old disciplinarian in charge of me sounds like a nightmare, I must admit. When Tellis mentioned the fact that she was in our year, I had a moment of concern that I¡¯d end up serving under her, rather than having my own unit. Even before I knew the latest Noble in that line was a child, I knew it would be misery to be one of the Grim Dragon¡¯s subordinates. However unpleasant it is for them, I don¡¯t doubt it¡¯ll turn them into a formidable opponent. The Peregrines and Oxen are a concern, but the Komodos are the ones I¡¯m really worried about.


    ¡°Bit of a serious look you¡¯ve got there, boss.¡±


    I look over at Mars, belatedly realizing I wasn¡¯t controlling my expression. Stupid mistake, which I¡¯ll blame on having recently come out of a pod of biomass. Certainly not that I was just distracted. That¡¯s ridiculous.


    ¡°Just thinking about how best to kill everyone in here,¡± I fire back sarcastically.


    ¡°Yeah? Got any tips?¡±


    ¡°Cluster bomb or two would probably do the trick.¡±


    Seemingly taken aback at the blunt answer, Mars laughs.


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re not wrong about that.¡±


    <hr>


    I leave a little bit before everyone else, mainly to get a chance to think about what I¡¯m actually going to say to everyone in the meeting I promised we¡¯d have after dinner. My plan was to spin off a copy or two after I¡¯d finished unpacking everything, and have them help, but dying threw a bit of a wrench into that. I suppose I should be grateful that the wait time for a resurrection is so quick here. If I¡¯d died back home, it would have been two weeks, minimum, before I was back in a body.


    Unsurprisingly, Sander follows me, without being asked. It didn¡¯t seem like he was talking with anyone, but I do feel a little bad about pulling him away from his meal. He doesn¡¯t question why I left, just falls into step a pace behind me. In the corner of my eye, I can see him scanning the environment, never seeming to relax for a second. When I meet whoever arranged for him to be in my unit, I intend to thank them profusely.


    ¡°How confident are you that there aren¡¯t any more traps in my rooms?¡±


    He¡¯s silent for a moment, pondering the question.


    ¡°Eighty percent. The one you triggered was fairly unsophisticated, working off of a simple motion sensor. I suspect it was placed there around the same time your bags were, as there¡¯s little chance someone else wouldn¡¯t have triggered it if it was left there earlier. If there were any other such devices in the apartment, I would have most likely triggered them during my initial investigation after I killed you.¡±


    There¡¯s something slightly disconcerting about the way he says that, as if he wasn¡¯t risking truedeath for the sake of someone who¡¯d barely said two sentences to him. Sander doesn¡¯t even pause, though.


    ¡°It¡¯s possible that there are more sophisticated systems, which I wouldn¡¯t have triggered. For instance, a biometric-sensor trap that would only activate in response to your presence, or a manually-operated device that the controller could trigger at any time. However, those are both unlikely. The biometric device would need a sample to calibrate, and due to the fact that you lived on an isolated planet with minimal outside contact, that would have been difficult to obtain. Unless you think a member of your family would have provided it.¡±


    ¡°Probably not.¡±


    ¡°I thought as much. A manually-operated device would require an operator, and as no unauthorized personnel would be able to enter the Citadel without being detected by the security network, it would have to be a member of the administration or support staff. It¡¯s not inconceivable that one could have been bribed, and indeed one most likely was paid off to place the motion-sensor trap in the first place. But paying someone to leave a seemingly innocuous ¡®surprise¡¯ in a student¡¯s room, and paying them to spend hours waiting with their finger on the trigger of a hidden weapon, are very different things. Furthermore, the signal would be fairly trivial for me to trace, with the right equipment.¡±


    Before he¡¯s halfway through his methodical breakdown of the situation, I already want to marry him. He¡¯s just too damn useful. It¡¯s almost a shame I¡¯ll have to give him up to the Emperor after we graduate.


    ¡°How soon can you get your hands on that equipment?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve already requisitioned it. By the time we arrive, my matter-fabricator should have finished producing it.¡±


    Okay, I¡¯m absolutely marrying him. If he¡¯s as asexual as he acts, he won¡¯t have any problem doing it for convenience, and if not, I¡¯ll just have to seduce him.


    ¡°Great. We¡¯ll do that first. Be nice to know I can sleep tonight without having to worry about not waking up. Then I need to get to work on logistics stuff for the unit. Hopefully I can get a rough outline done before everyone else is finished eating.¡±


    Besides a general suggestion that we all attend our classes, the administration doesn¡¯t really have any rules about how we students spend our time. I, however, absolutely intend to set some parameters. Nothing too harsh, as I don¡¯t want the unit to resent me, but I won¡¯t allow them to slack off either. We¡¯ve got the odds against us, literally and figuratively. The only way out is going to be turning my Gazelles into a force to be reckoned with.


    Luckily, I won¡¯t have to plan it all out alone. Sander probably isn¡¯t cut out for that kind of thing, but he isn¡¯t the only person I can call on. At the end of the day, I¡¯ll always be my own greatest ally, and thanks to Imperium technology, that can be true in the most literal sense of the word.


    Translating the human mind into code was cracked a few hundred years ago, and it led to some of the worst atrocities in human history. Endless enslaved copies of the human mind, put to work on an accelerated time-scale, mining logic diamonds for thousands of subjective years, without a moment¡¯s rest. Worse, people would modify those minds, which resulted in the creation of an entity called the Beast. A body honed to physical perfection was no longer anything special, but a mind designed specifically for warfare was revolutionary. It was the ultimate soldier. And with the ability to make endless iterations of his mind, he could be downloaded into an endless number of bodies.


    The Imperium put an end to all that. Erased every single copy of the Beast¡¯s personality matrix, and put the sim-slaves out of their misery. But they didn¡¯t outlaw the technology entirely- to do so would merely drive its use underground, where it would be more difficult to control. Instead, they instituted two laws. First, that no mind could ever occupy more than one body at a time. Any attempt to do otherwise would result in an instant truedeath sentence. Second, that no person could have more than ten active copies of their own mind at a time, and only for twenty-four standard hours until they were automatically merged. So now, whenever you need some extra brainpower, you can simply spin off ten more of yourself, and when that twenty-four hour clock is up, all of their experiences are downloaded into your memory.


    Alone, I probably wouldn¡¯t be able to get more than a vague sketch of a plan done in the short time we have before the others finish dinner and all head back to the dorm. But with a few copies of myself to bounce ideas off of, I should be able to get something presentable together.


    Before long, we¡¯re back at the Hyperion Building. It¡¯s strange- I distinctly remember going in and never coming out. Some part of me is apprehensive of going back in, even knowing that I¡¯m not going to die the same way twice. That doesn¡¯t provide much comfort, but having Sander by my side does. He takes the lead as we head through the lobby and into the elevator.


    The instant the doors close, I regret not taking the stairs. It would have been six flights, but locking myself in a metal coffin suddenly feels like a mistake. I know that it¡¯s irrational, since we rode an elevator together already, and nothing bad happened, but I can¡¯t keep myself from tensing my muscles for the entire ride, only relaxing a fraction once it stops at the sixth floor and the doors open again.


    Eyes flickering up and down the hallway as he walks out, Sander leads me to his rooms, which- as he said earlier -are right next to mine. I wonder if I¡¯d have to pay a fine or something if I installed a door directly between his apartment and mine, to save time if he ever has to charge in and save me. Hopefully it won¡¯t come to that- I certainly don¡¯t intend to sleep a single night without a gun within arm¡¯s reach -but it would be reassuring to know he¡¯s there nonetheless.


    Much as I suspected, the decor of Sander¡¯s room is identical to mine. However, his bags, which are slightly more spread-out than mine, since I never got the chance to move them, are rather different. Most of them are black canvas, and some look as if they conceal rather large firearms inside. The one that catches my eye, however, looks to be made from a different material, and lies mostly out of sight in another room. I walk over to take a look.


    ¡°Is¡­ is my body in there?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Oh. I, uh, I figured you¡¯d disposed of it already.¡±


    ¡°It seemed prudent to preserve it until you could decide what to do. I removed your Gazelle pin and left it on your living room table.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡± I pause for a minute, staring at the lumpy shape under the black plastic. ¡°Did you bring body bags from home?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°¡­why?¡±


    Sander doesn¡¯t look up from what he¡¯s doing, which happens to be assembling some bit of machinery that came out of his matter-fabricator. Presumably the devices he needs to make sure my room doesn¡¯t have any more fun surprises waiting for me.


    ¡°It seemed likely that I would require them.¡±


    ¡°Well, I guess you weren¡¯t wrong.¡±


    Averting my eyes from the body bag, I take a seat nearby, and watch him work. It¡¯s remarkably efficient, although I suppose some credit is due to the designers for making it easy to put together after you¡¯ve fabricated the components. He probably wouldn¡¯t appreciate an offer of help, considering he knows how to do what he¡¯s doing, and I don¡¯t. Brainband memory transfer typically doesn¡¯t allow for the sharing of complex skills like that. Too many other associations involved, like muscle memory, that can¡¯t be swapped without getting some important wires seriously crossed.


    We sit like that, in silence, for a few minutes. If my presence makes Sander uncomfortable, he doesn¡¯t let on. Then he twists the two halves of the metal sphere together, locking them in place, and examines it critically, before giving me a nod.


    ¡°It¡¯s ready.¡±


    ¡°Great. Let¡¯s go.¡±


    Once more, he leads the way, this time back to my apartment. Rather than enter, however, he gestures for me to wait, and pushes open the door, before tossing the sphere inside and pressing himself against the wall. From my position, I can¡¯t see exactly what¡¯s going on, but there¡¯s a pulse of light from inside the room that seems to wash over everything within range. Sander remains silent for a few moments, until we hear a soft chime, and I let out a breath I hadn¡¯t meant to be holding.


    My bodyguard enters the room, collecting the orb from off the ground, and examines it once more. A light on one side is glowing green, which I take to be a good sign.


    ¡°We¡¯re clear,¡± Sander informs me, laconic as ever. ¡°I¡¯ll set up some more permanent security measures before you go to sleep, but you should be clear to get started.¡±


    Giving him an appreciative nod, I follow him into the room. Nothing much is different from the last time I was in here, other than a hunk of crushed metal sitting on the floor, which I presume to have been the device that shot me with the Mindkiller dart. As promised my Gazelle pin is sitting on the table in my living room, and I reattach it to my lapel. My bags are still sitting in the middle of the room, untouched, but unpacking can wait.


    Moving with some urgency, I seek out the office. It¡¯s not especially large, big enough to fit a desk with a multi-monitor computer setup and not much else, but that¡¯s not what I¡¯m concerned with right now. I locate the sim-storage unit, a heavily reinforced metal cube with some incredibly complex machinery inside, and reach out towards it through the brainband. It accepts my access codes and begins the synchronization process, which completes at a remarkable speed. Another indication that the tech available here on Akademos is simply better than what we had back home, where synching up could have taken up to an hour.


    As soon as I¡¯m fully synched, I give the order to spin up four new members of my copyclan. They appear almost instantly, represented by a set of identical holograms. Each one looks precisely like me, save for the slight bit of intentionally-included visual distortion to remind me that they¡¯re the sims, and I¡¯m not.


    ¡°Okay, girls,¡± one of them says with a grin. ¡°Let¡¯s get to work.¡±


    <hr>


    It takes a while for the rest of the Gazelles to get back from dinner. I send out a brainband notification reminding them all that we¡¯ve got a meeting, but even then, I wait in the lobby for about a half-hour before most of the group trickles in.


    That doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯s a total waste of time, though. After I finished outlining a basic training schedule for the unit, I spun off six more of myself, and set them all to work studying the profiles of each member of the unit, which I now have access to as commander. Once they¡¯re all done, I¡¯ll merge with each of them, and instantly absorb the knowledge of each of my subordinates, as well as the Founder whose line they¡¯re a part of. I¡¯m still going to have to get to know them personally, but a bit of background knowledge should go a long way in figuring out how best to utilize their skills.


    Katrina is the first to arrive back, taking a seat far enough away from me to discourage any conversation. I have half a mind to approach her regardless, but before I can get a chance, others start to show up. A few of them are alone, others in pairs or groups of three, including Nikolai and Sofie, who both wave to me as they enter, and take seats fairly close, while still giving me some space. Not shockingly, Bret returns alone, but takes the opportunity to sit down next to a pair who are clearly having a private conversation, causing both of them to give him a look of annoyance and shift further down the couch away from him.


    Once everybody is present, I raise a hand, index finger pointed skyward, and wait for them all to fall silent. Most do so instantly, if they weren¡¯t already, but a few keep talking, until they realize that they¡¯re the only ones doing so and awkwardly trail off.


    ¡°Okay. You should all have your schedules right now, and I assume most of you have taken a look at them. For those of you that haven¡¯t, let me explain. Akademos has a eight-day week. We only have classes for the first four of those days.¡±


    That may not seem like much, but each class is a four-hour seminar. Based on my understanding, they tend to consist of about an hour of theory, followed by the rest of the class session spent putting that theory into practice. For a combat-oriented class, that would involve sparring. For tactics, going through battle simulations. Since information can be directly downloaded via the brainband, however, the concept of ¡®homework¡¯ and ¡®studying¡¯ aren¡¯t really relevant, so once we leave the classroom, our work is more or less done for the day. Any additional concepts requiring review can just be accessed directly from our own memories,


    ¡°However, that doesn¡¯t mean you¡¯re free to do whatever you want for the rest of the week. On the first day after classes are done, we¡¯re going to run a serious, multi-hour exercise. The precise nature will vary each time. I will be designing these exercises, potentially with input from some of you, if you¡¯ve got something useful to add. The following day will be practice, training exercises, and review, led by officers of my choosing. If you think you¡¯re suited to the task, feel free to approach me over the next few days.¡±


    Part of what my copyclan is doing right now is looking for suitable candidates among the unit. I have a feeling I already know who they¡¯re going to select, though. Those officers will most likely be among my War Council as well.


    ¡°After that, we¡¯ll run the same exercise again. The first attempt will be difficult, and may well end in failure. With any luck, the second attempt will go differently. Of course, that all depends on you all, and how hard you¡¯re willing to work. After that, the last day of the week is for you all to do with as you wish. Except, that is, for dinner, where we¡¯ll all be meeting up to have a group meal. I haven¡¯t decided exactly where yet, but if you discover a particularly good place, let me know and I¡¯ll try it out myself.¡±


    Bret raises a hand, but doesn¡¯t wait before speaking up.


    ¡°So, are you saying you want us working eight days out of every week? And you¡¯re gonna make us do an exercise you expect us to fail, right after four straight days of classes?¡±


    I decide to channel Sander¡¯s stoicism in my reply.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Uh, about that...¡±


    It¡¯s hard to tell exactly what sort of response he was expecting from that line. Maybe uproarious laughter, which certainly isn¡¯t what he receives. Instead, he gets a series of blank stares as he looks around the group, hoping for some sympathy.


    ¡°In case you were unaware, a Noble doesn¡¯t get any days off when they¡¯re working within the Imperial bureaucracy. And they certainly don¡¯t get to pick and choose when an attack comes. If you¡¯re serious about all of this, you¡¯d better get used to my schedule fast, because it¡¯s not always going to be this generous. And if not, you may as well off yourself now, and give the next person in your line a shot.¡±


    Chastened, Bret looks down at his feet, and I scan the rest of the Gazelles. Some of them are nodding, others grim and expressionless. Nobody seems to be showing Bret much sympathy. He strikes me as the type who was treated exceedingly gently by his parents. That can be a good thing for some, but it makes for a poor Noble, and I don¡¯t have much interest in slowly easing him into maturity. Either he¡¯ll grow up fast, or he¡¯ll flame out. Either way, I don¡¯t see him remaining here in his current state for very long.


    ¡°Any further questions?¡±


    Nobody says a word.


    ¡°Good. Classes start tomorrow at one. I¡¯m sure I¡¯ll be seeing some of you in them. If we haven¡¯t already spoken, I¡¯ll be making my way to you in time. If you get a chance, come talk with me, even if you¡¯re not interested in being an officer. The sooner I know what you¡¯re good for, the less chance there is I¡¯ll be using you as cannon fodder.¡±

 Chapter Five

    Most people would have a hard time getting a good night¡¯s rest after the day where they died for the first time. I suspect I¡¯d be no exception to that, if I didn¡¯t have the option of simply putting myself to sleep. Insomnia is one of the many minor biological inconveniences that modern technology has effectively eradicated, and as a result, I wake up early in the morning feeling refreshed.


    ¡°Morning, sleepyhead,¡± one of my other selves says cheekily. I wave her away lazily, my hand passing through her holographic avatar, which flickers when I touch it. ¡°Just so you know, we finished going through the personnel files. Got some solid candidates for officers, and started working on plans for the group training exercises.¡±


    ¡°Great,¡± I mumble, head still half-buried in my pillow. ¡°I¡¯m gonna go take a shower, then we can synch back up, and I¡¯ll spin you guys back off again before I head to class, so you can finish up those plans.¡±


    ¡°Sounds good,¡± the other me chirps. Psychologically speaking, we¡¯re almost indistinguishable, except for the fact that they don¡¯t get tired or bored, which is how they can keep working for hours at a time, while I have to sleep and eat and deal with all the other inconveniences of having a body. Like cleaning myself, which is first on the agenda in the morning.


    Forcing myself to sit upright, I peel off what few clothes I left on while sleeping. Somewhere in the room is a camera, which is being operated by a member of Sander¡¯s copyclan, so he can make sure I¡¯m safe while we¡¯re both sleeping. He¡¯s probably merged with it already, but even if it¡¯s still watching, I don¡¯t particularly care. He¡¯ll end up seeing it all eventually, while patching me up after a battle or what-have-you.


    My tail drags lazily behind me as I make my way into the en suite bathroom off of where I sleep. It¡¯s a marked improvement from back home, where I shared the bathroom with all three of my siblings. They¡¯re probably happy to have it all to themselves, now.


    The hot water does wonders to wash away the last remaining vestiges of exhaustion from my mind. My body, not so much, mostly because it¡¯s less than a day old. There are still areas I can¡¯t quite reach with my hands, though, which is why having a tail is handy. The tip is sharp, but the edges are blunt enough that I can use them to work out any kinks in my muscles. The fact that I¡¯ve already got those forming is probably not a good sign about my stress levels, though. Hopefully I¡¯ve managed to keep anybody else from noticing.


    When I¡¯m done, I dry myself off and get dressed. No uniform today- instead I decide to go for something a little less restrictive, in a crop-top with a metallic scale-mail exterior, and a pair of shorts with a hole for my tail, as most of my pants have. After I¡¯m finished, I head into the office and take a seat in the desk chair, before accessing sim-storage and resynchronizing with my copyclan. It¡¯s usually slightly disorienting, which is why I make sure I¡¯m seated first, to keep myself from falling on my ass from the sensation of having ten different sets of memories merged with my own.


    Merging with your copyclan isn¡¯t exactly like learning new information, so much as it¡¯s like suddenly remembering something you once knew, but forgot. Getting someone else¡¯s memories doesn¡¯t feel the same way, because their thought patterns are generally not the same as your own. The other Izas did some good work while I was sleeping- their assessment of the Gazelle unit¡¯s potential candidates for officers seems to essentially bear out my own initial assumptions, and they expanded my vague plans for our first training exercises into something I can see being highly effective. Of course, I¡¯m somewhat biased, seeing as how it¡¯s essentially my own plan, but still.


    Running a hand through my still-damp hair, I plop down on the couch in my living room, which has a recessed area next to the fireplace. Leaning back, I close my eyes and send Sander a message over the brainband.


    Mornin¡¯.


    Talking to someone over the brainband more or less feels like having their voice in your head, which can be exceedingly disconcerting the first few times. Of course, it alerts you before sending the message itself through, so you don¡¯t get surprised by hearing someone else in your own skull at an inopportune moment.


    Good morning, Sander replies.


    I¡¯m gonna get breakfast, you wanna come with?


    It¡¯s a bit of a rhetorical question- he wouldn¡¯t let me out of his sight. But framing it as a request feels less weird. It¡¯s not like he¡¯s my employee, or anything. Sure, he¡¯s in my unit, but I don¡¯t want to start ordering him around outside of a battlefield context.


    Yes.


    Great, let me find a place and get back to you.


    With a yawn, I stretch my arms above my head, eyes still shut, and run a search for breakfast places near the Hyperion Building. That works by polling the collective ambient memories of everyone in the area, including those who are no longer here. Obviously not all of a person¡¯s memories are stored in the brainband network, and the ones that are get divorced from the person who originally had them, so they¡¯re just abstract thoughts and impressions. Makes it easy to tell if a restaurant is good or not, though, based on the positive or negative emotions associated with each one.


    Soon enough, I settle on a coffee shop just down the block, and send Sander the address. He doesn¡¯t respond with words, just a muted pulse of positive emotion, the brainband equivalent of a nod. Before leaving the apartment, I spin up my copyclan again, and set them to work finishing up the plans for our training exercise at the end of the week.


    Sander is waiting for me outside my apartment, arms folded, expression as unreadable as ever. He gives me a nod and falls into step just a pace behind me. Getting some rest has more or less cured me of my anxiety from last night, though having Sander by my side probably has something to do with it too. A few of the other Gazelles are hanging around in the lobby when we come down, though I imagine most are still sleeping, as classes don¡¯t start for several hours. Most of them are ones I haven¡¯t spoken with before, though I recognize them from my copies¡¯ late-night study session. On a spur-of-the-moment impulse, I send a brainband message to the whole room.


    Hey, I¡¯m going to get breakfast. You¡¯re all welcome to join me.


    At least one person ignores me outright, and another gives an apologetic shake of his head, but two people glance back and forth between each other, then get up from where they¡¯re sitting and come to walk with Sander and I. One of them is a woman with two-toned blue-blonde hair, who I recognize as being a tech-type of some kind, and the other is an older guy, maybe in his late twenties, who¡¯s an intelligence specialist. My offer included information on where we¡¯re headed, since I wouldn¡¯t expect them to come along if they didn¡¯t know what they were getting into.


    ¡°Nice day,¡± the woman remarks, as we step outside. There¡¯s a patch of faint green in the lavender sky this morning, and the sunlight is just filtered enough to be pleasant, without being too bright.


    ¡°Definitely. Adelaide, right?¡±


    ¡°Just Ada,¡± she replies with a half-smile. ¡°Tech-spec. Mainly weapons, but I can be flexible.¡±


    ¡°Tai,¡± says the older guy, sticking out his hand for me to shake. ¡°I do surveillance.¡±


    ¡°Good to meet you both. I¡¯m Iza, obviously. Big guy is Sander, he¡¯s handling security.¡±


    He and Tai shake, while Ada just offers him a two-finger salute. I wonder what the odds of three people with three-letter names all meeting up like this are. If I started calling Sander ¡®San,¡¯ would it trigger some sort of probabilistic collapse?


    Introductions took us long enough that we¡¯re already at the cafe. A white-clad Citadel staff member offers us a friendly smile as we walk in. I suppose doing the customer-service act is easier when you¡¯re getting paid generously, and these people are. The reason why is simple enough- if they were getting paid peanuts, it would be much easier for someone to bribe them. Of course, that didn¡¯t stop someone from almost certainly doing that exact thing, in order to make an attempt on my life, but that¡¯s another matter entirely. For all I know, there could have been no money involved whatsoever. We¡¯ll know the truth soon enough- in fact, I¡¯m sure Sander already has most of his copyclan looking into it. The rest are probably making preparations to have the Hyperion Building wired up by the end of the week. Maybe he and Tai should compare notes, come to think of it.


    While we¡¯re ordering, I use the brainband to literally put that idea in both of their heads. Sander may be a bit antisocial by nature, but he¡¯ll follow up on something that¡¯s relevant to his job. After getting our drinks and food, we find a suitably-sized table and sit down. Predictably, Sander seats himself right next to me, starting in on his ham and cheese sandwich with mechanical efficiency.


    Ada takes a bite out of her blueberry scone, washes it down with some coffee, and then looks to me curiously.


    ¡°So¡­ what¡¯s your deal?¡±


    Raising an eyebrow, I sip at my tea and chuckle.


    ¡°How so?¡±


    ¡°Well, I have to imagine you wouldn¡¯t be here if there wasn¡¯t a reason, you know? Considering how all the other Nobles in your line have turned up dead before they could get out of here. Sure, the Myrmidons would probably have dragged you back, but if anybody could duck them, it¡¯d probably be someone from your line.¡±


    She¡¯s probably giving me a bit too much credit. After all, plenty of others in the line of Thorn have tried and failed to avoid the Citadel for exactly the reasons she brought up. Really, it¡¯s a testament to the accomplishments of a fairly small handful of Nobles in my line, plus our Founder himself, that we¡¯ve still got such a reputation despite the number of failures we¡¯ve produced. But I¡¯m not going to be the one to try to dispel that.


    ¡°I¡¯d be lying if I said I didn¡¯t have ambitions, but honestly? At least half of it¡¯s just that I want to prove I¡¯m better than all those assholes who died. If I ran, I¡¯d be admitting that I thought I¡¯d die the same way.¡±


    Tai starts to laugh through a mouthful of croissant, then thinks better of it and swallows before responding.


    ¡°How many of the ones who died do you think came here thinking the exact same thing?¡±


    ¡°Most of them, I¡¯m sure. The difference is, they were overconfident fools, whereas I am clever and brilliant.¡±


    While my joke does seem to amuse the others- save for Sander, naturally -it¡¯s mainly a way of deflecting from the fact that he¡¯s completely right. Having grown up where I did, I¡¯ve got virtually no evidence that I¡¯m in any way more capable than any of the others that came before me. If it weren¡¯t for Sander, I¡¯d have been truekilled already. Yet for some reason I still feel inexplicably confident. Maybe it¡¯s because I do have Sander, and a surprisingly solid unit, despite that I¡¯d have expected from being assigned to the Gazelles. Or maybe it¡¯s got something to do with my hypothetical secret ally, who I¡¯m fairly certain arranged for me to get Sander in the first place. But even if they do exist, I can¡¯t put too much faith in them- or anyone other than myself. Not yet.


    ¡°How about you two? Just here out of obligation, or do you have any bigger plans?¡±


    ¡°Figured it would be my best chance to play with all the Imperium¡¯s fun toys,¡± Ada says with a playful grin.


    Tai just shrugs.


    ¡°Trying to run didn¡¯t seem worthwhile. Myrmidons would have taken my parents if I tried. Can¡¯t say I¡¯m too into all of this competition stuff, though.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough. Can I assume you¡¯re not interested in being an officer, then?¡±


    That provokes a look of surprise.


    ¡°Am I under consideration?¡±


    ¡°Well, I need somebody to run intelligence for me, and it¡¯s a pretty small unit. Only two or three other people I could see being up to the task.¡±


    One thing that¡¯s convenient about dealing with Nobles is that you don¡¯t really have to test their capabilities before assigning them to a specific task. With a very few notable exceptions, Nobles are pretty much all good at the same things their Founder was good at. That means I can pretty safely assume Tai would be capable of running the Gazelle unit¡¯s intelligence apparatus, if I gave him the job.


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s nice to be appreciated, but... I¡¯m not sure that¡¯s really my wheelhouse. Surveillance, I can do, but I don¡¯t know much about the other side of spy stuff. If none of the other options pan out, I¡¯d give it a shot, but you should really hope it doesn¡¯t come to that.¡±


    I can respect that he knows his limits, at least. And to be honest, he wasn¡¯t exactly my first choice to begin with.


    ¡°Understood.¡±


    ¡°What about me?¡± asks Ada, wiping some crumbs off her face. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯re planning on putting gearface in charge of tech.¡±


    ¡°Not in a million years,¡± I reassure her, grateful to know I¡¯m not the only one who finds him insufferable. ¡°Though if I did put you in charge, it would mean you¡¯d have to deal with him all the time.¡±


    The engineer freezes with her scone halfway to her mouth, horror dawning in her eyes.


    ¡°Shit, you¡¯re right.¡±


    ¡°Well, get used to the idea, because I¡¯ve only got one candidate for the job other than you. Seems like they really shafted us in terms of tech specialists, compared to the other units.¡±


    Ada snickers.


    ¡°Yeah? Who¡¯s the other candidate, then?¡±


    ¡°Well, her Founder was famous for developing chemical weapons meant specifically to be used on civilians.¡±


    Startled by how casually I dropped that little bombshell, Tai nearly chokes on his coffee.


    ¡°Sounds charming,¡± Ada replies, deadpan. ¡°So either I¡¯m gonna be working for her, or she¡¯s gonna be working for me. And either way, we¡¯re both gonna be working with that fucking worm. Awesome.¡±


    When she puts it that way, it does sound like a rather unenviable position. Still, the personal disposition of a Noble¡¯s Founder doesn¡¯t necessarily inform their own disposition. I¡¯ll have to judge for myself whether this other tech specialist is best suited to run our engineering division. It¡¯s not a decision to take lightly, after all. Our engineers will be in charge of keeping the unit¡¯s weaponry in good condition, producing any tech we require for a given challenge, and building fortifications for our war games. Of course, it would hardly be realistic to ask them to actually put it together with their hands, given the size required, but they¡¯ll be coming up with the designs for the industrial matter-fabricators to produce.


    ¡°Hey, he¡¯s not that bad,¡± Tai says awkwardly. ¡°Just kinda¡­ I dunno, immature.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m not here to play babysitter,¡± I reply. ¡°Or to pretend he¡¯s any less annoying than he is. The fact that everyone around him up to this point has been doing that is probably how he got to be this way.¡±


    Not shockingly, that fails to make him look any more comfortable.


    ¡°Maybe. I don¡¯t know if that¡¯s justification enough to condone bullying.¡±


    Through some heroic feat of willpower, I manage not to roll my eyes, or laugh in his face.


    ¡°I¡¯m not condoning¡ª look, talking shit about someone behind their back isn¡¯t the same as, I don¡¯t know, shoving them into a locker or whatever. Everybody does it about everybody else. I¡¯m sure plenty of people have been making jokes at my expense since yesterday. Maybe him. Maybe you. I don¡¯t care. If the jokes are funny, I¡¯d probably laugh.¡±


    Tai just shrugs.


    ¡°If you say so. Anyhow, I should be getting ready for class. Good luck finding your officers.¡±


    As he finishes off his croissant and stands up to leave, I give him a friendly wave goodbye. Bit of an unfortunate note to end our first meeting on, but I don¡¯t think it¡¯ll be much of an issue going forward. If anything, having to keep an eye on Bret in his capacity as our surveillance guy will probably change his tune. From what I recall of my copies¡¯ research into his Founder, that¡¯s precisely what happened in that case as well. Watching the private lives of so many people cultivated a deep misanthropy within him, to the point where he pretty much disappeared after the end of the War of Conquest.


    The three of us eat in silence for a few minutes, before Ada speaks up, eyes twinkling with amusement.


    ¡°Personally, I think you should institute a mandatory locker-shoving policy for anyone who gets on your nerves. But that¡¯s just my take.¡±


    <hr>


    After breakfast, Sander and I head back to the Hyperion Building. For him, it¡¯s an opportunity to get started wiring the building up, something he has to do physically, rather than just letting his copyclan handle it. Since my more pressing tasks can be passed off onto my copyclan, I decide to take the opportunity to call my parents.


    As expected, it only takes a few moments before somebody at home accepts my call request. Mother Stella¡¯s round face pops into view on the holo-screen before me, instantly beaming the moment she sees my face.


    ¡°Iza! You look so good, sweetie! How are you? How was your first day? Did you meet anybody nice? Have you had any classes yet?¡±


    It¡¯s been less than a day since I left, yet her overbearing nature, which would ordinarily have me rolling my eyes, instead feels closer to comforting. A little sliver of familiarity in an otherwise unfamiliar environment.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine, my first day was fine. They put me in charge of the unit, like I said they would. Most of them seem nice enough. And no, I haven¡¯t had any classes yet, they don¡¯t start until after lunch.¡±


    Before I even decided to call home, I¡¯d already decided not to tell any of them about my little near-death experience. It¡¯s not like they have any power to help me at this point, so letting them know would just make them worry fruitlessly.


    Stella¡¯s smile grows even wider at the news of my appointment to the position of unit commander, despite the fact that I told her, and the others, that it was almost certain to happen. Really, I¡¯m not sure how much of the Noble stuff they really ¡®get.¡¯ The only time it¡¯s ever impacted their lives was when it turned out I was one, and discovering that all the previous Nobles in my line had died made them justifiably concerned. It took quite a while to get them to calm down about that, which is another reason I¡¯m not about to bring it up again.


    ¡°Okay, okay. Just asking, sweetie. Hold on for a minute, I¡¯m going to get some of the others.¡±


    That doesn¡¯t give me much of a chance to respond, so I just brace myself, and hope there aren¡¯t too many of my parents in range, so this doesn¡¯t turn into a repeat of yesterday morning. A minute or two later, Stella returns, with Father Nico and Byron in tow. Fewer than I¡¯d thought. My older brother gives me a wave, which I return, smiling.


    ¡°Are you in your room?¡± Nico asks. ¡°Why don¡¯t you give us a look around?¡±


    ¡°Sure. Y¡¯know, one of the guys in my unit is called Niko too. Short for Nikolai, but still.¡±


    As I¡¯m speaking, I switch the video input on my side to my own point of view, so they can see directly through my eyes. Easier than just holding up a camera. I slowly pan around the living room, before poking my head into the small kitchen area, then the office, and finally my room, giving them all a good look at my disheveled bed. Stella makes a slightly disapproving noise when she sees that, but doesn¡¯t go any further in that.


    ¡°Small universe,¡± Nico laughs. He¡¯s one of my quieter parents, even more so than Emil or Len, who can get verbose when discussing topics they¡¯re passionate about- military history and sports minute respectively.


    ¡°Is that all?¡± Stella asks anxiously. ¡°It seems a bit small...¡±


    ¡°Bigger than any of our rooms,¡± Byron laughs.


    ¡°Yes, but you aren¡¯t training to be a Noble.¡±


    Making my way back into the living room, I switch the feed back to an external view, so they can see my face again.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine, I promise. You all haven¡¯t had any trouble, have you?¡±


    ¡°None,¡± Nico reassures me. It¡¯s early days yet, of course, but someone did try to kill me on my very first day, so I think some concern is justified.


    ¡°Good. Try and make sure it stays that way, okay? I¡¯ve gotta go now, but I¡¯ll talk to you all soon.¡±


    The trio waves goodbye, and I close the connection, suddenly feeling rather tense. Maybe giving them a call was a bad idea. Just a reminder of what I have to lose if I fuck things up here on Akademos.


    Trying to shake that nagging feeling, I pace around the apartment for a few moments, but my head refuses to clear. With a scowl, I open up my dresser and pull out a thigh holster, strapping my sidearm on. It¡¯s not a massive hand cannon, but rather a mid-sized one that optimizes for a fast rate of fire and high accuracy. In the training sims, I can triple-tap someone before their body even hits the ground. In realspace, I¡¯ve never had cause to use it in that context. Something tells me that¡¯ll change before too long.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Having iron on me does a surprising amount to clear my head. However, it doesn¡¯t make me feel any better about sitting around in my room doing nothing until lunchtime, so I head out without much of an idea of where to go or what to do. Eventually, probably later than it should have, the thought of going to help Sander occurs. So that¡¯s exactly what I do.


    When I finally track him down, he¡¯s in someone else¡¯s room, shifting aside a bookshelf to put a listening device in place. I can¡¯t imagine anybody is especially thrilled about having their rooms filled with surveillance devices, but it¡¯s on my orders, and I made clear in the announcement that I wouldn¡¯t be exempt from the order either. Plus, it really is mainly for their protection,


    Sander doesn¡¯t say a word, just hands me the bug and moves aside so I can get into the space between the bookshelf and the wall and attach it. We continue like that in silence for a while, our only direct interaction being nonverbal brainband exchanges, when I don¡¯t know the right place to put a camera. The room we¡¯re in belongs to another Gazelle I haven¡¯t spoken to personally yet, Colleen, who seems to have something of a fixation with swords. I spot no less than five, already hanging up on her walls or occupying positions of honor on top of her dressers. Something to do with her Founder, as I recall from the dossiers I downloaded this morning.


    When he notices that I¡¯m strapped, Sander nods approvingly. The Citadel¡¯s policy on carrying weapons is a little strange. On one hand, they understandably want us to feel safe enough that we aren¡¯t wearing body armor or carrying rifles wherever we go. But at the same time, they have to acknowledge that the threat of death here is nonzero, despite all their security measures, and it would be foolish to outright forbid us to carry weapons. So there¡¯s a weird middle ground, where people will frown at you for carting around a huge gun or wearing protective equipment, but won¡¯t blink twice if you¡¯ve got a revolver on you. Sander might be pushing the limit a bit with his short-barreled slug-thrower, but he¡¯s physically intimidating enough that I doubt anyone would risk trying to tell him to leave it at home.


    Before I know it, a couple of hours have passed. We manage to get two full floors covered, including one room in which the occupant was currently present, though I had to ask him to hang out in the lobby for a while so he wouldn¡¯t know where all the bugs were. He was surprisingly amenable, introducing himself as Valent, one of the few others on my shortlist for head of intelligence besides Tai.


    Besides that, the whole process goes pretty smoothly. We¡¯re mainly just setting up listening devices and hidden cameras, although Sander does set up a handful of traps in certain spots- mainly the stairwell and elevator shaft. I can¡¯t really see a scenario where we have to seriously defend this place from a siege, except in the context of a war game against one of the other units, but it does feel somewhat comforting to know we¡¯ve got protection beyond what the Citadel provides.


    The main defense that the Citadel has, is that it¡¯s essentially a closed system. There are no spaceports on the moon, so the only way to get in is via teleportal, and those access codes are tightly controlled. The staff lives here full-time, students can¡¯t leave without authorization, and no visitors are permitted save for on specific days. That doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯s entirely impossible to get people onto the moon, though. If I were to do it, I¡¯d fly a stealth ship over the uninhabited ¡®wild side¡¯ of the moon, and drop a team into the jungle from orbit, then have them make their way to the Citadel on foot. Getting past the wall would be a challenge, and unless they had an ally on the inside, it would be virtually impossible for them to go unnoticed by the security system, which would mean Myrmidons would swarm them within minutes- but those are all problems with potential solutions and workarounds. Not that I foresee a future where I¡¯m ordering a strike on Akademos, but it does make for an interesting problem to ponder while working.


    We¡¯re not anywhere near close to done when lunchtime rolls around. I¡¯m still not really in the mood for any more chatting, so I don¡¯t invite anybody else this time. Sander and I eat at a ¡®Western-style¡¯ restaurant. Most of the food in the Citadel is from old Earth cultures, rather than more modern Imperial ones. Probably for the same reason that there¡¯s a taboo against visible body modifications within the core worlds of the Imperium. A deliberate attempt to maintain Earther cultural norms, as a contrast to the more libertine conventions of the Meritocracy. Of course, that¡¯s backfired in many respects, alienating many worlds far from the Imperial core, but I¡¯m sure there are some Nobles who see that as a benefit.


    The Meritocracy isn¡¯t something I spend much time thinking about- and why would I? It¡¯s not like their existence has really impacted my day-to-day life much so far. But there¡¯s probably some value in thinking about it more now, especially since it¡¯s probably first in most peoples¡¯ minds when they look at me.


    As the name suggests, the Meritocracy, unlike the Imperium, isn¡¯t ruled by a permanent class of Nobles. Instead, it¡¯s got a parliamentary system with no restrictions on who can hold office, at least in theory. In practice, most people wouldn¡¯t vote for a child or a moron, but there are no laws strictly barring them from running. Also unlike the Imperium, it¡¯s not quite as organized. While there is a core set of solar systems they do control pretty much inarguably, most of the Meritocracy is made up of individual worlds, space stations, and asteroid outposts that don¡¯t want to be a part of the Imperium, and hope that existing under the aegis of its only real competitor as far as governments go will provide them some level of protection. Whether that¡¯s true tends to be somewhat contextual, depending on the circumstances.


    For about a hundred and fifty years after its founding, the Imperium¡¯s rule was pretty much uncontested. There were a few semi-serious uprisings, all of which were put down without much effort. Then something unexpected happened. A Noble from the line of Thorn- my line -decided that he¡¯d had enough. Our Founder had earned the name Tyrant¡¯s Bane for his campaigns against the worst dictators and warlords of the pre-Imperial era, and the Noble now known only as the Betrayer, after his true name was erased from the Imperial history books, decided that the Emperor himself now qualified as a tyrant as well. But attempting to overthrow him would be a fool¡¯s errand. The Nobility system ensures that simply killing the Emperor will never be enough. Instead, the Betrayer and his Deceiver Fleet led an uprising in a far-flung colony system, swaying the people there to his side with promises of self-governance and freedom from a Nobility they saw as not having their best interests at heart.


    Most other people wouldn¡¯t have succeeded. Even other Nobles of the same line. The Betrayer possessed unique talents of his own, not just ones inherited from his Founder. As he won victory after victory, dozens of other worlds joined the cause. He¡¯d chosen the perfect time, as well. With the loss of the Deceiver Fleet, the Imperial Navy was short handed, and almost all of their greatest commanders, from the Grim Dragon to the Spear of Bone, were in the Citadel at the time, their positions occupied by stewards. Instead of pushing his luck, however, he sued for peace at a moment when the Imperium was scrambling to marshal its forces, and failing to retake worlds dangerously close to the core that were declaring allegiance to the Meritocracy. In desperation, they accepted, recognizing the independence of most of the worlds that had attempted to break away, in exchange for a few key concessions, including that the Meritocracy would no longer permit new worlds to join.


    That pact lasted only a few brief decades, before several more worlds broke away, and were swiftly recognized by the Meritocracy, which dispatched their own navy to protect them. Another, far shorter conflict ensued, resulting in another defeat for the Imperium, and a paradigm that has mostly remained up to the present day. If a world far enough outside the Imperiums direct sphere of influence attempts to leave, it¡¯ll likely be allowed to do so without more than a token show of force. However, if a world attempts to leave the Imperium and is met with a full deployment in response, the Meritocracy will likely hang them out to dry, in order to avoid a full-scale war, which they know they¡¯re unlikely to win. Part of that is because their productive capacity, while growing, is still inferior to that of the Imperium, meaning they likely can¡¯t compete on either an economic or military field. Another part is that they haven¡¯t had a Noble of my line on their side for over a century.


    Following the Betrayer¡¯s death, almost a dozen other Nobles in the line of Thorn defected as well, and many more attempted to do so, but were stopped before they could escape the Imperium. Those that successfully defected were, almost without fail, elected to the position of Prime Minister within the Parliament of Merit. After a while, though, it became clear they were better suited to military leadership than political power. Add to that the fact that several of them went completely insane in the Citadel and murdered their own units, and they lost a great deal of popularity. In recent years, nobody has even made it as far as attempting to defect, because they¡¯ve all died before they could leave. Many people think that it¡¯s because the Emperor is trying to prevent them from ever getting the chance to join the Meritocracy, something that could give them the upper hand in the ¡®cold¡¯ conflict between them and the Imperium.


    Personally, I¡¯m not so sure. It¡¯s hard to know who else could benefit from the members of my line being killed, but if the Emperor wants us dead, it does seem like there are easier methods. Defecting to the Meritocracy did seem like a tempting option for a while, but it¡¯s no longer on my agenda. My plans are more ambitious than just becoming another wannabe Betrayer.


    Part of me wonders how many people in my unit are expecting me to try to defect. And how many of them would follow me if I did. It¡¯s not been anywhere near long enough for them to follow purely out of personal loyalty to me, but I¡¯m sure there are at least a few idealist Meritocrats among our ranks. It¡¯s a seductive concept, democracy. For those who grew up within the more restrictive cultural norms of the Imperium, the promise of more personal freedom might be enough to sway them. On the other hand, I¡¯m sure many people who¡¯ve grown up inside the Meritocracy would welcome the stability of the Nobility. The grass is always greener on the other side, or so they say.


    When I¡¯m finished with my chicken wings, and Sander with his pasta bolognese, we head for Vance Hall, named for the original Grim Dragon. That feels like a bad omen, considering there¡¯s virtually no chance I won¡¯t be in direct competition with Hark, the latest Noble in that line, in today¡¯s class. Vance Hall is home to the Tactics and Strategy Department of the Citadel, and the class we¡¯re going to is Introduction to War, with Professor David Brennan. I¡¯ve got no idea what to expect of the man, as he, like most of the other teachers at the Citadel, isn¡¯t himself a Noble.


    Between starting to work on wiring up the Hyperion Building and when we arrive at Vance Hall, I don¡¯t think Sander and I have said more than five full sentences to each other. It¡¯s actually rather refreshing, considering how chatty my parents usually are. Still, I¡¯ll be glad to hear some other voices once we get into the lecture hall. The building is an octagonal structure, which I vaguely recall reading was a historical allusion of some sort, but to exactly what I can¡¯t remember.


    Before we reach the entrance to Vance Hall, I hear someone call my name. Sander¡¯s head snaps around like a whip, while I turn more slowly, and see Tellis approaching at a rapid clip, waving enthusiastically at me.


    ¡°Iza,¡± he repeats, smiling exuberantly. ¡°Headed to Professor Brennan¡¯s class, are you?¡±


    ¡°Yep. You too?¡±


    ¡°Indeed, indeed. As my unit commander is not of the tactical persuasion, the role of field leader has fallen to me, and I intend to fulfill it to the very best of my ability.¡± He pauses, as if not having fully registered Sander¡¯s presence until now. ¡°A pleasure to meet you,¡± the ginger-haired Noble says, extending a hand to shake.


    ¡°That¡¯s Sander,¡± I inform him, while my companion returns the gesture silently. ¡°He¡¯s my self-appointed bodyguard.¡±


    That provokes a look of slight confusion from Tellis, although it¡¯s quickly overshadowed by visible discomfort at Sander¡¯s grip strength. He breaks off the handshake swiftly.


    ¡°Bodyguard? What business does he have in a tactics seminar?¡±


    ¡°Probably not much,¡± I chuckle. ¡°He¡¯s taking all the same classes as me. Not my choice, but I¡¯m not complaining, considering my life expectancy relative to all the rest of you.¡±


    Tellis frowns slightly.


    ¡°Naturally, but aren¡¯t you worried about depriving him of an education?¡±


    ¡°Not especially. The Citadel doesn¡¯t have a dedicated class on bodyguarding, and I¡¯m pretty sure he already knows just about everything he needs to in that field already. If anything, it¡¯ll be useful to have someone with me who¡¯s studying the same stuff I am, in case I end up unable to do my job at some point.¡±


    It¡¯s hard to imagine Sander in a captain¡¯s chair, considering he¡¯s practically nonverbal most of the time, but we can work on that. I¡¯d be surprised if there wasn¡¯t an element of the Tactics and Strategy curriculum that didn¡¯t involve how to actually command people. A plan is only as good as your ability to get people to execute it, after all.


    ¡°Maybe so,¡± Tellis replies. ¡°In any case, we¡¯d best head inside, or risk missing the beginning of the lecture.¡±


    In truth, we¡¯ve got plenty of time before class starts, but I think Sander¡¯s stoic gaze is starting to make the Ox unit¡¯s tactician uncomfortable. The three of us head into the octagon, and make our way through the corridors towards the main lecture hall. Though the Citadel is vast, the academic institutions themselves don¡¯t need to be huge, because they¡¯re never servicing that many people at a time. I don¡¯t think there are more than three classrooms in this entire building, and only a handful of offices, considering the department itself only employs a select few instructors, as well as their assistants. What the rest is used for, I¡¯m not entirely certain, but I suspect we¡¯ll be finding out soon enough.


    Despite what the name suggests, the lecture hall itself isn¡¯t exactly voluminous. It looks like it was designed to support about fifty total students, which is far more than I suspect this class is going to be. As such, most of the desks towards the back of the room are closed off, leaving us with no option other than to seat ourselves near the professor¡¯s desk, which is currently unoccupied.


    Spotting someone he recognizes, Tellis waves goodbye to Sander and I, and goes to seat himself next to her. For my part, I pick a spot one row back from the professor¡¯s desk. Not too close, not too far. There¡¯s also an empty seat right beside me, where Sander positions himself. Over the next few minutes, as we sit in relative silence, a few other students trickle in. The first one I recognize is a member of my unit, Katrina. She seems about as uncomfortable as ever, but relaxes marginally when she sees me. I wave her over, and she meekly accepts my offer of the seat to my immediate left.


    After her, a small gaggle of Komodo unit members enters, with Lucia Hark at their center. Despite being quite a bit younger than the rest, she¡¯s clearly dominating the conversation, at least until she draws it to an immediate close with a single sharp gesture. They all take seats in a cluster near the front of the room, although some distance away from Sander, Katrina and I. Several of them stare at me, and don¡¯t even flinch when I notice them and stare right back. It¡¯s a little eerie how quickly they¡¯ve been housebroken by a young girl. Then again, the Grim Dragon¡¯s reputation is probably doing a lot of the heavy lifting there.


    Nobody else I recognize enters for a short while, just a handful of Oxen and Peregrines. The former sit near where Tellis and his friend are, while the others find an unoccupied area bordering the Komodos. Soon, however, I see someone I do very much recognize. Anton, the leader of the Peregrine unit, who doesn¡¯t even register that the rest of his people have already staked out territory, and sits on the other side of the room. That makes three of the four unit commanders in this class- and since Starling isn¡¯t exactly a tactician, he¡¯s almost certainly not showing up.


    Not long after that, an older man enters through a door close to the front of the room, which I presume leads to his office. He¡¯s got sharp, narrow features, displaying neither the utter apathy of the Gazelle unit¡¯s sponsor, nor the cloying enthusiasm of the Dean himself. What he has is an air of quiet seriousness, one that swiftly silences the remaining chatter in the room, without him having to lift a finger.


    ¡°Greetings,¡± he says, voice cutting through the air like an axe. ¡°Welcome to War.¡±


    Rather than sit down, Brennan stalks around to the front of his desk, and stands before the gathered students, arms folded, looking decidedly unimpressed by our assemblage.


    ¡°You are expecting me to begin with an explanation of how this course will work. My expectations for you, the structure of each class session, et cetera. This is what most of your other professors will do. I, on the other hand, prefer to begin with a test of your capabilities. Each of you has been assigned to this class as a result of the capabilities you inherited from your respective Founders, but that alone does not guarantee competence.¡±


    Brennan snaps his fingers, and a holo-screen blinks to life in front of each student, currently blank. They flicker gently as he continues to speak.


    ¡°Typically, we will begin each class with an examination of theory, before you will attempt to apply what you learned in a tactical simulation. For this class, we will be doing things in reverse. Each of you will attempt to complete a tactical simulation of my own design, and once you are finished, we will spend the rest of class discussing your performance.¡±


    Flicking his wrist upward, Brennan calls up a holo-screen of his own, and taps out a few inputs, which causes our own screens to activate, each displaying what looks to be the same image- a battlefield, as seen from above. I¡¯ve done plenty of tactical simulations before, so the software is fairly familiar to me. It seems like most of the others recognize it as well, and I pity those that find themselves having to learn on the fly.


    ¡°The objective of this simulation is to finish the battle with as many of your own troops left standing as possible. Fifty merit points will be awarded to the unit whose member has the most troops left at the end of their simulation. That reward will be doubled if all of their troops survive. You have one hour. Begin.¡±


    While the professor is circling back around to sit behind his desk, each one of our simulations goes live. When I try to glance at the other screens, I find them impossible to see clearly from my position, presumably an anti-cheating measure. Not a problem for me, of course.


    Assessing the capabilities of the soldiers provided to me, I quickly realize that this is a very basic simulation. No ranged weapons of any sort, just swords and shields. It looks like a beginner program, the kind I outgrew before I even had a proper body. But there¡¯s no way someone like Brennan would throw something so simple at us without some kind of hidden catch.


    Deploying units for my first sortie, I discover the catch very quickly. Our units may be underequipped, but the enemy is not. Still hoping to win the Gazelles that hundred-merit prize, I draw my forces back, but see any chance of that vanish as the enemy archers pick off two of my troops, something I had virtually no chance of preventing. By the sound of it, the others are discovering just how unfair it is at the same time, and several of them are becoming rather frustrated.


    My first thought is that it¡¯s a test we¡¯re designed to fail, in order to teach us that some battles simply can¡¯t be won. But that feels too easy. It would be an insult to my intelligence, really. Not to mention it wouldn¡¯t exactly serve to divide the competent from the incompetent, as Brennan suggested this was intended to do. I take stock my my troops as the enemy begins their advance, clearly possessing superior firepower, and feel the frustration around the room starting to infect me. Then something clicks in my head.


    It¡¯s not a fight we¡¯re meant to lose. We¡¯re just meant to come to that conclusion, and give up. But there¡¯s a path to victory that lies before me, shining clear and bright. And for all the supposed brilliance of the Corsair Captain and the Grim Dragon, I¡¯m willing to bet they don¡¯t see it. Reinvigorated, I crack my knuckles and launch a counter-strike.


    <hr>


    Unlike a traditional test, there¡¯s no ¡®finishing early¡¯ here. The simulation will run for its allotted time, and your job is to keep going until it¡¯s done. Unless, of course, your forces are completely wiped out, which seems to be the case for most of the other people around me. I, however, am still going right up until the moment that the simulation ends.


    As our holo-screens all go dark, silence in the room reigns. Everybody stares at the professor, most with accusatory looks in their eyes. Wondering why he would put such an unfair task before them, on their very first day. I just do my best to keep from grinning.


    ¡°It seems that most of you have failed,¡± Brennan says bluntly, his expression as cold as ever. ¡°All of you, in fact, except two.¡±


    Curious, I glance around the room, searching for who my fellow Very Clever Individual could possibly be, but nobody gives any indication that it¡¯s them. Hark is sitting with her arms folded, looking as if she¡¯s trying to compete with the professor in a frigidity contest of some sort.


    ¡°Izanami, commander of the Gazelle unit, with one percent of her troops remaining. And Anton, commander of the Peregrine unit, with one hundred percent of his troops remaining.¡±


    It takes a moment for me to process the words. Like everyone else, I turn to stare at Anton, who has a smug grin on his face. There I was, feeling so damn clever for figuring out the trick, but apparently there was something I completely missed, because he actually managed to fulfill the optional objective somehow. That shouldn¡¯t be possible, unless--


    ¡°Of course, the latter result is only possible to achieve through manipulating the simulation itself. Which was not against any rule that I stipulated, but still clearly against the spirit of the exercise. Meaning the only genuine result was from Miss Izanami here.¡±


    For a moment, it feels like there¡¯s a weight off my shoulders, knowing Anton didn¡¯t somehow see something that I missed. Then everybody is staring at me, and the weight is right back where it belongs.


    ¡°Would you care to enlighten your colleagues as to how you achieved this feat?¡±


    Forcing my voice to stay steady, I twist my lips into a grin that doesn¡¯t match how I feel on the inside. Normally I¡¯d be taking a victory lap, but something about Brennan¡¯s contemptuous tone is making that difficult.


    ¡°Well, I realized pretty quickly that you were deliberately misleading us by suggesting that it was possible to win without losing a single unit. In fact, it seemed like it wasn¡¯t possible to win at all. But part of that is because you primed us to think that losing any units was unacceptable, because victory would be determined by who had the most at the end. So instead of employing more conservative tactics designed to preserve my units as much as possible, I used intentionally reckless tactics that sacrificed many of my own troops, reasoning that having even a small fraction of my troops left at the end would be better than having none at all.¡±


    Nobody says anything for a few moments. I was hardly expecting a standing ovation, though. It sounds deceptively simple coming out of my mouth, but it was actually rather difficult using the sort of knife¡¯s-edge tactics I described, without being overwhelmed by an enemy with superior numbers and weaponry. Fortunately, the simulation was clearly designed to favor that approach, with my reckless assaults scattering and disorienting the enemy forces to a greater degree than I¡¯d have expected in real life.


    ¡°Very astute,¡± Brennan says at last, though nothing in his tone indicates that he¡¯s remotely impressed with me. ¡°As many of you are no doubt thinking, this was not a fair test. In reality, deliberately sacrificing a significant portion of your forces to win a single battle would be a massive blunder. You would be better served to retreat and fight another day. But both Anton and Izanami have illustrated an important point today. The condition of victory is not fixed. The rest of you failed when you decided to treat this simulation as if it were a real battle, and not an artificial construct, to be won or lost on its own terms.¡±


    That only serves to intensify the glares that he and I, are getting from many of the other Nobles in the room. I do my best to mirror his lack of response.


    ¡°Anton did successfully fulfill the additional objective I set forth. However, reality is not as easy to manipulate as a simulation. As such, rather than give the Peregrine unit the full reward, I will award both the Peregrines and Gazelles seventy-five merit points.¡±


    Still no ovation, but it does soften the looks of the other Peregrines somewhat. Sander¡¯s face has barely moved the whole time, and Katrina looks too terrified to be angry. It¡¯s more of a reward than I was expecting, but I¡¯m still not sure if I should be happy or not.


    ¡°Though I will not be awarding any additional merit points, special note should be given to Lucia Hark of the Komodo unit, and Katrina of the Gazelle unit, both of whom employed efficient defensive strategies that allowed them to last much longer than their other classmates.¡±


    Katrina almost seems to shrink in her seat, while the other Komodos applaud their commander politely. Hark doesn¡¯t react at all, except to narrow her eyes slightly at the professor.


    ¡°If you are feeling discouraged by your results, do not despair. You will have ample time with which to hone your tactical acumen. Now, I will provide the course syllabus for you to download, and we can begin the class in earnest.¡±


    <hr>


    When we walk out of the lecture hall a few hours later, the mood of the group is still rather subdued, but most of the simmering anger I felt amongst the others has evaporated, or at least disappeared beneath the surface for now. Brennan spent a little while going over his plans for the semester, then we went straight into the first topic of discussion, a brief overview of pre-Imperial strategic paradigms. While Introduction to War isn¡¯t a history course, he stressed the importance of understanding the context in which modern tactical thinking came to be, which necessitated a review of the past. Most of it was stuff I was already generally familiar with, but he went into details I¡¯d never heard of in any history book.


    The period before the War of Conquest was filled with strife, mainly conflicts between various warlords and petty despots. However, those rulers often conscripted talented strategists, including many who would later go on to become Founders of the Imperium, either by defecting against their masters, or by joining up with the winning side after they¡¯d been conquered. It¡¯s interesting stuff, but by no means the main focus of the course, and the Professor promised before dismissing us that we¡¯d be getting into the real meat of it next week- including simulations that weren¡¯t designed so that most of us would fail. I¡¯m looking forward to it. Much as being the only one to figure out the trick gave me a much-needed ego boost, I don¡¯t feel like I learned very much from that first simulation. Hopefully the ones we run next week will be a little more instructive.


    For a few moments, I consider trying to approach Hark and speak with her, but before I can even decide if I want to, her little cabal of Komodos surrounds her. There are at least four of them, plus her, which seems like a lot more tacticians than one group needs. I¡¯m sure some of them have other specialties as well, but it still seems odd. Maybe they figured that a Noble of the Grim Dragon line would need more officers with a strategic talent than the other units, in order to delegate responsibility to people they would know could handle it. Or maybe I¡¯m overestimating the amount of thought that went into the assignments, and it¡¯s just a statistical fluke.


    My backup plan was to talk to Katrina, but she somehow manages to scamper off before I get a chance, leaving me to head back to the Hyperion Building with Sander in tow. She didn¡¯t say a word through the entire class, despite having received a special commendation from the professor. Or maybe that was precisely the reason why. She does come from a justifiably well-respected Noble line, but her anxieties seem to be a bit of a handicap. Hopefully I¡¯ll be able to change that, but I¡¯m not incredibly optimistic about my chances.


    The sun is starting to set as we head back through the Citadel¡¯s streets to our dormitory. Our path takes us through an outdoor market, and I can¡¯t resist stopping to look in some of the stalls. The price tags serve as a helpful reminder that I still need to audit the unit¡¯s finances before the War Council meeting. Sander¡¯s purchases have probably set us back a bit, but I doubt it¡¯s anything too significant. However, we¡¯re going to have operating costs going forward, since I doubt everybody brought weapons from home. Even those who did, like Sander and myself, probably didn¡¯t bring a year¡¯s worth of ammunition as well, and the Citadel won¡¯t be providing any for free.


    Weapons aren¡¯t what¡¯s on sale in this market, though. There are some specialty stores elsewhere in the Citadel where you can go for those, but these vendors are mainly hawking other wares, from ones designed to help with our studies, like custom tactical sims ¡®guaranteed to improve your performance by fifteen percent or more,¡¯ to more general goods like posters and other decorations for our apartments. That¡¯s what I mainly focus on, since I don¡¯t currently have much use for the other stuff.


    Most of the decorations seem to be geared towards people with what I¡¯d describe as ¡®conventional¡¯ taste. I¡¯m aware that it¡¯s typically considered somewhat contemptible to walk around flouting your own unique style sensibilities, but the fact of the matter is that what constitutes modern pop culture is both uninteresting, and largely alien to me. It¡¯s not that I was unable to access popular music or other media from Demeter VII, but I simply had no interest in doing so, leaving me unaware of who most of the people on these posters even are. It takes a few minutes before I find the first thing that really interests me, a banner for the Romulus Raptors, the favored team of my father Len. He¡¯s more into that sort of thing than me, but it¡¯ll serve as a small reminder of home, so I buy it anyway.


    Not much else catches my eye, though I do indulge myself and get a small bronze statuette of a gazelle. The shopkeeper winks at me as I transfer the funds. This is all a new experience to me, since virtually every other purchase I¡¯ve made up until now has been done digitally. No shopping malls on a farm-world.


    Some nagging part of me insists that I should use what remains of the day to interview more members of my unit, but I quash it. Overextending myself this early in the week would be a major unforced error. Instead, I decide to pick up some takeout and get to bed early. Class tomorrow starts early in the morning, and I want to be well-rested.

 Chapter Six

    There are still remnants of my hastily-consumed breakfast on my face when I arrive for class on my second day at the Citadel. Most of the other Gazelles are already there waiting- I see Sofie wave at me from across the room, and wave back with one hand, while wiping off my face with the other. Day two of our eight-day week, and each unit is in a class run by their sponsor. The only problem is, ours is nowhere to be found.


    If I¡¯m honest, I feel a little silly for how fast I rushed over here, knowing now that Professor Gabrielli wasn¡¯t present at the time. Thankfully, there¡¯s still an empty seat near where Sofie and Niko are sitting, and I hurry to place myself in it, in order to avoid having to sit anywhere near Bret. Sander, who helpfully woke me up after I slept through my alarm, is the one who¡¯ll have to suffer that fate instead. At least his general aura of intimidation will likely spare him the misery of having to put up with Bret¡¯s incessant attempts at ¡®banter.¡¯


    ¡°Late night?¡± Nikolai asks, light glinting off of his black metal horns. I grimace in response, straightening out my shirt slightly. No time to carefully consider my wardrobe choices this morning, so I just threw on a short-sleeve button-up with storm cloud patterns, and tight black jeans that cling to me in all the right ways. Not bad for a selection picked out in a frantic rush, with a nearly seven-foot gray-skinned behemoth looming over me, warning me that I¡¯m going to be late to class.


    ¡°Not even,¡± I grumble back. ¡°I was in bed before eleven, and still this happens.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve all been there,¡± Sofie says sympathetically, though I detect an undercurrent of amusement in her words as she pats me on the back. Not that I can blame her. My line has a reputation, and while it¡¯s not all great, I still have an obligation to uphold it, something I¡¯m clearly failing at right now.


    Before I can do something to repair my image, however, the professor enters through the same door as me. She¡¯s got a cup of coffee in one hand, something I suddenly wish I¡¯d had the foresight to get along with my breakfast. Gabrielli¡¯s presence doesn¡¯t do much to stifle the chatter amongst my unit, until she sits down behind her desk, seemingly already exhausted, despite also clearly having not woken up more than an hour or two ago.


    ¡°Good morning,¡± Gabrielli says flatly. ¡°Welcome to Rulership. As you all know, this is the one class that all students of the Citadel are obligated to take. This is because, as Nobles, you will all be expected to rule in some capacity, should you successfully graduate from this august institution.¡±


    The professor¡¯s tone makes me think she¡¯s literally reading from a script. She could have downloaded one via the brainband, which would be a good way to cover for the fact that she probably hasn¡¯t done much in the way of preparation. In some ways, I respect her clear lack of interest in her job, considering how selective the Citadel is in hiring instructors. They don¡¯t exactly have tenure here, which makes me wonder how she¡¯s kept her job. Does she have hidden depths we¡¯ve yet to see, or just blackmail material on the Dean?


    ¡°An admiral or general exercises a form of rulership over their soldiers. A regional governor rules over the people within their sector. A Minister in the Imperial Cabinet rules over their domain, be it finance, agriculture, or transportation. These are all very different disciplines, but one thing unites them- managing subordinates. This is one skill required of all Nobles, and if you fail to adopt it, you are unlikely to succeed here at the Citadel.¡±


    Several seats away, I hear Katrina squeak nervously. Not much of a surprise that she¡¯d be uncomfortable with the idea of occupying a leadership role. Hopefully she¡¯ll be able to grow into it, or at least learn a little something from watching me, but that all depends on her being willing to get out of her comfort zone. Something tells me Gabrielli isn¡¯t going to be the one to coax her out, though.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t the sort of thing you can practice in a sim,¡± the professor says, clearly no longer reading from her script. ¡°That¡¯s why we¡¯ll be splitting you up into small groups and doing exercises later today. For now, we¡¯re simply going to review the basic course materials. Our main text will be Lifeblood of an Empire, by Angelika Morgenstern, nineteenth in the line of the Emperor. You should have already downloaded the first two chapters before this class- if not, please do so now.¡±


    Fortunately, I just barely managed to summon the presence of mind to do that last night before bed. It seems like some of the others didn¡¯t bother, though, and we all sit in silence waiting for them to process the new information they just slotted into their own short-term memory. Of course, there¡¯s limited storage space in the human brain, and frequently downloading lots of new information can displace older memories, but that¡¯s what makes the brainband so useful. It serves as a decentralized ¡®backup brain¡¯ for everybody in the Imperium, storing our memories remotely, which is how we can be resurrected with all of our memories, right up until the moment of death. Originally, the plan was to store all of that data in one giant planet-sized computer, but the main problem there was lag time. If you lived near that planet, good for you, but if you were on the other side of the Imperium, you¡¯d have to wait hours to call up any externally-sourced memories. The solution was simple- instead of storing it in one place, they¡¯d distribute it universally. The brainband is in the air we breathe, trillions upon trillions of microscopic machines infesting the atmosphere of every planet in the Imperium. Each individual unit only stores a tiny fraction of the total system data, but put together, they have enough capacity to hold every single Imperium citizen¡¯s entire history, and then some.


    For obvious reasons, that doesn¡¯t work in hard vacuum, which is why there¡¯s a vast system of relay stations throughout the entire Imperium, which allows the brainband network to permeate across every planet, inhabited or otherwise. However, brainband-only communication is still slow and unreliable if you¡¯re not on the same planet as whoever you¡¯re trying to reach, which is why we use holo-screens instead. That, and it¡¯s sometimes nice to see the face of the person you¡¯re talking to, rather than just hearing their voice in your head.


    Access to the brainband network is one major sticking point that¡¯s fouled up the few attempts we¡¯ve had to forge a peace between the Imperium and the Meritocracy. They¡¯re all a part of it, in theory- but the Imperium controls the means of resurrection, and doesn¡¯t bring back any Meritocrats who die, as a matter of policy. As a result, we¡¯ve got millions of ¡®hostages¡¯ stored in the network, and the Meritocracy has no way of bringing them back. It¡¯s harsh, but the Imperium¡¯s stance is that the Meritocracy is a dangerous ¡®rogue state,¡¯ and resurrecting any of its citizens would constitute an unacceptable security risk.


    ¡°We¡¯ll also be covering excerpts from various other essays and published works by various Nobles and academics,¡± Gabrielli continues, once everyone has the assigned chapters downloaded. ¡°Some of you may be wondering how I am qualified to teach you all about rulership, considering I myself am not a Noble. However, unlike all of you, I have decades of experience working with young Nobles, which I believe constitutes qualification enough. If you have a problem with that... I don¡¯t care.¡±


    She clearly didn¡¯t mean that as a joke, but I can¡¯t help myself from laughing. When the professor¡¯s gaze turns my way, I just wink at her, and contort the end of my tail into the shape of a heart. Rolling her eyes, she shifts her focus elsewhere.


    ¡°So as to avoid impeding your ability to prepare for war games and other competitive activities, I will not be assigning any exercises outside of the classroom. Instead--¡±


    Before Gabrielli can finish, I raise my hand high. The look she gives me is long-suffering.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°When exactly can we expect the first of those to take place? If an itinerary has been released, I don¡¯t have it, and planning our training exercises will be difficult if I don¡¯t know when we¡¯ll need to be ready by.¡±


    ¡°Sometime next month. Details will be released to all unit commanders before the end of the week.¡± I give a satisfied nod, and she slowly scans the room, as if looking to see if anybody else has a question they¡¯d like answered. Nobody volunteers. ¡°As I was saying, everything you do for this class will take place within this room. I don¡¯t intend to spend any time on this besides what we¡¯re scheduled for, and I don¡¯t expect any of you to either.¡±


    A refreshingly honest admission if I¡¯ve ever heard one. I suppose she¡¯s got all the course materials and such prepared in advance, so she really doesn¡¯t have to do any work outside of the classroom. That does imply she hasn¡¯t changed up the syllabus in a while, which is hardly unexpected, but I wouldn¡¯t have guessed she would admit it so openly. My curiosity as to how she¡¯s maintained her position for so long is growing by the minute. Perhaps that¡¯ll be my first assignment for whoever I end up appointing as Intelligence Officer- to figure out what hold she has on the Citadel administration not to have been fired yet.


    ¡°Now, unless there are any further questions, we can get started. Can anybody tell me what the title of Morgenstern¡¯s book refers to?¡±


    Initially, nobody raises a hand. The bystander effect on full display. I¡¯m halfway to biting the bullet myself, when somebody I haven¡¯t spoken with yet raises her hand. She¡¯s got shoulder-length black hair that¡¯s not quite as curly as mine, but seems more voluminous, although that¡¯s not exactly what draws the eye when you look at her. That prize would go to her set of horns. Unlike Niko¡¯s black metal spikes jutting out from his forehead, hers are in the style of a ram, but rather than keratin, they look to be made from amber. How that works with regards to weight, I¡¯m not entirely sure, but the visual effect is nothing short of stunning.


    ¡°Yes. You. And your name, please.¡±


    ¡°Amalia,¡± she replies primly. ¡°The title is in reference to people, which Morgenstern argues in the introduction are the true lifeblood of any polity, be it an empire or a democracy. All other resources are ultimately a secondary consideration, because without people, the polity may as well not exist.¡±


    ¡°Correct,¡± Gabrielli says, her morose demeanor even more pronounced when contrasted with Amalia¡¯s enthusiasm. ¡°Would anybody care to explain how Morgenstern extends this metaphor further in chapter one?¡±


    Again, nobody raises a hand, and the shape of the problem begins to become clear to me. Most people here, myself included if I¡¯m being frank, see themselves as far too cool to volunteer an answer in a class of any sort. If this were a different class, where answering correctly would win points against another unit, maybe it would be different- but here, raising a hand would practically be more embarrassing than getting cold-called and having the wrong answer. I suppose that as unit commander, it falls upon me to change that.


    ¡°The state is a body,¡± I answer, without waiting to be called on, ¡°and its travel networks are the veins through which its blood flows. It requires other resources to survive, but most crucial is blood, and the blood must be allowed to travel unimpeded.¡±


    Gabrielli doesn¡¯t look especially pleased that I didn¡¯t raise my hand before speaking, but she clearly doesn¡¯t want to muster up the effort to reprimand me.


    ¡°That¡¯s right. Morgenstern is arguing that restricting the travel of a state¡¯s citizens will eventually deprive the state of life. It causes culture to become stagnant, prohibits the development of new technology, and impedes the establishment of commerce. This is consistent with her policy as Emperor, which removed many of the regulations on transit through the Imperium, something her successors largely maintained... until the Betrayer War.¡±


    A number of people turn to look at me as she says that. The Betrayer War is the most common term for the conflict that arose over the establishment of the Meritocracy. It has no official name, mainly because the Imperium refuses to recognize that it¡¯s over. We¡¯re still at war with them, at least legally speaking, and giving the conflict a formal name would be akin to admitting that we lost. I don¡¯t react, and the gawkers swiftly lose interest, turning to look back at the professor.


    ¡°For security purposes, this principle has been partially suspended since the founding of the Meritocracy and the beginning of our conflict with them. That leads us into our first topic of debate. Do you believe that security concerns should supersede cultural and commercial concerns? Why or why not?¡±


    Galvanized by my willingness to engage- or at least, I¡¯d like to hope so -several people put their hands up. The professor¡¯s gaze passes back and forth over the crowd, before eventually settling on someone I recognize, from having asked him to leave his room while Sander and I wired it up yesterday. He¡¯s wearing a black leather jacket, of all things, and leaning back in his chair with a hand raised lazily, just to make sure we all know he doesn¡¯t really care. In his other hand, he¡¯s got a mood-fluid pen held between two fingers, and he takes a puff from it as Gabrielle points at him.


    ¡°Valent,¡± the cool kid says by way of introduction. He¡¯s got a bit of an old Earth accent- French, I¡¯m fairly certain. Definitely an affectation. ¡°The answer depends on whether the security concern is genuine or not. We have not exchanged fire with the Meritocracy in decades, for instance, yet we continue to regulate interplanetary commerce and travel carefully, as if the slightest slip could allow them to strike a deadly blow. In such a case, maintaining a high alert is clearly foolish.¡±


    ¡°Interesting,¡± Gabrielli says disinterestedly. ¡°Would anyone else care to share their opinion?¡±


    For once, she doesn¡¯t have to wait. Another hand shoots up, and she waves in its direction swiftly. Unfortunately for all of us, the body attached to that hand belongs to Bret, who seems almost breathless in his excitement to offer his perspective.


    ¡°Well, if people are the most important thing in an empire, security should always be the biggest concern, right? Because without people, the empire might as well not exist, so you have to protect them before anything else.¡±


    It would probably be unprofessional of me to point out the vast holes in his logic, but it¡¯s truly hard to resist. Luckily, Mars does it for me, sounding as if he can¡¯t quite decide to be incredulous or just amused.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think the Meritocracy is out to exterminate every Imperial citizen, man.¡±


    Several people chuckle at that. I do my best to keep myself from joining their ranks. Bret¡¯s take seems to have been founded on a misunderstanding of what ¡®security concerns¡¯ means in this context. The Meritocracy isn¡¯t some terror-state that would be detonating dirty bombs in every major city in the Imperium if we didn¡¯t regulate travel as tightly as we do now. The issue is more that it would be easier for them to provide aid to planets seeking independence, whether it would be in the form of weapons shipments or covertly deploying battalions of Redeemers, their answer to the Imperium¡¯s own Myrmidons.


    ¡°Well, yeah, of course,¡± Bret says, backpedaling, ¡°but the most important thing is still to protect people, right? We shouldn¡¯t stop doing that just because it would make the economy better.¡±


    Next to speak is Amalia, in calm, if slightly condescending tones.


    ¡°I think what Valent was trying to say, is that if they were going to try something, they¡¯d have done it already. It¡¯s been decades since they took any direct action against us.¡±


    Having multiple people disagreeing with him only seems to make Bret want to double down. Mostly I¡¯d rather he stop talking entirely, but a part of me is enjoying watching him try to defend a position that, it¡¯s becoming increasingly clear, he didn¡¯t consider much before taking.


    ¡°Well, maybe the only reason they haven¡¯t done anything is because we¡¯re still taking security seriously. They didn¡¯t try to help with the uprising on Serpex II at all, even though it¡¯s a super important world for helium mining and stuff.¡±


    ¡°Maybe because the insurrection on Serpex II was incredibly poorly planned, and they didn¡¯t see the point in committing forces to a battle that deep within Imperium territory when they stood such little chance of winning, and even less chance of holding the planet for longer than a year even if they did win?¡±


    Almost every head in the room turns my way as I¡¯m talking. It¡¯s a good thing that the topic turned to rebellion, because speaking up about it will help remind people that someone of my line founded the Meritocracy. Sure, it might serve to make them fear or mistrust me, but it¡¯ll also be a good reminder that Nobles of my line are capable of doing the impossible. It¡¯s as true now as it was back on Earth- when you¡¯ve got to choose one of the two, it¡¯s always better to be feared than to be loved. Hopefully, I¡¯ll be able to go two for two, but there¡¯s no sense in cultivating love without also sprinkling in a little fear for good measure.


    ¡°These are all good points,¡± the professor says, though I¡¯d bet money she wasn¡¯t paying any attention to the actual content of our words. ¡°However, in the interest of time, I think we should move on.¡±


    Gabrielli¡¯s near-monotone helpfully drains most of the energy from the room, and the people who were looking at me slowly turn back to face her. As she begins to lay out the next set of questions she wants us to discuss, I wonder idly if there¡¯s any chance I could convince her to let us use this class period for training exercises. Unless something changes dramatically, I don¡¯t think it¡¯s much of a stretch to say we won¡¯t be learning much in this class, and she probably doesn¡¯t want to even be putting forth the marginal effort that this ¡®instruction¡¯ requires. Letting us do something more self-directed would be a win for all parties involved. The only problem is, it might require her clearing it with the Citadel administration, something I can¡¯t imagine she¡¯d be able to bring herself to do, even if it would save her effort in the long run. Still, something to consider.


    While the professor is still speaking, tap Sofie on my shoulder with my tail, and send her a brainband connection request, which she accepts with a smirk.


    Hey there, you, the platinum-haired woman says coyly.


    Hey yourself. Tell me, could you be persuaded to join me for dinner tonight?


    Sofie raises an eyebrow.


    My my, commander. Aren¡¯t we forward?


    Don¡¯t get your hopes up, I reply. Sander would be joining us.


    Your big new friend? I can think of worse thirds, I guess. Strong and silent isn¡¯t really my type, though.


    Nobody seems to have noticed that we¡¯re having a private brainband conversation in the middle of class. It would hardly shock me if some of the others are doing the same thing. Hell, if she didn¡¯t have to seem like she was teaching, I¡¯m sure Gabrielli would be too.


    Oh? What is your type, then?


    This was meant to be a simple request that she join me for a business meeting, but somehow she¡¯s drawn me into this flirtatious back-and-forth. I suppose some of that must be thanks to her Noble line. Her Founder was known as the Silver Shadow, a spymaster who spent almost the entire War of Conquest embedded within the court of one of the Imperium¡¯s main rivals, not only passing on information directly to Imperial high command, but actively managing a network of other spies and assassins at the same time. That feat was enough to elevate her to the status of Founder, and have her personality matrix preserved eternally, but it also meant that few people trusted her once she returned to the Imperium. After all, anyone capable of such dedicated deceit would have to be morally bankrupt, even if they used their talents for the ¡®right side.¡¯ At least, that was the thinking at the time- but it¡¯s remained the conventional wisdom about her line ever since. Probably why Sofie was assigned to the Gazelle unit, much like many of the others. They¡¯re not merely rejects, but rejects with potential the rest of the units would fail to recognize. My theory that somebody was pulling strings in my favor when assigning people to my unit is growing stronger by the day, as is my burning curiosity about who the hell it could have been.


    Sofie¡¯s voice inside my head snaps me out of my reverie.


    I don¡¯t think we know each other quite well enough yet for me to be telling you that.


    Maybe so. Why not come to dinner, then, and we can get to know each other better?


    A soft, almost exaggeratedly girlish laugh comes over the brainband connection.


    Sure, why not?


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    The rest of the class session passes without much of note happening. We spend about an hour discussing the reading, then Gabrielli goes into the least memorable lecture in the history of the Imperium, following which she dismissed us early, something I suspect will be a recurring trend with this class. Unless I can get her to cancel it entirely, so we can have extra time for training exercises.


    Unlike yesterday, I don¡¯t let Katrina slip away from me after class. Most of the others leave in pairs or trios, but she, predictably, is walking alone out of the lecture hall when I catch up with her. My guess is that her anxiety over not wanting to be around other people isn¡¯t greater than her anxiety at refusing a direct request from her unit commander- and that proves correct when she nervously accepts my invitation to join Sander and I for lunch.


    On some level, I feel guilty for pulling her out of her comfort zone, since I¡¯m sure she¡¯d much rather eat alone in her apartment, but I can¡¯t afford to indulge her, and it¡¯s best to break the pattern now, rather than giving it longer to develop. Neither she nor Sander offers any input on where to eat, though clearly for very different reasons, meaning it falls to me once more. Bearing Katrina¡¯s disposition in mind, I search the brainband for a restaurant that¡¯s off the beaten path, where we aren¡¯t likely to be surrounded by a horde of other lunchgoers. Most of the nearby restaurants are going to be fairly crowded, considering all four units are all leaving their classes at the same time.


    The three of us take a route that avoids the worst of the crowd, for which Katrina seems somewhat grateful. Her attire for the day consists of a hooded jacket, with the sleeves rolled up past her elbows to accommodate the temperate climate of Akademos, and a pair of blue denim pants. Not especially eye-catching, which I imagine is by design.


    After a short walk through some of the Citadel¡¯s back alleys, which are about as well-polished as the rest of the city, we arrive at my chosen eatery. One disadvantage of living in a city that was designed ¡®complete,¡¯ and hasn¡¯t grown much since its initial construction, is that there aren¡¯t the same kind of hole-in-the-wall places you¡¯d find in a proper metropolis. Not that I have any firsthand experience with places like that, but popular culture has informed me that they¡¯re supposedly better than the popular establishments. This place, Neutrino Noodles, is about as close as it gets, but it was clearly designed to consciously replicate that aesthetic, with only a handful of tables, the main dining area being a counter with stools where you can watch the chefs as they prepare your food. They specialize, as the name suggests, in noodles, which seemed like a choice unlikely to offend the sensibilities of our sensitive companion.


    Katrina follows Sander and I inside, eyes darting around the room swiftly, and relaxes noticeably as she realizes we¡¯re the only ones here, the staff aside. Hanging her jacket on a peg, she seats herself to my left, while Sander places himself on my right. Thankfully, the stools seem to be capable of dealing with his bulk- having to replace the furniture here would probably take a decent bite out of our unit¡¯s budget.


    From across the room, one of the chefs sends us a menu over the brainband, and within a few moments, Sander and I have replied with our orders, while Katrina takes a bit longer, clearly uncertain, before eventually deciding on something. The cooking crew gets to work, and Sander watches them like a hawk while they work, while I turn my attention to Katrina.


    ¡°So, do you prefer Katrina? Kat? Trina?¡±


    It¡¯s a simple question, but she somehow manages to seem completely dumbfounded by it. I wait patiently for her to process what she¡¯s being asked, trying not to get annoyed. Being overly accommodating isn¡¯t exactly in my nature, despite having been raised in a loving home. Probably something to do with my Noble line, though it¡¯s not like I¡¯d really be able to tell even if it wasn¡¯t.


    ¡°Kat is fine, I guess.¡±


    ¡°Cool. I¡¯m Iza, obviously. The big guy is Sander.¡±


    Upon hearing his name, my bodyguard looks over, and gives Kat a nod, which she returns, less nervously than I¡¯d have expected. He¡¯s got an intimidating presence, to be sure, but she doesn¡¯t seem to be too bothered by it. Maybe she can tell that he doesn¡¯t perceive her as a threat.


    ¡°Is there, uh... a reason you wanted to talk to me?¡±


    ¡°Just trying to get to know everyone in the unit. Plus, I didn¡¯t want to let you get too used to hiding off by yourself. I grew up in a house with seventeen people, so I get the same urge sometimes too, but you can¡¯t do that forever if you want to be a part of the group.¡±


    That¡¯s only a compelling argument if she actually does want to be a part of the unit, which is far from guaranteed. My current read on her is that she¡¯s not actually that antisocial, though- she¡¯s just too nervous to approach people first.


    ¡°It¡¯s only been two days,¡± Kat protests, but I can see in her eyes that she recognizes the truth of my words.


    ¡°Yeah, well, I¡¯m not saying you have to turn into a party animal by tomorrow. Just trying to reach out as early as possible. We¡¯re not gonna be able to work together if we don¡¯t get to know each other, and I figured this would be the best way to do it.¡±


    ¡°Uh, okay...¡±


    ¡°If it helps, we can trade questions. You can go first.¡±


    After all, there¡¯s little point in me knowing more about her if she doesn¡¯t also know more about me, because otherwise there¡¯s no way she¡¯ll ever be able to trust me. And it¡¯s not like I have much to hide, or much of interest to even share, considering the circumstances of my upbringing.


    Being put on the spot like that does seem to make Kat a bit uncomfortable, though. Fortunately, our food arrives before she can go into a full-on panic attack. Relieved, she digs in, hopefully taking the opportunity to think of a few questions for me at the same time. Sander and I both follow suit. He and Katrina both ordered fairly standard ramen bowls, while I opted for something a little more experimental, a thick, dry, salty noodle dish that comes with a whole pitcher of water to rehydrate with. Despite that, I manage to slurp half of it down in just a few minutes, before I have to take a break. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°So, any thoughts? I¡¯m an open book.¡±


    An open book with a few redacted passages, but I doubt Kat is going to ask anything that I¡¯d have to outright refuse to answer.


    ¡°Do you... have any siblings?¡±


    That¡¯s a good start, I guess. Not exactly going to provide some deep insight into my worldview, but it¡¯ll do for now.


    ¡°Yep. Three. All boys. Two older, one younger. You?¡±


    ¡°Seven,¡± she replies, looking away. ¡°All older.¡±


    She doesn¡¯t seem inclined to elaborate any further on that, and I have an idea why. My guess would be that her parents wanted more than anything to have a Noble child. It¡¯s the ultimate prestige for a family that¡¯s already in the upper echelons of Imperium society- the one thing that can¡¯t simply be bought. So they had half a dozen kids, with no luck. And on their final try, they succeeded, not only getting a Noble, but one of a prestigious line- Finnala, the Shieldmaiden. Yet the weight of their expectations had the opposite of its intended effect, turning Katrina into a nervous wreck, who probably wishes more than anything she¡¯d been born ¡®normal¡¯ like her seven sisters and brothers. Almost entirely speculation on my part, but I have a bit of an instinct for these things.


    ¡°Well, that counts for my go,¡± I prod. Seems like Kat didn¡¯t think past her first question, though, as she falls silent once again.


    ¡°Um... How old were you when you were discovered?¡±


    When it was discovered I was a Noble, she means. It isn¡¯t automatically flagged during the birthing process, meaning there¡¯s an entire department dedicated to tracking down new Nobles as soon as a vacancy opens, although the size of the Imperium means they can often go undiscovered for years, and in some rare cases, decades. That¡¯s not how it happened with me, though.


    ¡°Well, I knew what I was pretty early, and I wanted to get here as soon as possible. So when I was fourteen, I rigged a fieldball game in favor of one of my fathers¡¯ favorite teams. The Inheritance Office figured it out pretty quickly, which was intentional on my part. Still had to wait for years until I could actually come here, though.¡±


    Rigging that game in favor of the Raptors, and breaking a years-long losing streak, is one of my proudest achievements, although the list is admittedly quite short besides that. It wasn¡¯t exactly a demonstration of the talents associated with my line, but it¡¯s not like I had an army to command at the time. In any case, the Inheritance Office seemed appropriately impressed, especially because the game itself took place millions of light-years away, and I never left Demeter VII to arrange it. I pulled all of the strings remotely, using one of a few dozen fake identities I cultivated on the brainband. Many of them are still active, mostly maintained by a spare member of my copyclan, although their utility to me is fairly limited right now. It¡¯s not like I could talk my way into power by arguing with people on political message-boards, even if we did live in a democracy.


    ¡°Oh. My parents had me tested when I was twelve.¡±


    More evidence for my theory. I¡¯m not going to push her to confirm or deny, though.


    ¡°I see. And what do you think about your Founder? Have you read much of her history?¡±


    One of the unfortunate things about the Founders is that the more well-known ones generally didn¡¯t leave behind a ton of personal accounts of their lives. Very few memoirs, certainly compared to the lower-tier ones, who were eager to cement their Founder status by writing a self-aggrandizing account of their role in the war, and the subsequent establishment of the Imperium. Some left behind treatises on their field of specialization, but those don¡¯t tend to offer too much insight into their personalities. That means we have to make do with second-hand retellings.


    ¡°She was very smart and very brave. It¡¯s a lot to live up to.¡±


    In other words, she hasn¡¯t read much of Finnala¡¯s history, because that would give her more to compare herself to. I did pretty much the exact opposite, immersing myself in Thorn¡¯s stories and legends, not because I regarded him as some mythic figure I could never surpass, but rather to know exactly what feats I¡¯d have to outmatch if I wanted to be remembered as his equal.


    ¡°I can relate.¡±


    Kat gives me a strange look, as if she wasn¡¯t expecting that response. It¡¯s true, though. I may act confident, and even feel that confidence most of the time, but being of the line of one of the most infamous Founders ever is a heavy burden at times.


    ¡°Okay, uh...¡± She trails off, tapping a fingernail against the rim of her bowl as if she¡¯s impatient with her own brain. Eventually something clicks. ¡°What kind of music do you like?¡±


    ¡°Oh, all kinds. One of my moms was really into classicpunk, so I heard a ton of that when I was little. Y¡¯know, Brass Action Lawsuit, that sort of thing. Lately I¡¯ve been getting really into voidwave- it was this trend from ten years ago or so, where people would record exclusively in zero-g. Lot of it was terrible, but there¡¯s a few gems in there.¡±


    ¡°Wow. I mostly just listen to, like, Seven Seasons or Diana December.¡±


    Fairly basic picks, but who am I to judge?


    ¡°Where did you grow up, if you don¡¯t mind my asking? I lived my whole life on a farm-world before coming here.¡±


    ¡°Really? I wouldn¡¯t have guessed.¡±


    ¡°Glad to know I don¡¯t come off like a complete hick,¡± I joke. Kat laughs along with me.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m from II Vale. One of my fathers is actually the regional magistrate there.¡±


    So he¡¯s important, but not that important. Always living in the shadow of whatever Noble governs that entire sector, always aware that the highest rank he could hope to attain is their steward, only ever holding power in their absence. It makes sense that he¡¯d want a Noble child, so he could have someone to pursue ambitions that will always be out of his reach.


    ¡°Well, hopefully you picked up some useful skills from him.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Kat says unenthusiastically. She seems to have relaxed a bit, at least compared to how we started off. We both return to our food for a while, although my noodles have started to congeal a little, and I stir them up before continuing to eat.


    Behind me, I hear the restaurant¡¯s door open, and see an unfamiliar face enter. A Noble from one of the other units, although he isn¡¯t wearing a pin that I could use to identify him by. He takes a seat at one of the empty tables on the other side of the room, likely already placing an order with one of the chefs over the brainband. He could very well just be here to eat, but something about his presence is making me suspicious. It¡¯s been at least half an hour since classes let out, if not more. Sure, he could just be here for the same reason we are- because it¡¯s quiet and out of the way. But if so, why did it take him so long to get here? Maybe he came from a lecture hall on the other side of the city, but if so, why come here of all places? It¡¯s not the only small, quiet establishment in the Citadel, and I¡¯d be surprised if there weren¡¯t any closer to where he was. Maybe he¡¯s just in the mood for noodles- or maybe he was sent to spy on me, and he¡¯s been scouring restaurants in the vicinity of my last known location until he finally found me here.


    It¡¯s certainly possible that I¡¯m being excessively paranoid. And even if not, what¡¯s the worst he could possibly do? It¡¯s not like we¡¯ve discussed anything of critical importance so far, and I don¡¯t have plans to change that, especially not with him here. Even if he wasn¡¯t sent as a spy, he¡¯d be a fool not to keep an ear out around me, and report anything interesting to his unit commander. Either way, I¡¯m not going to take chances.


    Sander. Keep an eye out for that guy. If he starts tailing us when we leave, feel free to deal with him.


    He doesn¡¯t nod outwardly, but sends me a silent pulse of confirmation, before finishing off his noodles. Kat and I do the same shortly after, and they both follow me as I stand up and head for the door, Kat grabbing her jacket on the way. We already paid up front, so there should be no issue with that.


    ¡°Where are we headed?¡± Kat asks.


    ¡°I thought we¡¯d just walk for a little while,¡± I reply. ¡°It¡¯s your turn, by the way.¡±


    ¡°My-- oh, right. What¡¯s, um, what¡¯s the deal with Sander? Why is he following you around, I mean?¡±


    The man in question is lagging a bit behind us, but even if he were right beside her, I doubt Kat would have addressed him directly.


    ¡°His Founder was the Emperor¡¯s bodyguard. Since I¡¯m unit leader, that means that he¡¯s my bodyguard, at least for the time being.¡±


    ¡°Oh. That¡¯s cool.¡±


    ¡°Very.¡± I pause, feeling slightly hesitant to put forth my next question. ¡°Kat, do you mind if I ask you something a little more serious?¡±


    She falls silent, but doesn¡¯t shut down completely, which is what I was mainly worried about. Then I see a sly grin appear on her lips, which isn¡¯t what I was expecting at all.


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t mind. But that counts as a question, so now it¡¯s my turn.¡±


    Surprised, I laugh out loud.


    ¡°Well played. Go ahead, ask away.¡±


    ¡°Well, I didn¡¯t actually have another one ready,¡± she admits. ¡°But you owe me an extra one, okay?¡±


    ¡°Sure thing,¡± I chuckle. ¡°Now, the question. I apologize if this is too heavy, but I need to know if we¡¯re gonna work together.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡±


    ¡°What kind of future do you see for yourself? Do you intend to graduate and become a Noble in full? Are you expecting to fail? Will you try to escape and avoid doing either?¡±


    Kat falls silent again, but it doesn¡¯t last very long.


    ¡°I... don¡¯t know.¡±


    A somewhat disappointing response, but I guess I shouldn¡¯t be too surprised. Most people, including Nobles, don¡¯t spend much time thinking about that sort of thing. They just drift through life on the path that¡¯s been laid out for them. Changing course carries with it risk and uncertainty, and nobody likes dealing with either of those. It¡¯s easier to just... not.


    ¡°Well, think about it. And I mean, seriously think. Because if you want to succeed, I can help with that, provided you¡¯re willing to work with me. If not, I don¡¯t want to waste my time.¡±


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    Neither of us says anything as we head back to the Hyperion Building. At some point, Sander peels off without a word, which I take to mean he noticed we were being tailed, and went off to deal with it. Probably best I don¡¯t know the details, in case it becomes something I have to deny or condemn later. Not that I expect Sander would get caught. It is nice to have my suspicions confirmed, though.


    Kat retreats to her room, but gives me a serious look over her shoulder before she heads up the stairs. With any luck, she¡¯ll give the right answer. Nothing much in what she said indicated that she was uniquely talented, but neither did I get the impression that she¡¯s completely incompetent. It¡¯s just her anxiety that¡¯s holding her back. My job will be to try to draw out her true potential, just like I¡¯m aiming to do with Grant. Part of me is curious to see how that¡¯s going, but I told him he didn¡¯t have to deliver results until the end of the week, and I¡¯m not going to go back on that.


    With hours to go before my scheduled dinner meeting with Sofie, I find myself largely bereft of purpose. After briefly checking in with Sander to make sure he¡¯s alright, I return to my room and summon up my copyclan. We sync up quickly, then I spin them all off again, and we set to work together. The War Council won¡¯t be meeting until the end of the week, but I need to finalize its membership before then, as it¡¯s going to determine who leads the various groups in our training exercises, after we¡¯re finished with classes.


    I¡¯m already pretty certain about who I¡¯m going to appoint to head the Intelligence Unit, but I still need to interview one person about who¡¯s going to be in charge of Engineering, and there are still multiple candidates for the head of the Combat Unit that I¡¯ve yet to speak to. I can¡¯t do much about that right now, though, other than review their profiles again.


    Rather than doing that, I decide to focus on preparing for the training exercise itself. Someone in my copyclan has already reserved a time slot in the Crucible, and requested that the modular design be set up to our specifications. The Crucible is a sort of arena, albeit one without spectator seating of any sort, located on the outskirts of the Citadel. It¡¯s essentially a customizable battlefield, one large enough to comfortably fit all four units at once. Some of our mock battles will be held there, but it¡¯s also available for everyone to use, so long as you reserve it in advance. Fortunately, there¡¯s a large construction crew who will assemble and disassemble a requested build, so I won¡¯t have to put the unit to work.


    My design for the battlefield is intended to be as confusing and complex as possible. No doubt members of the unit will complain about it, but the point is for them to learn from the experience and do better when we run the exercise again. Since ten copies of me have already been working on it, there isn¡¯t much to do except make a few tweaks, mostly ones inspired by my interactions with fellow Gazelles over the past two days. It¡¯s somewhat tedious, but ultimately rewarding. Mostly, I look at battlefields as if they¡¯re fixed, and it¡¯s me that has to adapt to them. Here, it¡¯s the other way around.


    Having extra copies of yourself to work with, or to do work for you, is incredibly useful. However, given the narrow window in which a copyclan is allowed to exist before automatic synchronization, they can often offer very little in terms of a unique perspective on a problem. If your own personal biases are giving you trouble, having more of yourself around to confirm those biases is the opposite of helpful. That¡¯s why I use a technique that¡¯s quite common amongst the highest levels of the Imperial bureaucracy, known as ¡®Forking.¡¯ It¡¯s designed to intentionally make the members of your copyclan diverge as much as possible within a short period of time. There are limitations, of course, as a copy that diverges too greatly may decide it doesn¡¯t wish to resync, which could cause serious issues. To prevent this, it¡¯s recommended that you create certain preset roles which different members of your copyclan can step into, immediately after being stuck off. For instance, I always make sure to have a ¡®Contrarian¡¯ assigned, whose role is to pick apart any suggestion or proposal made by the group, no matter how clever it may seem.


    It¡¯s an important role, and I¡¯m glad to have someone playing it, but after a few hours, arguing with myself gets rather frustrating. Thankfully, I¡¯m currently the one with a body, so I can walk away and leave the others to keep working. At some point, Sander returned to the building, not content to remain out of shouting distance from me for very long. He doesn¡¯t even blink when I show up, and silently accepts my assistance continuing to wire up the Hyperion Building. He finished doing the inside at some point or another, meaning we¡¯re now working on the exterior. Displaying some shrewdness I wouldn¡¯t have thought he possessed, Sander acquired two different types of cameras for this task- one that¡¯s meant to be seen, and another that isn¡¯t. His thinking was that if people saw the obvious surveillance devices, and disabled or destroyed them, they wouldn¡¯t think to look for the smaller, more well-hidden ones. In order to make sure that works, though, we have to be careful not to let anybody see where we put them up, not even members of our own unit. Luckily, not many of them seem to be around, presumably off doing their own things now that classes are done for the day.


    On the horizon, Sol Prime is slowly setting, a cool breeze counterbalancing its warm rays. The black metal exterior of the Hyperion Building is hot to the touch, having been absorbing heat all day. The Citadel¡¯s weather is semi-regulated, to prevent any droughts or floods, but the rest of Akademos has no climate control whatsoever. Even knowing it¡¯ll be dangerous, a part of me is excited for the opportunity to get out there. It¡¯s not exactly the real world- more of a nature preserve, if anything. But it¡¯s a far cry from the isolation and safety of Demeter VII.


    It¡¯s hard to say how long it¡¯ll be until then, though. Past precedent suggests that the first of our war games, and most likely the second, will be held in the Crucible, rather than out in the wild. And even that seems frustratingly far-off from my current position. Most of my time back home was spent waiting to get here, and now that I¡¯ve arrived, it¡¯s still more waiting. The worst kind of waiting, too, because patience doesn¡¯t even come into the equation. Nothing I can do will make time progress faster. Like it or not, I have to wait, and do my best to make productive use of my time.


    Mercifully, as the sun is beginning to dip below the horizon, Sofie sends me a brainband connection request. I accept it hastily, tossing Sander the spycam in my hands and leaning against the nearby wall, which has cooled off enough to be comfortably warm.


    When you asked me out for dinner, did you have somewhere specific in mind?


    No, I reply, did you?


    Yes, actually. And I already got us a table. So don¡¯t keep me waiting too long, hm?


    In my mind¡¯s eye, I see the ghost of a grin not my own.


    Send me the location, I¡¯ll be there before you know it.


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    After a short stop in my room, to change out of my sweat-stained clothes and into something more presentable, I head over to the restaurant Sofie chose. Somehow, despite being the one who wanted to speak with her, I completely failed to think of a place for us to meet. Part of that is doubtlessly due to the fact that I¡¯m new to dining out in general, having never eaten outside of my home until two days ago. Sure, popular culture has given me a decent idea of what places are appropriate locations for different kinds of meetings, but I¡¯m still not entirely comfortable actually going through all those motions. Sofie¡¯s a child of wealth and privilege. She¡¯s got better instincts for this sort of thing.


    The truth of that statement is immediately apparent when I arrive at the restaurant. It looks like it could have been a bank, had it been built on another world. A polished steel exterior, in stark contrast to the white marble architecture surrounding it, and vaulted ceilings on the inside. This is Elysium, where true Nobles come to dine on their rare visits to the Citadel. Since the actual population density of the city is normally pretty low, it¡¯s not like getting a reservation is hard- in fact, I¡¯d wager Sofie didn¡¯t even bother to do that, just walked in and asked for a table. But people don¡¯t normally just come eat here for an ordinary meal, for the same reason you wouldn¡¯t wear a silk shirt out for a walk in the park. That, and the bill.


    Before I can say a word, the waiter- whose thin mustache and slicked-back hair I suspect is contractually obligated -shows me to a spacious private booth. This time, I¡¯m entirely alone, although I gave Sander the go-ahead to keep an eye on me through the scope of a sniper rifle. It seems unlikely that either Sofie or the kitchen staff here would try to poison me, or otherwise make an attempt on my life, but he isn¡¯t one to take chances, and neither am I.


    Sofie is already waiting in the booth, sporting a platinum-silver dress to match her hair, which leaves me feeling a little underdressed in my black hi-lo skirt and studded leather jacket, which I hang on the coat hook as I slide into my spot across from her, exposing my bare shoulders to the cool air-conditioned atmosphere of the restaurant. A semi-transparent curtain closes automatically once I¡¯m seated, closing us off from any hypothetical other diners, although I didn¡¯t actually notice any on my way in.


    ¡°You really went all-out, huh?¡±


    ¡°Well, it felt like a good idea, considering you¡¯re gonna ask me to be your Intelligence Officer.¡±


    To be honest, getting my bluff called so early kinda takes the wind out of my sails, but I do my best not to let it show. I suppose she wouldn¡¯t be very good at the job if she couldn¡¯t recognize in advance that I was going to make the offer.


    ¡°If you think bribery is the best way to get the job, you¡¯d best think again. And you are going to be footing the bill either way, miss ore-baron parents.¡±


    Leaning forward to rest one elbow on the table, Sofie gives me a disarmingly charming smile.


    ¡°What if I¡¯m not trying to bribe you, but to show you that I know how to wine and dine someone when the situation calls for it? You¡¯re right about my parents being wealthy, and that means I had plenty of opportunities to learn how this game is played. That¡¯s experience I¡¯m willing to bet most of your other candidates don¡¯t have.¡±


    She isn¡¯t wrong about that. As unit commander, I¡¯ve got limited access to the student profiles of the other Gazelles. None of the other Nobles that I¡¯ve considered for the role of Intelligence Officer have a background like Sofie¡¯s. Of course, neither do I, and she¡¯s using this setting to remind me that I¡¯m out of my element. A not-so-subtle hint that I¡¯d benefit from having someone by my side who¡¯s more comfortable in a place like Elysium than I am.


    ¡°How about we save the sales pitch for after the first course, huh?¡±


    If she wants to play up being high-society, I¡¯ll make no effort to disguise my own more humble origins. It could be just as effective of a reminder, that there are plenty of people on whom her charms won¡¯t work. Unfortunately, I¡¯m afraid I may not be one of those people, despite the pretense I¡¯m doing my best to maintain.


    The way you order food in a place like Elysium isn¡¯t the same as an ordinary restaurant. Though it¡¯s less efficient, you actually read off of a digital menu, and place an order on a holo-screen, rather than doing it all over the brainband. That allows you to avoid interacting directly with the staff as much as possible.


    ¡°Lobster is supposed to be the traditional choice in a place like this, right?¡±


    Sofie looks a little surprised that I¡¯d ask her something like that. An admission of ignorance is equivalent to an admission of weakness in this kind of context. But we aren¡¯t rivals, we¡¯re allies, and it benefits neither of us to act otherwise. Realizing that, she drops her raised eyebrow, and relaxes her posture somewhat, coming to more closely resemble the woman whose hand I kissed on the walk back from the Entrance Hall two days ago, back when most of the rest of the unit was still looking at me like I was an alien.


    ¡°Maybe, but in my experience the shell is a bit of a hassle. I¡¯d recommend a nice flank steak, but you¡¯re from a farm-world, so...¡±


    ¡°Sof, all we grew back home was corn. I¡¯ve never even seen a cow in the flesh.¡±


    ¡°Right, but you¡¯ve had steak before, haven¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    ¡°So get something you¡¯ve never had before. Be adventurous!¡±


    Her point doesn¡¯t make a ton of sense, as just about everything we ate was imported from off-world via teleportal, so there wasn¡¯t much that was unavailable purely due to our location. But the stereotype about people from ¡®the country¡¯ not being wise to the ways of the big city has persisted long past any of those concepts being particularly relevant, and I doubt I¡¯m going to be able to challenge it on my own.


    ¡°Okay, what would you suggest?¡±


    ¡°Well, for starters, you¡¯re supposed to start with an appetizer. I¡¯m gonna take a wild guess and say your parents weren¡¯t huge on dining etiquette, though.¡±


    ¡°That they were not.¡±


    ¡°Thought so. Not to worry, though. I¡¯ll be your guide. How about you start off with a Regis Salad? Kinda basic, but hard to get wrong. Used to be named after some old Earth king from the Mediterranean zone, you know.¡±


    ¡°Sure, why not?¡± I shrug, and put it in as my first selection.


    ¡°As for the main course... oh, it looks like they have lamb meatballs. You should try those, you¡¯ll love them.¡±


    The words remind me of Mother Stella, but everything else around me couldn¡¯t be further from home. Rather than the warm glow of the setting sun, our surroundings are lit by deliberately dimmed bulbs, which I¡¯m sure are supposed to make the place more ¡®atmospheric,¡¯ but only really serve to make it harder for me to focus. I silence the memories of my brothers and fathers arguing good-naturedly, and add Sofie¡¯s recommendation to my order.


    ¡°What are you having, then?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m having the flank steak,¡± Sofie laughs.


    Once our orders are confirmed, we sit back and wait. Sofie seems to have adapted to this environment effortlessly, while I still can¡¯t help but feel out of place, even though there¡¯s nobody around to judge me except for her. Being here, both at the Citadel in general, and in Elysium in particular, feels like walking around on a sound stage. I belong here, of course. In fact, if I tried to leave, the Imperium would send its Myrmidons to drag me back. Yet there¡¯s still a certain sense of unease I can¡¯t shake. Like someone is right around the corner, waiting to tell me that I¡¯m not really supposed to be here. Funny, how I¡¯m more worried about that than the very real threat of truedeath assassination attempts.


    My salad arrives through a slot in the wall just large enough to accommodate a plate, without giving us even a glimpse of whoever prepared the dish itself. I have no doubt that Sander was watching the process carefully through his scope, though. Following that comes a small bowl of soup that Sofie takes, swirling the broth around with her spoon for a moment before taking a sip.


    Hoping to avoid embarrassment, I spare a moment to consult the brainband as to which fork is the correct one to use for salad, but still catch a glimmer of amusement in Sofie¡¯s eyes when I pick it up and dig in. It¡¯s not much like Father Nico¡¯s salads, which tend to be heavier on fruit, but I can¡¯t find anything to complain about. The portions aren¡¯t huge, which makes sense considering it¡¯s just an appetizer, but I¡¯m used to seeing dishes made to serve nearly twenty people, so a proper meal that¡¯s just meant for one person is something of a novelty.


    Sofie finishes off her soup swiftly, and betrays a hint of eagerness in her expression as she puts down the spoon and looks up at me.


    ¡°So, are we gonna talk business now, or are you gonna make me wait until dessert?¡±


    Washing down the salty aftertaste of the grated cheese with some water, I meet her gaze and nod.


    ¡°You did screen this place for bugs before I got here, I hope?¡±


    ¡°C¡¯mon,¡± she replies, rolling her eyes. ¡°What kind of an amateur do you take me for?¡±


    ¡°Just had to check. Now, what I¡¯m about to say stays between us, unless I explicitly tell you otherwise. That clear?¡±


    ¡°Clear.¡±


    ¡°Good. As I¡¯m sure you¡¯re aware, Nobles of my line tend not to make it off this moon alive. What you don¡¯t know yet is that somebody has already tried to truekill me. And they very nearly succeeded, too.¡±


    Sofie raises an eyebrow, looking appropriately alarmed.


    ¡°I¡¯m telling you that for a couple reasons. First, because you¡¯ll be putting yourself at risk by becoming one of my officers. I won¡¯t ask you to take a bullet for me, but someone might still end up shooting you if we¡¯re standing close to each other. Second, because part of your job as Intelligence Officer would involve dealing with further assassination attempts. I¡¯ve got Sander, true, but he can only protect me from threats he knows about. That¡¯s more responsibility than you¡¯d have in any of the other units, and I won¡¯t blame you if you decide you don¡¯t want it.¡±


    That¡¯s a bit manipulative of me to say. No self-respecting Noble with real ambitions would ever turn down an offer like that. One of the few things almost all of the Founders shared was a sense of pride, and the insinuation that they couldn¡¯t handle additional responsibility or danger would prickle at it. But frankly, I think Sofie would have been a little insulted if I hadn¡¯t tried to manipulate her at least a little. In her shoes, I certainly would have been.


    ¡°So, how many other people have you given that speech in the last couple days?¡±


    ¡°Zero,¡± I reply without hesitation. ¡°You¡¯re my only choice for this job. If you say no, I¡¯ll figure something out, but it¡¯ll leave us at a disadvantage. The others have their talents, but none of them know how to run an actual intelligence operation, just individual aspects of one. And they don¡¯t have your practical experience, either.¡±


    This isn¡¯t just idle flattery. Sofie¡¯s Noble line has a solid pedigree, and if it weren¡¯t for an undeserved reputation for untrustworthiness, I suspect it would be significantly more well-respected.


    With a loud clack, the slot in the wall opens, startling Sofie. She stares at the plate mutely for a moment, before recognizing that it¡¯s her food and hastily moving it onto the table. My lamb meatballs come out right after, and I waste no time digging into them. Being praised so effusively seems to have thrown Sofie off a bit, and I want to give her a chance to formulate a proper response. Plus, the meatballs smell really good, and I don¡¯t want them to get cold while we¡¯re talking.


    Through some miracle, I manage to wait until I¡¯ve swallowed an entire mouthful of the delicious meat to inform Sofie that her prediction about my appreciation for the dish was correct. Unfortunately, I don¡¯t quite manage to convey that sentiment verbally- it comes out more like a moan.


    ¡°That good, huh?¡±


    ¡°Mmf. Yes.¡±


    ¡°Well, try not to choke on it. That¡¯d put a bit of a damper on things.¡±


    It¡¯s genuinely quite difficult to overstate how much I like the dish. The blend of flavors is perfect, between the tomato sauce, basil, and crumbled cheese, to say nothing of the meat itself. Naturally, it doesn¡¯t come from live animals- the Imperium did away with that barbaric practice centuries ago. Our meat is all vat-grown, using the same cloning technology that lets us build new bodies for the dead in a matter of hours. Most of it is based on the ¡®classic¡¯ meats of old Earth, along with a few indigenous animals from other worlds that are safe for human consumption. Science has even given us some unique meats made from tinkering with the gene sequencing during the cloning process, although that work is done slowly and carefully, to avoid accidentally creating any horrible super-plagues. The last thing anybody wants is a new, man-made version of Mad Cow Disease.


    Several minutes pass without either of us saying anything, mainly because we¡¯re more concerned with eating. However, Sofie makes short work of her steak, and I eventually realize I¡¯ve been gorging myself a bit too much, and have to put down my fork. That¡¯s when she folds her hands together and gives me a sober look.


    ¡°Look. Not saying I don¡¯t appreciate the flattery, and I¡¯m not unwilling to take this job, but... I need to know what it¡¯s all for. Because you wouldn¡¯t be doing all this if you didn¡¯t have some agenda. And I need to know what it is, before I decide whether I want in or not.¡±


    It doesn¡¯t escape my notice that this could very well be an attempt by some higher power to ascertain my allegiance. Maybe she¡¯s been paid off by the Imperium to figure out whether I¡¯m going to defect to the Meritocracy. But frankly, they¡¯ve already tried to kill me, so even if that is the case, what¡¯s there to worry about? And if not... well, she¡¯ll never trust me if I don¡¯t tell her the truth.


    So I tell her.


    ¡°Okay,¡± Sofie says, a grin slowly spreading across her lips. ¡°I¡¯m in.¡±

 Chapter Seven

    ¡°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.


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    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.

 Chapter Eight

    Miserably, the last class of the week for me is Logistics. It¡¯s a smaller group than any of the others, designed specifically for Nobles like myself, who¡¯ll presumably be managing entire fleets in the Imperial Navy, should we manage to graduate. Lucia Hark is among that group, although she doesn¡¯t spare me a second glance through the entire session.


    It¡¯s an important topic- not everything can be delegated to a subordinate or a machine. But it¡¯s also exceedingly tedious. By the end of the class period, it¡¯s all I can do to keep myself from carving gashes into the floor with the tip of my tail. After three and a half excruciating hours, Professor Iliescu finally dismisses us, with instructions to download six chapters from our textbook, which is really more of a technical manual, before the next class.


    There¡¯s no rest for the wicked, however. I have another meeting scheduled, this time with both of my newly-appointed officers. There is one more role I need to fill, that of my Engineering Officer, but whoever receives that title won¡¯t be a part of the War Council to begin with, so there¡¯s less of a hurry. My copyclan already assembled dossiers on the members of the Combat Group and Intelligence Group, and sent them to their respective officers- that¡¯s not what we¡¯re gathering to discuss. Rather, we¡¯re coming together to prepare for tomorrow¡¯s training exercise.


    After yesterday, I¡¯m in no hurry to host another meeting in my own apartment. Similarly, I¡¯ve had my fill of lunchtime and dinner get-togethers, not to mention the fact that it¡¯s mid-afternoon now, which is no time for a proper meal. This time, I¡¯ll be meeting Niko and Sofie outdoors. It¡¯s comfortably temperate outside, as it is most days around here. Technically speaking, we¡¯ll be venturing outside of the bounds of the Citadel itself, but not nearly far enough to be in any actual danger.


    Having been carved out of the side of a mountain, the Citadel doesn¡¯t really have much in the way of a local neighborhood. To the immediate south lies a sea of mist, which conceals miles of jagged spikes, geoformed specifically to act as a deterrent to any would-be invaders. Beyond that lies the wilds, from lush jungle to frozen tundra. We¡¯re headed north, however- or northwest, to be more precise. In that direction lies a lightly wooded area just outside of the Citadel¡¯s walls, where I¡¯ve asked Sofie and Niko to meet me. It¡¯s small enough not to merit even a formal name, but everybody I¡¯ve heard speak of it, calls it the Grove.


    Sander accompanies me, slug-thrower shotgun strapped to his back. It¡¯s a nice piece of hardware- not quite on the level of a Regalia weapon, but impressive nonetheless. I¡¯ve got my own sidearm on too, although more as a reminder to people that I¡¯m not entirely reliant on my bodyguard for self-defense than because I¡¯m actually expecting any trouble.


    The walk takes me through some parts of the Citadel I haven¡¯t yet visited. That includes passing by Gofannon¡¯s Forge, the massive engineering facility dedicated to those Nobles with a particular affinity for technology. By chance, Ada is heading out right when Sander and I walk by, and she gives me a wave, brushing her sweat-matted blue-blonde hair from her forehead. We¡¯re a little too far to communicate without shouting, so I wave back, and send a brainband message along with the gesture, suggesting that we get drinks sometime soon. Her response isn¡¯t quite brimming with enthusiasm, but neither is it a firm rejection. At present, she¡¯s my main prospect for Engineering Officer, which means her presence in the Forge is an encouraging sight.


    Past the Forge, we enter a quiet little area, which seems to mainly consist of housing for the Citadel¡¯s support staff. It resembles an ordinary residential neighborhood, save for the fact that every one of the modest two-story homes is identical. Much like the streets themselves, and indeed most of the rest of the architecture around here, they¡¯re made from white marble, and while I can¡¯t see much to be especially excited about with them, there isn¡¯t much to complain about either.


    The main downside of working at the Citadel has to be the lack of privacy. Since they have access to plenty of young, vulnerable Nobles, they have to be carefully vetted before even stepping foot on Akademos, and even then, monitored closely by the Citadel¡¯s security office for their entire period of employment. That didn¡¯t stop someone from setting up a death trap in my apartment, though. Which reminds me of something.


    ¡°Hey, have you made any progress figuring out how that Mindkiller dart-launcher got in my room?¡±


    I¡¯d like to think that the reason I haven¡¯t asked Sander about it since the day it happened is because I was giving him time to work the case, but in reality, I¡¯m pretty sure I just forgot. It seems like a ridiculous thing to forget about, but no further attempts on my life have been made, and I¡¯ve had other concerns since then.


    ¡°Not much. I¡¯ve spoken to your Intelligence Officer about working together to investigate the incident further. She, in turn, has already tasked one of her subordinates with ascertaining which members of the janitorial staff had access to your rooms, and at what time. They are not aware of the reason for the inquiry, of course.¡±


    That¡¯s more progress than I thought he¡¯d have made, to be honest. Hopefully whoever Sofie put on the job knows how to be discreet, else they might spook the perpetrator and cause them to flee the moon. Then again, doing so would be a fairly sure indication of guilt, even if it would make getting any answers from them difficult.


    ¡°Great. Keep me posted, will you?¡±


    ¡°As you wish.¡±


    In stark contrast to the grandiose archway that I passed through on my entrance to the Citadel, the gate leading out is small, modest, and manned by one very bored Imperium soldier. He takes down our names disinterestedly, and informs us that we¡¯re to return before nightfall, or they¡¯ll send Myrmidons after us. I somehow doubt that they¡¯d actually call in the big guns over such a minor infraction, but I¡¯m also not eager to put that theory to the test, which I suppose means the scare tactics are working.


    Not long after we pass through the gate, I see the first of the trees. They¡¯re twisted, gnarled things, with frail branches that droop low and twist crookedly. Their leaves, however, are a striking violet, the sort that almost glitters in the afternoon sun. That rare trait is why the Grove escaped destruction during the construction of the Citadel. Of course, it¡¯s a plant native to the entire moon, and there are entire forests elsewhere, but it was seen as valuable to preserve a sliver of that beauty up here as well.


    ¡°Hey, Izzy! Sandman! Over here!¡±


    It might very well be my imagination, but I could swear I hear a hint of an exasperated sigh from Sander, as he turns his head towards the person hailing us. Sofie seems to have come up with a nickname for him, probably around the time when he contacted her to ask for help in his investigation. Hopefully it doesn¡¯t actually bother him too much, or I¡¯ll have to ask her to knock it off.


    My two officers are standing by a rock wall near to the ¡®entrance¡¯ to the Grove, which is really just a trail through the trees that¡¯s been blazed by generations of Nobles trekking through it, towards the vista on the other side. Niko is wearing a black muscle shirt, exposing his shapely biceps, and the tattoos that adorn his arms. On the right are a pair of serpents engaged in a vicious battle for dominance, or perhaps aggressively mating. On the left is an assortment of smaller images and symbols, from a grinning skull with a bullet hole in its forehead, to the alchemical symbol for sulfur. What¡¯s most impressive is the way that they¡¯re interconnected, making each of the individual additions seem as though they¡¯re part of a larger tapestry, though precisely what it is, I can¡¯t discern without being able to see more of the canvas. Sofie has on a layered miniskirt and navy-blue jacket, with a strange design that seems intended to have the sleeves hanging off of her arms. Maybe that¡¯s the height of Imperium fashion these days- growing up where I did, I never really had cause to pay attention to those passing trends. I have to admit, though, she does manage to make it work.


    At Niko¡¯s feet is a duffel bag, which he hoists up and puts over his shoulder as I approach. At my gesture, the pair comes to meet Sander and I in the middle, not far from the treeline. I haven¡¯t lost sight of the fact that the first two people in my unit that I really spoke to were also the two people I first chose as officers. Hopefully nobody thinks I chose them just because they were nice to me.


    ¡°You brought what I asked for?¡±


    It¡¯s a bit of a redundant question, as I doubt Niko would have hauled a duffel bag¡¯s worth of anything out here without being asked to, but I do still feel the need to check. He nods and pats the bag, though he¡¯s not yet aware why I requested such specific items. That surprise will have to wait until after we¡¯re finished with our business, though.


    ¡°Good. And you?¡±


    Sofie gives a sardonic laugh.


    ¡°Be a pretty poor intel chief if I couldn¡¯t follow simple instructions.¡±


    That part isn¡¯t a surprise. I asked Sofie to bring some countersurveillance tech, just to make sure nobody would be able to listen in on our conversation. Of course, they¡¯d have to have trailed us out here, and I doubt anybody could have done so without Sander or I noticing, but it¡¯s never wise to take chances.


    ¡°True enough. Let¡¯s get going, shall we?¡±


    Readjusting the straps of my messenger bag, I take the first step into the Grove. It¡¯s a far cry from the haunted forest one might expect to find on the outskirts of a prestigious academy like the Citadel. Even with the sun starting to creep towards the horizon, it¡¯s not the slightest bit spine-chilling. If anything, the late afternoon light makes the violet foliage sparkle more beautifully than before.


    ¡°Gotta say, Izzy, you really know how to pick a place for a meeting like this.¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s certainly no Elysium, but I¡¯m glad it¡¯s got your seal of approval.¡±


    Sofie laughs, and the melodic sound carries further than it has any right to, the leaves shimmering with light as it carries across their fragile surfaces. We can¡¯t talk business quite yet, not until she¡¯s deployed the anti-surveillance tech, so I¡¯m glad to have something to fill the silence.


    Not much later, another sound entirely grabs my attention- the sound of rushing water. It¡¯s faint at first, but grows louder as we approach the source, a veritable river that runs straight through the heart of the Grove. It¡¯s reasonably wide, and deep enough that I wouldn¡¯t want to walk through it, but fortunately there¡¯s a path of stepping stones that allows us to cross. The water itself is pristine, crystal clear, a result of the climate control satellites that scrub some ninety percent of all pollutants from the moon¡¯s atmosphere and ecosystem, not that there was terribly much to begin with.


    The four of us pass over the river, though Niko nearly slips and falls on the water-slick surface of one of the stepping stones, which has been worn smooth over time. Before he can tumble into the drink, Sander snaps out an arm and catches him, helping the Stormwolf steady himself. Neither says a word, they just exchange Very Serious Looks and continue following Sofie and I.


    Though it disappears from our sight for a time, the sound of the river remains with us as we continue our trek in companionable silence. We¡¯ve still got a few solid hours of sunlight left, so I¡¯m not too worried about having to cut things short thanks to the curfew, but I¡¯m not about to waste too much time either. Fortunately, we arrive at our destination before I have to tell anybody to pick up the pace.


    At the end of the trail is a clearing, which overlooks a cliff. Before us is an expansive vista, showcasing the natural beauty of Akademos. The river valley below is vast and placid, nestled between the peaks of several smaller mountains in the vicinity of the Citadel. To our left is a burbling waterfall, the terminus of the river we passed over, and one of many that feeds into this aquatic basin. It¡¯s a breathtaking sight, although the effect might be amplified somewhat for me, considering how stark the contrast is with where I grew up.


    Once they¡¯ve taken in the view to their satisfaction, the others get moving. Sofie pulls four collapsible pylons out of her pocket, and sets to work establishing a perimeter with them. When activated, they¡¯ll project a field that will baffle digital surveillance, ensuring that we can speak in relative privacy. Niko and Sander head for a large, flat rock slab that has four smaller rocks arranged around it, like chairs around a table. They must have been placed like that intentionally, so people coming out here would have somewhere to sit.


    Placing myself on the unoccupied side of the table, I stretch languidly, using my tail to pull my arms back a bit further. When Sofie finishes setting up the pylons and comes to sit next to me, I wrap it around her shoulders, and she responds by brushing it idly like one might do to their hair. My extra appendage isn¡¯t especially sensitive, but I feel a tingle run up my spine nevertheless.


    ¡°So, our first training exercise is tomorrow. I haven¡¯t given you much time to prepare, I know. That¡¯s intentional. Everybody except me will be going in mostly blind. But it wouldn¡¯t be fair if I led one of the two teams, since I was the one who designed the exercise, so you two are gonna do it. Neither of you are tactics-types, I know, but you are my officers, and the only other proper tactician we have is Kat, who... probably isn¡¯t up for it yet.¡±


    Neither of my officers look especially surprised about this. Niko leans forward, resting his chin on his palm.


    ¡°Let me guess- you called us here to pick our teams.¡±


    ¡°Bingo. Sander and I are a package deal, so whichever team gets us will have a slight numerical advantage. I figured we could flip for that, and then the two of you could just go back and forth after. Sound good?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    With a satisfied hum, I pull an Imperial Mark out of my pocket, and flash both sides of it at Sofie and Niko, so they know it¡¯s not double-headed. Positioning the silver coin on my knuckle, I flip it into the air. The moment it leaves my hand, Sofie calls out ¡°Tails!¡± and gives my actual tail a squeeze for luck.


    Sure enough, the coin comes up tails, and the platinum-haired woman cheers.


    ¡°Great. So you know, I¡¯m not gonna give you any hints just ¡®cause I¡¯m on your team. And this means Niko gets first pick of the rest of the group.¡±


    ¡°Aw, you know I don¡¯t care about any of that, Izzy,¡± she says, lifting up the tip of my tail to plant a kiss on the flat side of my barb. ¡°I just want you close to me.¡±


    The Stormwolf rolls his eyes.


    ¡°I want Mars.¡±


    A solid first choice. He¡¯s probably the only person in our unit I can see going toe-to-toe with Sander. The initial selections are just going to be Niko and Sofie trading off members of the combat unit, since those are obviously the most desirable choices for a training exercise like this. I haven¡¯t actually specified that it¡¯s going to be a battle, but it¡¯s a safe assumption on their parts.


    ¡°Colleen,¡± the spymaster replies, still caressing my tail while she looks off into the middle distance, likely consulting the brainband to remind herself of who everybody in our unit is.


    ¡°Ibrahim.¡±


    ¡°Amalia.¡±


    Niko falls silent for a moment, contemplating his options. We¡¯ve already run out of the optimal choices- now it¡¯s a question of who¡¯s the best of the worst. Not that there are only four useful people in the whole unit, but most of the others aren¡¯t combat specialists.


    ¡°Nikitha,¡± he says at last. That¡¯s the chemical weapons expert I¡¯ve been putting off meeting with. Having her on the other team doesn¡¯t seem ideal to me.


    ¡°Tai,¡± Sofie replies. She seems to be prioritizing members of her intelligence group, which makes some sense, but could end up leaving us imbalanced.


    ¡°Valent.¡±Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    ¡°Ada.¡±


    ¡°Grant.¡±


    ¡°Kat.¡±


    There¡¯s a long pause, then Niko sighs and says ¡°Bret.¡± I grimace sympathetically. He may have more combat specialists, but it seems like he still drew a bad hand overall. Then again, having somebody to use as cannon fodder could prove useful, although I wouldn¡¯t be shocked if Bret found a way to screw up even that task.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s that. You should probably contact your teams after we¡¯re done here, and tell them to prepare. Don¡¯t worry if it goes bad- I designed the exercise to be particularly hard the first time through.¡±


    ¡°How reassuring,¡± Niko replies with a chuckle. ¡°I notice you said ¡®after we¡¯re done here¡¯ as though there¡¯s still something on the agenda. Can I assume that has something to do with what you asked me to bring along?¡±


    ¡°That does seem like it would be a safe assumption, doesn¡¯t it?¡±


    The Stormwolf picks up his duffel bag and dumps it on the table, then unzips it to reveal what¡¯s inside- a bundle of rope. Or, as becomes obvious as I draw them out, three bundles of rope, with harnesses attached to one end. Thankfully, Niko packed the ropes up tightly enough to keep them from getting tangled up in each other, so I don¡¯t have to waste time undoing any knots before I pass my companions their bundles.


    ¡°What¡¯s the idea here, Izzy?¡± Sofie asks, examining the rope in her hands. ¡°You want us all to tie each other up? Kinky. I dig it, but this doesn¡¯t really seem like the right setting.¡±


    Rolling my eyes, I smack her gently with my tail.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t the right kind of rope for that, silly. We¡¯re gonna be doing some climbing.¡±


    <hr>


    Beneath the Citadel is a vast network of caverns known as the Subterrane, hollowed out by both natural and artificial means from the inside of the massive mountain upon which the city itself was built. Most of the entrances are found in the Citadel itself, in the form of staircases and the like. We aren¡¯t exactly going to be coming in through an approved entrance, though. As it happens, there¡¯s an opening behind the very waterfall we¡¯re standing near, which leads directly into the Subterrane. It¡¯s not the easiest way to get in, but that¡¯s precisely why we¡¯re doing it- because coming in this way will give us access to an area of the cave system that can¡¯t be accessed through the standard entrances.


    Niko seems to be the most trepidatious about the entire enterprise, but he doesn¡¯t do more than frown slightly as we¡¯re affixing our anchors to the cliffside near to the waterfall. None of us have any practical experience with climbing- or rappelling, in this case -but that¡¯s easily solved with a quick skillsoft download. I¡¯m half expecting Sander to insist on double-checking my harness to make sure I did it properly, but he doesn¡¯t, seemingly more focused on getting his own squared away. Of course, while I would hardly relish a second death this week, it¡¯s not as if it would be permanent, so I can¡¯t fault him for not doing so.


    Naturally, I¡¯m the first to go, descending the cliff face slowly and carefully. Heights aren¡¯t my area of expertise, since Demeter VII was pretty much all flat surfaces, but the artificial competence provided by the skillsoft makes up for my own lack of experience. Once I¡¯m far enough down, I start shifting towards the waterfall, until I can see the entrance to the caverns through its surface. It¡¯s rather poorly-lit, so I can¡¯t quite tell what awaits us inside. There¡¯s only one way to find out, though- so I kick off of the rocks and swing to the side, plunging through the frigid water and into the Subterrane.


    As soon as my feet are on solid ground, I add slack to the rope, to prevent it from yanking me back out. Then, making sure to take a few steps away from the edge, I detach the harness entirely, letting it swing back out. Common sense should be enough to tell the others that I made it through, but just to be safe, I send them a wordless brainband notification conveying that sentiment. Then I turn my full attention to my surroundings. The hole I came through seems to have been carved out of the rock specifically to give people inside a look at the same view we were all admiring earlier, but through the filter of the flowing water. That same water is now soaking through my clothes, which is less than ideal, but I knew what I was getting into when I started planning this little adventure.


    Flicking my tail back and forth, I shed some of the excess moisture clinging to it, and take a few more steps into the cavern. It doesn¡¯t look much like a traditional cave- the ceiling is jagged and rocky, yes, but the floor beneath me is paved with white marble, albeit less polished than the streets of the Citadel proper, since this portion of the Subterrane was sealed off quite some time ago. A few feet from the ¡®window,¡¯ in the center of this little room, is a platform set into the ground, where the marble abruptly gives way to a circular patch of smooth blue crystal, in the center of which is an obelisk carved from the same material.


    Just as I¡¯m about to place a damp palm on the obelisk¡¯s surface, I hear a gleeful howl, and turn to see Sofie come through the waterfall, disengaging her harness before she has a foot on the ground, and tumbling semi-gracefully towards me. She springs to her feet and shakes her hair like a dog might, spraying me with water.


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe how slow you took it, Izzy! You totally missed out.¡±


    She¡¯s probably right. Some animal instinct in my brain is still very much afraid of what it¡¯d feel like to be broken against the rocks below if I fell, but I wouldn¡¯t retain that memory when I came back, so the only thing I¡¯d really lose is time. Hell, it probably wouldn¡¯t even have kept the others from having a good time if I¡¯d died, though it would have ruined my plans. Giving her a rueful look, I shrug.


    It¡¯s not long before Niko joins us, taking an approach closer to my own, although he does get a bit more daring with his entrance. I have to admit, the way his wet shirt clings to his body is rather eye-catching, though I manage to tear my eyes away before he notices I¡¯m staring. Sadly, Sofie¡¯s outfit isn¡¯t really tight enough for the water to reveal much.


    Sander isn¡¯t going to be joining us- someone had to stay up top and watch the ropes, so we¡¯ll have a way to get back up after we¡¯re done. Plus, I¡¯d be lying if I said the prospect of getting some time away from him wasn¡¯t appealing. It¡¯s not that his near-constant presence bothers me, but him being around all the time does tend to change the context of social interactions. Not even necessarily for the worse, but it¡¯s like there¡¯s an elephant in the room, just waiting for the moment when he¡¯ll be called upon to trample someone. That creates a certain amount of tension in people.


    As the Stormwolf approaches, I pull out my Q-tool, and activate the portable heater application. The three of us gather around it, gratefully basking in the warmth until we¡¯re reasonably dry. Some dampness still lingers, and that¡¯s not likely to change, since we¡¯re now underground, without much in the way of light, but I can live with that. Although, if only to make navigation easier, I turn the Q-tool into a glowstick, which casts a warm glow onto our surroundings.


    ¡°I¡¯d ask why this section of the Subterrane was sealed off, but I have a feeling you¡¯re building up to a grand reveal.¡±


    ¡°Correct. Now c¡¯mon, we¡¯ve got a lot of ground to cover.¡±


    Tossing the glowstick into the air, I snag it with my tail and use that to hold it high above my head, as I head out of the obelisk room with Sofie and Niko in tow. They follow me into a hallway with a vaulted ceiling of blue gemstone, the color of which seems to have bled into the marble, giving it a faint purple hue. On the walls are fraying banners bearing the insignias of the Imperium and the Citadel, and in the middle of the hall are a series of spaced-out plant boxes, their contents long since having withered away. Our footsteps echo as we pass through, shadows dancing as the light from my Q-tool scatters them.


    ¡°Okay,¡± Sofie says, ¡°if you wanna keep our destination a secret, that¡¯s fine. But you gotta tell me how you found out about this place. I mean, you¡¯re not exactly who I would expect to have insider info, y¡¯know?¡±


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s the thing. I¡¯m not quite sure how I know either.¡±


    Though it¡¯s hard to tell with the way the darkness obscure his features, I think Niko is frowning. The black horns jutting from his forehead make his shadow on the wall look more sinister than it has any right to be.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    One part of me hesitates, but it¡¯s too late now. Besides, if I can¡¯t confide in these two, I¡¯m pretty much screwed to begin with.


    ¡°Last night, I got an encrypted brainband transmission. Anonymized sender, geolocation tag scrambled, the works. All it contained was instructions on how to get in here, and my personal recognition code. I¡¯ve never told it to anybody, or even written it down... yet whoever sent the transmission knew about it. So I figured I could trust them, at least for the time being.¡±


    As I¡¯m talking, we come to the end of the hallway, and make our way into a large room, lit by a luminescent crystal pyramid protruding from the ceiling. It¡¯s bright enough that the room doesn¡¯t get noticeably darker when I switch off the glowstick and stow the Q-tool back in my pocket. The center of the room contains a wide circle with intricate metal tracery engraved into it. Extending from that circle are four pathways, pointing in each of the cardinal directions, including one that stretches back in the direction we just came. Divided by those pathways are four small ponds, filled with lilies and moss, clearly not having been tended in the slightest since this area was sealed off. Beneath their shallow surfaces, I see some small fish, which scatter as I approach, likely frightened by the presence of another creature.


    It¡¯s not especially difficult to guess where we¡¯re supposed to go next. The left and rightmost passages lead into hallways nearly identical to the one we just came from, while the northern one leads up a small flight of stairs, and through a circular archway, into a much wider hall. Before I can proceed, however, Niko places a hand on my shoulder.


    ¡°Are you certain it was wise to leave Sander behind, knowing this could be a trap?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m almost completely certain this isn¡¯t a trap. Sure, there are people out there who want me dead, but this isn¡¯t exactly the most efficient way to go about it. My guess would be that whoever sent me that message is an ally, the same person who arranged for you two and Sander to end up in my unit.¡±


    Now it¡¯s Sofie¡¯s turn to frown, likely at the prospect that her assignment to the Gazelle unit was in some way the work of manipulation behind the scenes.


    ¡°You really think that¡¯s what¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d bet good money on it. Think- you two are both from Noble lines that should, by all rights, be highly respected, considering your capabilities. But instead, you¡¯re treated with undue suspicion thanks to the actions of your predecessors. A different unit commander might have sidelined you because of that, but I won¡¯t, because I¡¯m in the same boat. And as for Sander... without him in the unit, I¡¯d already be truedead. Sure, maybe it¡¯s just a stroke of good luck, but combined with the fact that I¡¯ve got you two, I¡¯m more inclined to believe somebody is trying to pull strings in my favor.¡±


    Niko is pacing around the circle, looking equal parts thoughtful and concerned.


    ¡°Curious. And you say they knew your personal recognition code?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Honestly, I don¡¯t have a clue who they are yet. Maybe they left a clue down here or something, but I¡¯m not sure. What I do know is that there¡¯s something specific they want me to see, and I want you two to see it as well.¡±


    A slightly tense silence falls upon us as we venture through the circular doorway. They aren¡¯t giving me the impression that they¡¯re upset, exactly. After all, I disclosed the nature of the expedition as soon as they asked, so it¡¯s not like they could reasonably accuse me of keeping secrets from them. The tension is there nonetheless- mainly, I suspect, because they¡¯re expecting this to be a trap. Trusting in some mysterious benefactor can¡¯t be easy for them, but hopefully they¡¯ll become accustomed to the idea quickly.


    Personally, I¡¯d rather like to find out who my silent partner is, but it seems unlikely that they¡¯ll be showing their face today. It¡¯s been less than a week since I arrived, after all.


    The light from the crystalline pyramid doesn¡¯t extend very far into the grand hall, but before I decide to pull the glowstick out, another light source reveals itself- this time decidedly more natural. It shines through a doorway on our left, and I pause in place for a moment, before deciding to investigate. What we find is a room containing a wide, low spiral staircase, which seems to lead several levels down. On this level, however, are a pair of stained-glass windows, one on either side of a walkway that leads out of the caverns and onto a balcony exposed to the open air. At the end of that balcony is a white marble statue, which seems to have been worn away at by the elements, to the point where identifying its subject is next to impossible. To make matters worse, ivy seems to have grown up from underneath the balcony to wrap around it.


    Heading down the first flight of stairs to the level of the balcony, I approach it slowly, until I¡¯m in the shadow¡¯s statue. This isn¡¯t what I was brought here to see, but it¡¯s certainly interesting nonetheless. We¡¯ve passed a few other statues on our way here, mostly tucked into corners, but I¡¯m sure I could identify who they were based off of, if I cared to. Founders, their stony features preserved underground. Yet this one was deliberately left out, even after this section of the Subterrane was abandoned. Perhaps it depicted someone whose statue nobody would officially condone being torn down, but wouldn¡¯t care enough about to have it protected in any way. Someone like the Deceiver Admiral, perhaps.


    Whether or not my hunch is right, I have a feeling we¡¯re on the right track. Turning away from the weathered sculpture, I continue down the stairs. In the center of the stairwell is a tree, which- unlike the other plantings we¡¯ve seen -seems to have survived the abandonment of this part of the cave system. Its proximity to the open-air balcony has to be what saved it, with the opening allowing in just enough sunlight and rainwater to nourish it. Still, the tree looks sickly and frail. Some overly sentimental voice in the back of my head, which sounds strikingly similar to Father Nico, suggests that I make a habit of coming back here and giving it some attention- but I pay it no mind. That would be a significant misuse of my valuable time, not to mention the fact that it would almost certainly expose the existence of this hidden entrance to the sealed-off section of the Subterrane. Besides, appearances aside, the tree seems to have done just fine without me so far. I¡¯m not quite so arrogant as to assume it¡¯ll simply wither away without my care.


    ¡°That a friend of yours?¡± Sofie asks, nodding in the general direction of the statue.


    ¡°Not sure. But we aren¡¯t far now, so c¡¯mon.¡±


    By the time we reach the bottom of the stairwell, the daylight is just a faint glow from above. The floor is littered with dried-up, dead leaves that crunch under our feet as we proceed into the next hallway. This one is much shorter, and rather lacking in decorations compared to the others we¡¯ve been through so far. At the end, however, is a black iron gate, clearly locked tight. The lock itself seems to have been made in the shape of a skull, jaw open for a key to be inserted. A key which I lack, meaning we¡¯re going to have to employ less legitimate methods.


    Breaking and entering before my first week here is up might seem unwise, and that¡¯s because it probably is. But playing by the rules just isn¡¯t who I am. Obviously that won¡¯t fly if we get caught, but one perk of coming from a line of rulebreakers is that you tend to be pretty good at it. And I¡¯m not dumb enough to pull something like this if I thought there was a serious chance I¡¯d actually get caught. This area of the Subterrane was sealed off a long time ago, so no security cameras were ever set up down here. No alarm system either, just a plain old analogue lock. That¡¯s not to say it¡¯ll be especially easy to get in- even analogue locks are complex enough these days that an ordinary person couldn¡¯t pick them. That¡¯s why we developed Pilfer ¡®bots.


    As Sofie and Niko watch, I pull a small oval-shaped lump of metal out of my pocket, and place it in my palm. Holding my hand near the lock, I press a finger to the back of the device, and watch it activate, insect-like limbs emerging from its smooth surface, which splits apart to reveal a ¡®head¡¯ with three tiny, glowing green eyes. Tilting my hand forward, I let the Pilfer ¡®bot crawl into the mouth of the skull, where it disappears. It¡¯s small enough to fit into the lock mechanism itself, where it¡¯ll reconfigure its shape to match the lock¡¯s design.


    Since Pilfer ¡®bots are pretty much only useful for the exact thing we¡¯re using one for right now, they aren¡¯t strictly legal in the Imperium. You can¡¯t buy them, or even make them using a matter-fabricator. What you can do, however, is download the specs, and fabricate the individual components, and then put one together yourself. If someone discovered what you were doing and ratted you out, you¡¯d be in trouble, but it¡¯s a big Imperium, and the authorities can¡¯t be everywhere at once.


    After a minute, I hear the lock click open, and the ¡®bot pops out, crawling right back into my hand and sealing itself back up with a digital chirp. As I¡¯m sticking it back in my pocket, Sofie makes an impressed sound behind me.


    ¡°Nice. You got any more of those I can borrow? Would make my job a lot easier if I had one or two of them on-hand.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll see what I can do, but you gotta be careful. Anybody sees you using one, and we¡¯re both screwed.¡±


    ¡°Please,¡± the Silver Shadow scoffs, sounding mock-offended. ¡°I¡¯m the soul of discretion.¡±


    For both our sakes, I hope that¡¯s true, because we¡¯re right at the threshold of what I brought her and Niko here to see, and if they start telling tales out of school, I could be in real trouble. The gate creaks ominously as I push it open, and my companions remain a step or two behind me as we walk through.


    Inside, a massive clockwork mechanism built into the floor shifts and spins silently. Above it, a huge metal dodecahedron is suspended inside of another clockwork contraption, which rotates around it in cyclical patterns. Each of the dodecahedron¡¯s facets has a circular screen built into it, which all read 00:00:00, the same six digits on all twelve faces. On the walls of the room are more banners, but unlike the ones we passed before, these are the same golden-brass color as the clockwork machinery, displaying symbols unfamiliar to me.


    While I¡¯m staring, Niko starts to pace around the edge of the machine, careful not to get his foot stuck in the shifting gears. Sofie stays next to me, her gaze shifting back and forth between the dodecahedron¡¯s various rotating faces, and my own.


    ¡°Either of you know what this is?¡±


    Niko shakes his head, while Sofie makes a vague negatory sound. The whole room is lit by a spherical lamp set into the ceiling, which doesn¡¯t seem to have dimmed meaningfully since this place was sealed off. Maybe it¡¯s built into the machinery somehow, and not connected to the same power source that the rest of the Subterrane is.


    ¡°They called it the Strongbox. A vault designed by seven of the top engineer Founders, including the Fractalsmith himself. It¡¯s said that every one of the technologically-minded Founders contributed to its contents, but nobody knows exactly what those contents are. Some say it¡¯s the schematics for every Regalia weapon ever developed. Others think it might contain the original personality matrices of the Founders themselves. There¡¯s even speculation that they locked a fully general artificial intelligence in there.¡±


    Upon hearing that, Niko freezes, then takes several steps back, looking wary.


    ¡°When it was built, the screens all showed countdown timers, each of them counting down to a different date. But each of those dates came and went, and the box never opened. After the last one passed, the Citadel administration decided to have the whole thing sealed off, and a good portion of the Subterrane itself, just to be safe. Some say they¡¯re worried about people trying to break it open or steal it, others think they¡¯re trying to keep whatever¡¯s inside from getting out. While they haven¡¯t quite made the topic taboo, they¡¯ve certainly done their best to prevent anybody from learning about it, which is probably why neither of you have. Hell, I hadn¡¯t heard anything about it until that message last night put me onto it.¡±


    Sofie flicks her hair over her shoulder, and takes a step closer to me, her eyes still fixed on the Strongbox.


    ¡°So, why d¡¯you think your mystery friend wanted you to see this?¡±


    ¡°Well, I can¡¯t say for sure, but I¡¯m reasonably certain they want me to crack it open.¡±

 Chapter Nine

    Today is game day. The first of many. The first real test of my ability to lead this unit. I¡¯d be lying if I said I wasn¡¯t nervous, but at this point, it¡¯s out of my hands. My copyclan and I crafted this scenario carefully, and the construction crew of the Crucible put it together in accordance with our exact specifications. Now, all I can do is sit back and hope everything goes according to plan.


    Well, I¡¯m not exactly going to be reclining on a deck chair and watching the carnage unfold, much as I might like to. I¡¯ll be on the battlefield same as everybody else, but not as a commander. This time, I¡¯m just another foot soldier, under White Team Commander Sofie Lang. We¡¯re facing up against the forces of the Black Team, and their Commander, Nikolai Genov. My Intelligence and Combat officers. This is as much a test of their abilities as mine, but if Sofie is feeling the pressure, it doesn¡¯t show.


    Our team- her team, I should say -is assembled in the western staging area, opposite of where the Black Team is positioned. The Crucible, the modular battlefield in which today¡¯s test is taking place, is quite large, to the point that my copyclan complained about having too much space to work with when designing the arena we¡¯re now standing within. Fortunately, we were able to figure something out.


    This staging area is inside of a large building, which is so well put-together that I doubt I¡¯d suspect it wasn¡¯t standing here yesterday, if I hadn¡¯t been the one to order its construction. Another building is positioned on the other side of the Crucible, though not quite in the exact same position. Between them is a deep gulch, artificial wilderness filled with thick mud and a rushing river that would be next to impossible to pass through without equipment we don¡¯t have. The only realistic way to get to the other team¡¯s stronghold is across a bridge. And that¡¯s just as well for what I have planned- a deceptively simple game of capture the flag.


    Sofie is holding our flag right now, a simple metal pike with a white banner hanging limply from its top. Somewhere in the Black Team¡¯s building, Niko is probably doing the same thing, albeit maybe with a bit less theatricality.


    ¡°Okay, listen up! We¡¯ve got ten minutes ¡®til the clock starts, and I want to make sure everybody knows their role. Our objective is simple- acquire the enemy flag. But remember, this is a live-fire exercise, so do your best to stay alive. You¡¯re no good to me waiting to get your body back.¡±


    She¡¯s putting on a character, that of the hard-ass general who takes no shit from anybody. Some of it is probably ironic, but I have to imagine a bit of it is that she¡¯s nervous about taking a proper leadership role for the first time.


    ¡°Tai, Sandman, Izzy- you¡¯re playing defense. Stay here, and make sure those sons of bitches don¡¯t get their hands on our flag. Everybody else is on the assault squad. Amalia, you¡¯re a recon specialist. I want you to scope out the enemy base and report back before we make our play. We¡¯ve only got one cloaker, so that means no second chances. Got it?¡±


    The scout salutes, her amber ram¡¯s horns glowing faintly in the dim light. While the building itself doesn¡¯t look like it was put together in a matter of hours, the interior betrays the illusion somewhat- mainly in that it¡¯s rather barren. There are barricades and balconies where a sniper could post up to wait for intruders, but no furniture or decorations. It looks like an empty warehouse, or something similarly industrial. Part of that is intentional, because I didn¡¯t want to make it too easy to hide the flag. Getting into the enemy base will be hard enough, but having to dig the flag out of a hiding place would be a bridge too far.


    ¡°Good. Now, some of you might be a little worried, since we don¡¯t have as many fighter types as the other guys. That¡¯s a reasonable concern, but I¡¯ve got a plan. What we¡¯ve got to make up for our lack of firepower is a bona-fide defensive tactical expert. Kat here is gonna help us hold the bridge, and let the other guys thin out their numbers by trying to get past us. One that¡¯s done, we can move in, take their flag, and bring it back without any issues. Sound good?¡±


    Taking one look at Kat tells me that it doesn¡¯t sound particularly good to her. Still, it¡¯s not a bad plan. I didn¡¯t advise Sofie, but she managed to come up with something pretty similar to what I would have, given this specific team. Her assault team includes Ada, a tech specialist who¡¯ll be setting up traps to keep the enemy from crossing the bridge, and Colleen, a melee fighter who can deal with anybody who does manage to get past.


    A timer goes off, informing us that we¡¯ve got just one minute before the doors open and the battle begins in earnest. Sofie grabs a rifle off the rack, and grins.


    ¡°Okay, gang. Keep it cool, watch your backs, conserve ammo, and everything will be fine. Let¡¯s go make the boss proud. Isn¡¯t that right, Izzy?¡±


    ¡°You got this, sport,¡± I reply, shooting her a thumbs-up. A few people laugh, but not many. Most of them are either too nervous or too serious to appreciate my brief attempt at levity. Hard to blame them. I¡¯ll be sitting here in relative safety, while most of the others will be going into the first real gunfight of their lives.


    Following after Sofie, the assault team grabs guns and heads for the doors. At the same time, Tai and Sander both get moving. The former has a satchel filled with surveillances devices- mostly cameras -that he¡¯ll be setting up around the exterior of the building, as soon as the doors open. Given the open floor plan, there isn¡¯t much use in putting up cameras in here. Sander, on the other hand, has landmines and other fun surprises, which anybody trying to breach the perimeter will likely run afoul of. My job is simple. Stand by the flag, and shoot anybody who tries to take it.


    The sound of a gong echoes through the room, signaling the start of the exercise. With a series of clicks, the doors of the building open, allowing Sofie and her crew to leave, followed shortly by my two home-team partners, off to set up their security system. Grabbing the last rifle on the rack, I pick up the folding chair I brought with me, and set it up next to where Sofie left the flag, propped up in the corner of the room. Some people gave me strange looks when they saw I was bringing a chair with me, rather than equipment like they had, but nobody questioned it outright.


    For reasons I haven¡¯t shared with anybody else, I¡¯m really not expecting to see any action here. If anybody from the other team makes it inside, I¡¯m more likely to congratulate them on the accomplishment than try to shoot them. But I¡¯m still going to take this whole thing seriously enough that I won¡¯t just read a book or scroll my brainband media feeds while I wait for everything to play out. Especially because, thanks to the brainband, I can actually watch it go down, through the eyes of my team. We all linked up before the battle started, meaning that any one of us can see from the perspective of any of the others. Not very useful for the assault team, but it¡¯ll make things a bit less boring for me.


    Leaning back in my chair, with the rifle sitting in my lap, I switch over to Amalia¡¯s viewfeed. She¡¯s one of the Gazelles I¡¯ve spent the least time on, both in terms of direct personal interaction, and brain-space devoted to her existence. She was never a serious candidate for any officer position, since a recon specialist isn¡¯t exactly suited for giving orders, and her overly friendly persona strikes me as a bit fake. That could just be me being overly cynical, though. If nothing else, those amber horns of hers are visually striking. They¡¯re an homage to the Founder of her line, Dillon, who created a now-defunct special-operations group known as the Amber Assassins, who were known for wearing jewelry and other accouterments made from amber, often with items or small animals preserved inside of them. Pretty lame, as far as Founders and their gimmicks go. He never even merited a Regalia weapon, despite being a combat-specialist Founder.


    By the time I¡¯m patched into Amalia¡¯s feed, she¡¯s already cloaked, and headed north. There¡¯s a particularly narrow section of the river that divides the arena in that area, and I suspect she plans to cross it, rather than try to slip across the bridge undetected. That means wading through the mud, but fortunately modern cloaking technology is good enough that a bit of wet dirt won¡¯t give her away. It¡¯s still gotta be pretty gross and wet, though, which makes me glad I¡¯m only seeing through her eyes, not accessing her entire sensorium. Sharing senses with someone else has its uses, but mostly in the bedroom, not on the battlefield.


    Some inclement weather would have been a good way to spice up the scenario, but it seemed like a little too much for our first exercise. Besides, it would have required closing the dome over the Crucible to simulate rain or snow or hail, which would have been a shame on a nice day like this. Maybe for next time. Amalia seems to be having a hard enough time slogging through knee-high mud as it is.


    Luckily for her, I put a big ol¡¯ rock nearby, positioned at the perfect angle for her to be able to climb up to its peak and look across the river at the enemy¡¯s base. It looks real enough to me, but it¡¯s probably mostly hollow, since carving out an actual piece of rock to my exact specifications would probably be a little too much, even for the Crucible¡¯s construction team. I¡¯m fine with some cut corners, so long as they¡¯re out of sight and don¡¯t meaningfully impact the exercise.


    Amalia clambers up the stone slab, and pulls a pair of binoculars from her belt. Through them, she- and I -see the enemy¡¯s base. It doesn¡¯t look quite like ours, mainly in that it¡¯s taller and narrower, with three floors to our two. Unless Niko was feeling particularly clever, they¡¯ve probably got the flag on the top floor, but that¡¯s something our scout will have to verify personally before she can report back.


    With my own ears, I hear gunshots, alerting me to the fact that the assault team has engaged with the enemy. Before checking in on them, however, I go back to looking through my own eyes, to make sure nobody¡¯s managed to sneak in without my noticing. I¡¯d most likely have heard them, but going too long without being able to see what¡¯s happening in the vicinity of my own body leaves me a bit uncomfortable. Instead of an intruder, I find Sander, positioned at a nearby door, his shotgun held at the ready, though he¡¯s made sure that I¡¯m in his sightline. That means he¡¯s finished laying his traps. Tai is nowhere to be seen, but there can¡¯t have been that many cameras to set up. He¡¯s probably hiding out on one of the balconies above me, watching the camera feeds like a hawk. If he sees anybody, we¡¯ll be the first to know.


    Giving my bodyguard a nod, I sink back into the chair and open up Ada¡¯s visual feed. She¡¯s got an AR overlay active, showing in various corners of her vision how much ammo she has left, the status of the traps she¡¯s set up, and the vitals of her team, all of which appear to be green at the moment- worst anybody¡¯s got is an elevated heart rate, which makes sense when you consider they¡¯re being shot at.


    Ada is crouching behind cover, which the bridge is abundant in on both sides. Two large, immobile ground transport vehicles stretch across it, almost completely blocking the way, save for several large holes in each, big enough for a person to pass through. However, those holes don¡¯t match up on both sides of the containers, meaning that before you go in, you won¡¯t be able to see what awaits you on the other side. And similarly, if you¡¯re waiting on the other side, you won¡¯t be able to see who¡¯s coming through until the last second.


    As such, it¡¯s impossible for either assault team to get a good look at what they¡¯re up against. The only information they really have is that the enemy exists, and they only know that because they¡¯re being shot at. I¡¯m a moment away from switching to another feed, when Ada hefts her rifle and stands up from behind her barricade, firing a few rounds in the general direction of the enemy before dropping back down swiftly. The containers are thin enough that a bullet could feasibly pass through both of them and hit an enemy target, but there¡¯s no real way of knowing if they¡¯ve successfully done so. And since there are essentially four sets of walls between them and the enemy, it¡¯s almost impossible to tell where in particular the enemy is shooting from.


    All of this is intentional on my part. There¡¯s virtually no cover available in the gulch, and the mud is too thick to move through quickly, so any advance would be easily spotted and even more easily thwarted. That means the bridge is the only way to go. But with sightlines to the other side completely blocked, it¡¯s almost impossible to know whether or not to advance. The enemy could have a handful of people on the other side, or their entire team could be waiting there. Sending someone through is the easiest way to find out, but if they get killed within seconds, you¡¯ve just lost one of your only soldiers. Neither commander will be confident enough to order a frontal assault, even if that feels like the only realistic path forward, because failure would mean defeat is a certainty, and they aren¡¯t willing to take that gamble. I¡¯ve effectively engineered a complete stalemate- and my plan isn¡¯t complete yet.


    Amalia, comes Sofie¡¯s voice, over the team-wide brainband channel. Change of plans. Forget the flag, just get on the other side of the bridge and find out how many people Niko has over there.


    The scout doesn¡¯t reply verbally, just sends back an affirmative pulse of emotion. I tune in to her feed, to find her on the other side of the river, doubling back to get underneath the bridge. Her previous path led through a side entrance into the enemy¡¯s base, but didn¡¯t have a solid view of the bridge itself, since she¡¯d be going indoors pretty much straight from the gulch. That means she has to improvise.


    Above her, the sounds of sporadic gunfire continue. It¡¯s not entirely impossible for one side to break the stalemate, of course. I¡¯d probably bet on the Black Team, since they¡¯ve got more combat specialists. But not all of them would survive the process of wiping out the White Team assault squad. And even after that, they¡¯d have to content with the trip-mines and other surprises that Ada¡¯s rigged our side of the bridge with, not to mention Sander¡¯s traps. And while I can¡¯t say for certain, I¡¯m reasonably certain the Black Team has taken similar countermeasures on their half of the bridge, and within their own base. Bret¡¯s traps would probably fail to kill whoever activated them, but Nikitha, the chemical weapons specialist, is dangerous enough to make up for his incompetence.


    Without warning, a jolt of pure, unfiltered agony surges through the brainband feed, making me flinch. It¡¯s not uncommon among those unfamiliar with true pain- apparently an involuntary reflex similar to screaming when you¡¯re hurt makes you transmit the pain itself to anyone you¡¯re in active brainband contact with. Not particularly pleasant for those of us on the receiving end, but it does function as something of an alarm bell for when something goes wrong.


    Accessing the biot feeds for the White Team, I assess their statuses. Judging by her elevated heart rate and sudden spike in blood pressure, it seems like Kat was the one who got hit. I¡¯m not foolish enough to jump into the perspective of someone who just got shot, even if we wouldn¡¯t be sharing pain, so instead I swap to Sofie¡¯s point of view, to find her looking at the wounded girl. Kat is clutching her stomach, face a mask of misery that makes me frown. Part of it is guilt, because it¡¯s my fault she¡¯s in this situation. Kicking things off with a live-fire exercise seemed like a good idea at some point, but now I¡¯m kicking myself for not going with paintballs or something less lethal. On the other hand, Kat is probably the only person who would react this badly to being hit, which makes it particularly unfortunate that she was the first person, at least on our side, to take a bullet.


    ¡°¡ªhurts, I can¡¯t¡ª¡±


    ¡°Kat, wait!¡± Sofie shouts, starting towards her as bullets fly overhead, enemy riflemen aiming to finish what they¡¯ve started. There¡¯s a syringe in my Intelligence Officer¡¯s hand, no doubt filled with tranquilizers to help stabilize the injured Shieldmaiden, but she¡¯s too late. Kat¡¯s already pulled the plug. That means taking the easy way out. We¡¯re all equipped with a personal kill-switch, in order to hasten our own death in the event that we¡¯re lethally injured, and don¡¯t want to wait for a slow and painful demise from blood loss or the like. Of course, it¡¯s meant only as a last resort. Using it too early is a waste of a perfectly good body, and with first aid readily available, pulling that trigger really wasn¡¯t Kat¡¯s best option. If it had been anyone else, they would probably have stuck it out, but she doesn¡¯t yet possess the fortitude to do so. My speech to her may have strengthened her convictions somewhat, but it didn¡¯t magically grant her pain tolerance beyond her natural limits.


    In my plans, I hadn¡¯t expected a casualty this early. It puts the White Team at something of a disadvantage. While I don¡¯t know how many people the Black Team has on the other side of the bridge, being down one person means Sofie¡¯s group might not be able to withstand a full charge. If that happens, it¡¯ll be rather embarrassing for me, as I very much intended for this first match to end in a draw. However, the enemy can¡¯t know for certain that they actually took someone out, unless they send a scout over to assess the situation personally. Under more realistic conditions, they could deploy a drone to do that job more easily, but I banned their use for precisely that reason. That means there¡¯s still a chance this could play out as I intended. And speaking of scouts doing recon, it¡¯s been long enough that I can now switch back to Amalia¡¯s perspective and see how she¡¯s doing with her new mission.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    The short answer is, ¡®not great.¡¯ In the time that I spent in Sofie¡¯s feed, the amber-horned scout seems to have triggered one of the enemy¡¯s traps- a cleverly placed mine that deployed some sort of gas. I¡¯m fortunate enough not to be smelling it, but based on the color alone, a putrid red-green blend that reminds me of snot and blood, it can¡¯t be good. The way Amalia is coughing like she wants to retch out her entire lungs cements my theory as well. Rather than pull her own plug, however, she soldiers on, stride unsteady, keeping her head down. The cloak seems to be intact, allowing her to finally find her way to a vantage point behind the Black Team¡¯s side of the bridge.


    Her legs giving way, Amalia collapses to the ground, using an arm to keep her head propped up high enough that she can see the enemy. Then, she transmits what she¡¯s seeing to Sofie, as well as a wordless apologetic sentiment for not having been able to finish the mission, and activates her own kill switch, as blood begins to bubble up in her throat.


    Returning to my own perspective, I sit back in the chair, silent. Being in someone¡¯s head as they¡¯re dying, even if you aren¡¯t feeling most of what they¡¯re feeling, is unpleasant, to say the least. I¡¯ve done it before, lived through historical battles using archival perspectives from soldiers on the front lines, but it was never quite as personal as this. In the back of my head, two things happen. The first is that I revise my estimation of Amalia upwards by a significant degree. The second is that I decide that I won¡¯t be offering Nikitha the job of Engineering Officer. It¡¯s an irrational choice to make, but I simply can¡¯t see myself promoting anybody who makes weapons like that. I¡¯m not quite disgusted enough that I won¡¯t make use of her talents in the future, but she¡¯ll be employing them as a subordinate of someone else. Probably Ada, since the only other option is Bret, and that¡¯s still not happening.


    Once my stomach has settled slightly, I access the recording of Amalia¡¯s last moments, filtering out everything except what she saw- a perfect overview of the enemy¡¯s entrenchment, captured from a vantage point I set up behind the bridge specifically for this purpose. There¡¯s a mirror of it on our side as well, for the sake of fairness. It seems like Niko decided to commit roughly the same number of his people to the frontal assault as we did. Though it¡¯s somewhat difficult to sell who¡¯s who from behind, I can see him, Ibrahim, Nikitha, and Grant. Mars is nowhere to be seen, which probably means he¡¯s playing defense, since he isn¡¯t exactly suited for stealth. They don¡¯t appear to have taken any casualties yet, which isn¡¯t a great sign, since we¡¯re now down two people. Hopefully Sofie can find a way to remedy that, or my plans are shot. But before I can return to her point of view, I hear something with my own ears. An explosion, and quite nearby.


    Opening my eyes, I see Sander, already moving to investigate. Just in case it¡¯s a distraction, I put a hand on my rifle, ready to raise it and fire, should anyone come in. No such intruder appears, however. Instead, Sander returns momentarily, shaking his head to indicate it was nothing. That doesn¡¯t mean it actually was nothing, though, just that he didn¡¯t have to kill anyone- so I access Tai¡¯s camera feeds, and swap between different views until I can see what happened.


    It looks like one of Sander¡¯s tripwires was tripped, resulting in an unfortunate, if mercifully swift demise for whoever got caught in it. The explosives involved were potent enough not to have left behind much in the way of identifying details, just a rather lot of gore strewn about the artificial landscape outside of our stronghold. At a guess, the unfortunate soul was Valent, one of the Black Team¡¯s stealth specialists. I didn¡¯t see him on the front lines, and leaving him to watch the flag would have been a waste of his talents. He was probably attempting to do what we initially sent Amalia to do- scope out the situation, and maybe even take the flag without anybody noticing, obviating the whole stalemate thing entirely. That didn¡¯t work out especially well, though- which is all according to my design.


    The odds are a little closer to even now. Unless either of my chosen commanders develops a reckless streak, they¡¯ll remain locked in a stalemate, each side picking off the others¡¯ people one by one, until the people guarding each flag are all that¡¯s left. At that point, I think I¡¯ll call the whole exercise to a close, and we can wait for everybody who died to be reborn- hopefully into a body with a few upgrades -before beginning our debrief. They may be slightly annoyed that I engineered their deaths in such a manner, but it¡¯ll be a learning experience if nothing else. Hopefully it doesn¡¯t take too long.


    <hr>


    In the end, it takes four and a half hours. After the initial excitement, both sides seem to swiftly realize their respective positions, and hunker down for the long hall. Exchanges of fire become less frequent, and a brief game of cards is even played on the front lines, although it¡¯s interrupted by the enemy loosing a few rounds, as if just to remind the players that they¡¯re there.


    Then, after several hours of that, the Black Team seems to realize that the situation isn¡¯t tenable. Niko isn¡¯t willing to order a frontal assault- the specter of total defeat is still too great to confront -but he does have his people resume firing in earnest, something Sofie is all too eager to meet in kind. Around that time, the Black Team also sends Grant out to assess the White Team¡¯s position, only for him to be caught in one of Ada¡¯s stasis traps and swiftly struck down by Colleen¡¯s blade. After that, the remaining assault groups on each side thin each other out pretty quickly- there were only four of them in each, after all.


    In the end, Niko himself is the only one who remains. But after he gingerly steps through to the other side of the bridges finding Sofie¡¯s group slain, he doesn¡¯t proceed to our base in a futile effort to secure the flag. Instead, he opens a brainband channel direct to me.


    Izanami. This was a very clever trick you played. I know I can¡¯t get past your defenses, save perhaps if I were to summon those who remain to guard my flag. And if I did that, and we still fell, it would leave victory within your grasp. Rather than play out either scenario, which would undoubtedly result in further unnecessary death, and waste biomass without cause, I propose that we end this exercise without a winner, as you clearly intended from the very beginning.


    Naturally, I accept. It would be unseemly of me- not to mention cruel -to force a fight to the death for no real reason. The lesson I intended to impart has been learned, and refusing Niko¡¯s offer would only serve to undercut it. If we both marshaled our paltry remaining forces, a victor would emerge, but I¡¯d bet good money that it would be a single person left standing, and even if they managed to avoid whatever traps remained in the enemy¡¯s stronghold, it would be a hollow victory indeed to seize the flag and hold it alone.


    As the Crucible staff are entering the arena to remove the corpses for recycling, and to eventually deconstruct the entire thing, even though they¡¯ll need to put it back together the day after tomorrow, I meet with Niko outside. He doesn¡¯t look happy. It doesn¡¯t seem like he¡¯s upset either, but this whole experience certainly hasn¡¯t left him thrilled. That was my intention, among other things- to teach my unit that warfare isn¡¯t glamorous or glorious. Mostly it involves a lot of sitting around being very bored, and then getting killed by something you had no way of knowing about or avoiding.


    ¡°If you were hoping to win anybody over with this, I suspect you¡¯ll need to reconsider your tactics,¡± the Stormwolf says to me, as a medic stitches up a bullet wound on his shoulder. It was a mere graze, not enough to slow him down, but even Imperium science hasn¡¯t eradicated disease entirely, and it¡¯s best to avoid infection if you¡¯re particularly attached to your current body.


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m sure there¡¯ll be a few transfer requests after this,¡± I admit ruefully. ¡°But once word gets around about what I put you all through, nobody will want to trade places with any of you sorry bastards.¡±


    Niko cracks a grin, then winces in pain.


    ¡°I see you¡¯ve thought this through. And manufacturing a bit of trauma bonding among the rank and file can¡¯t have been a downside either.¡±


    ¡°Nope. Not to sound too much like an abusive parent, but they¡¯ll be stronger for it in the long run. Plus, so long as you and Sofie do your jobs right, the next go round won¡¯t be nearly as bad, and they¡¯ll forget all about this in the afterglow.¡±


    The look in Niko¡¯s eyes tells me that he may think I¡¯m being overly optimistic with that assessment. He¡¯s entitled to his opinion, of course, but having been on the front line may be coloring his perception a little. Particularly since the pain of dying won¡¯t be retained when the others come back, so the worst most of them will remember is a bit of boredom. That¡¯ll be forgotten easily enough after the second run of this exercise, which I expect will have a much more decisive winner and loser.


    Before that, though, we¡¯re due for a day of training. And before that, I need to address the unit- meaning the people who just killed each other on my orders. Most of them are still in the rez queue, which means I¡¯ve got a couple hours to myself before everybody¡¯s available for a debrief. Though I didn¡¯t see any combat myself, I experienced plenty of it secondhand, through the eyes of the other members of the White Team, and I could use a shower and a nap.


    Good work, everybody, I say to the whole unit over the brainband. You all performed well today. For those of you who didn¡¯t survive to the end, the exercise ended in a draw. We¡¯ll be meeting up at the Hyperion Building in a few hours to debrief, but before that, I want you all to have a hearty dinner. You¡¯ve all earned it. And that goes double for those of you who died. Remember, you¡¯ll be coming back on an empty stomach.


    A series of mostly nonverbal acknowledgements trickle in after my address. People in the resurrection queue are perfectly capable of communicating, since they¡¯re just disembodied consciousnesses, until their chosen form is finished being grown. For most of the unit, I suspect this will be their first time experiencing the process firsthand, just like it was for me not too long ago. I don¡¯t feel great about being the one to have caused their first deaths, but it¡¯s better that they get familiar with it now, so it¡¯s not as hard for them later on.


    Niko waves goodbye to me as I leave, Sander following close behind. The Citadel¡¯s streets are quiet as we head back to our dormitory. We pass a few fellow Nobles, one or two who I recognize from our year, and others who I suspect are upperclassmen. There hasn¡¯t been much time for me to study the older students since I¡¯ve been here, but it¡¯ll probably become necessary at some point, even if we never come into direct conflict with them. After all, the Heir Apparent leads one of the four upper-year units, typically assigned to replace whichever unit leader performed the poorest in their first year, and if I¡¯m exceptionally unlucky, that could even be me. And even if not, he¡¯ll be the Emperor one day, so it probably behooves me to learn a bit about him before then.


    According to the schedule I read, the Peregrine unit has the Crucible reserved tomorrow, which is why the staff is now hard at work dismantling my arena, in order to replace it with whatever deathtrap Anton designed. I gave some thought to sending one of our people to spy on them while they¡¯re training, but infiltrating the Crucible during an active combat exercise isn¡¯t just dangerous, it¡¯s also difficult. Though it¡¯s an arena, there aren''t any seats from which to watch the exercises unfold. There is an observation deck above the arena itself, but it¡¯s reserved for instructors to watch their students. The Crucible isn¡¯t just used by us Nobles, after all- some classes employ it for examinations, including Combat 101. Given my prior experience in that class, I¡¯m not especially looking forward to those exams.


    On the way back, I stop by a food stall and pick up some kebabs. Not exactly practicing what I was preaching with regards to having a hearty meal, but Sander isn¡¯t going to rat me out. Besides, that was advice for the people who were doing the actual work. I sat on my ass the whole time- some chicken and roasted vegetables will keep me going just fine.


    The moment I enter my apartment- after Sander runs a quick security sweep to make sure nobody left me any surprises while I was out -a wave of exhaustion strikes. Before I can succumb to it, however, I sync up with my copyclan, giving them the memories of my day so far, and downloading their memories of what they¡¯ve been doing. Most of it is dull logistics or background research on various members of the other units, none of which fully registers in the moment. With that done, I set them to work preparing tomorrow¡¯s training program for the rest of the Gazelles, based on my assessment of their individual performances, and fall into bed.


    <hr>


    A few hours later, one of my copies wakes me up with a silent nudge through the brainband. She informs me that the last of the Gazelles has been rezzed, meaning we don¡¯t have long before they arrive, expecting me to explain myself for how the exercise went down. Though the nap did help me clear my head a bit, I don¡¯t feel entirely ready to do so, necessitating a quick shower and change of clothes. I left my combat gear behind in the Crucible¡¯s locker room, but the practical cargo pants and tight athletic shirt I wore underneath aren¡¯t exactly suitable eveningwear.


    In the interest of time, I take a cold shower, the icy water compelling me not to take a minute more than I need before stepping out and toweling off, shivering from tip to tail. With one of my copies tapping her wrist to let me know I¡¯m sort on time, I throw on a green halter top and black yoga pants, which take a little while to pull on thanks to the moisture lingering on my body. Not for the first time since I arrived at the Citadel, I¡¯m glad that I keep my hair short, because it only takes a minute to make it look presentable, whereas people with longer locks have to spend much more time and effort. I briefly find myself curious as to how Sofie deals with her hair, considering it¡¯s literally metallic. Hopefully rust isn¡¯t an issue, but there must be plenty of minor inconveniences associated with it that she has to accept as a consequence of her body modification.


    On my way out the door, I shoot Sander a brief brainband message letting him know I¡¯m heading downstairs. To my surprise, he doesn¡¯t immediately join me, but rather suggests that I go ahead without him. Maybe he¡¯s busy with something, although I¡¯m slightly ashamed to admit that I have no idea what he could actually be doing. I¡¯ve come to take his presence for granted, despite the fact that I still don¡¯t know much about his actual interests. He¡¯s loyal to me because of my rank, but I can¡¯t count on him being loyal to me personally unless I put forth some effort to actually get to know him. Obviously, he wouldn¡¯t leave me unattended if he thought there was any risk, but within the Hyperion Building, which he¡¯s already personally secured, there¡¯s virtually zero chance of danger.


    Most of the unit is already there when I arrive downstairs. There¡¯s a few different conversations ongoing, and though the room gets quiet when I walk in, it quickly passes. Some people seem to have brought food with them, while others- hopefully -ate before coming here. Though I do want their respect and obedience when necessary, I don¡¯t want to be the kind of commander that makes their subordinates uncomfortable around them- so instead of immediately calling the room to order, I scan the room, looking for someone sitting alone, in order to approach them. My options are scarce, which I suppose is probably a good thing- but I¡¯m not about to approach Bret, so I go to speak with Kat instead. She¡¯s sitting in a chair apart from the rest of the group, eating noodles out of a bowl, probably from the same place I took her the other day.


    ¡°Hey.¡±


    ¡°Hi,¡± the anxious girl replies, not quite seeming comforted by my presence, but at least not actively frightened by me either.


    ¡°How¡¯s the new body treating you?¡±


    ¡°Um. ¡®Sokay, I guess.¡±


    ¡°First time?¡± I ask, doing my best not to seem cloyingly sympathetic. Kat may be less confident than the other Gazelles, but she doesn¡¯t need me treating her like she¡¯s made of glass either. She doesn¡¯t look up from her bowl, just shakes her head. Whatever the circumstances of her prior death, I suppose she doesn¡¯t want to speak of it. That¡¯s her business, though.


    ¡°In a way, you got kinda lucky, going down first. Didn¡¯t have to wait in line like everyone else.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Kat says with a soft laugh. ¡°The resurrection facilities are so nice here, too.¡±


    That might not be a good thing. I don¡¯t want her getting too comfortable with dying, or else she¡¯ll make a habit of triggering her killswitch whenever she¡¯s in any danger. My goal is to help make her more confident and capable, not allow her to become so non-confrontational that she¡¯d literally rather kill herself than ever fight.


    ¡°Well, with any luck you won¡¯t be seeing too much of them after today, yeah?¡±


    ¡°Hopefully...¡±


    The way she trails off doesn¡¯t fill me with confidence, but we can work on that. In fact, tomorrow¡¯s training session will be my first real opportunity to do so. Maybe I¡¯ll see about getting Niko and Sofie to work with their respective teams for a while, so I can coach her personally. I won¡¯t be able to do that for the entire year, but she¡¯ll probably need some special attention before she¡¯s at the same level as everybody else.


    In the corner of my eye, I see Colleen walk in, the last of my Gazelles to arrive. That makes sense, seeing as how she most likely had to return to the Crucible after being rezzed to pick up her sword, then get something to eat, before coming here. Giving Kat what I hope is a reassuring pat on the shoulder, I stand up and find a spot where I can address the group comfortably. Rather than demanding immediate silence, I simply lean back, fold my arms, and wait for people to realize I¡¯m ready to speak. Most of them go quiet quickly, while others continue speaking until they realize that they¡¯re the only ones left doing so, and hastily cut their conversations short.


    ¡°Good evening, everyone. I¡¯m sure you all have questions about why things today happened the way that they did. Rest assured, it wasn¡¯t a failure on your parts, but rather an outcome I deliberately engineered.¡±


    That much was probably obvious to most of them already. Still, I give a slight pause just for dramatic effect.


    ¡°This was for a few different reasons, some of which you may have already guessed. For one, I wanted to disabuse you all of the notion that warfare is going to be fun or exciting. There may be moments of excitement, but for the most part, it¡¯ll be a lot of sitting around waiting, and then getting killed unexpectedly.¡±


    Despite what I¡¯m saying, most of their combat experiences here at the Citadel probably will be glamorous and exciting. That¡¯s mainly because we aren¡¯t really in the business of running accurate war games here. There simply aren¡¯t enough young Nobles to accurately model a proper military engagement, so instead we do smaller-scale scenarios that tend to have more opportunities for glory and valor than a real battle does. That¡¯s why I wanted to cement the reality of battle in the minds of my unit beforehand.


    ¡°More specifically, I wanted to show you all what a stalemate looks like, so tomorrow, I can show you how to break it. And the day after that, you all are going to prove to me that you can learn from past experiences, because we¡¯re going to run the exercise again. I¡¯m not going to change anything about the scenario itself, so if you all want a different outcome, it¡¯s up to you to make it happen. Sound good?¡±


    A quiet wave of assent runs through the crowd, some of it vocalized, the rest broadcast via the brainband. Nobody sounds massively enthusiastic, but neither are they totally demoralized. That¡¯s probably the best I could have hoped for, given what I put them through today.


    ¡°Great. Now, go get some rest, because I want you all back here bright and early tomorrow morning.¡±

 Chapter Ten

    At some point since he arrived at the Citadel, Sander has picked up a habit. Nothing deleterious, of course- he¡¯s far too disciplined for that sort of thing. It¡¯s so minor that if I hadn¡¯t resolved to pay more attention to him, I doubt I would even have noticed it. But every half an hour or so, I catch him in the corner of my eye, popping a small, amber-colored candy cube into his mouth. It¡¯s a small enough tic that I¡¯d feel strange mentioning it apropos of nothing, so I wait until I see him reaching into his pocket for another one, and ask if he¡¯s got any to spare. His face is hard to read, but I do detect a hint of surprise as he pulls out a second cube and hands it to me.


    Unfolding the white plastic wrapper, I pop the cube into my mouth, surprised at the rich, literally bitter-sweet taste. It¡¯s coffee flavored, and I was half expecting to want to spit it out, seeing as I have a general preference for tea or hot chocolate as far as warm drinks go, but it doesn¡¯t taste nearly as acrid as the unsweetened coffee I once tried at the recommendation of one of my fathers. Still, considering how many he must have every day, I suspect this would give Sander¡¯s breath a rather distinct smell. That is, were it not for the gland in his throat that renders his breath inoffensively neutral, one of the many additional bioengineered organs in the modern human body, which makes traditional maintenance rituals unnecessary. It provides a nice complement to the bacterial strain that cleans our teeth for us while we sleep, applied via spray. Apparently on Earth, humans had to clean their teeth by scrubbing them manually with some sort of specialized stick. Positively barbaric.


    While the coffee-flavored cube slowly dissolves in my mouth, I return my attention to the main event. Namely, the rest of the Gazelles, running training exercises. I left Sofie and Niko in charge of determining what their respective teams would do for the first half of today¡¯s session, and so far they¡¯ve been doing fine. Niko has one half of his Black Team practicing at a firing range we set up earlier, at his request. Apparently he requested to study the White Team¡¯s corpses yesterday, and was dissatisfied with his side¡¯s shot placement. That didn¡¯t strike me as an entirely fair criticism, considering they were firing more or less completely blind, but if he thinks he can improve their performance, I¡¯m not going to stand in his way. The rest of them are training with landmines and tripwires, so they can rapidly disarm them in the field. While the explosives are live, they aren¡¯t armed with anything deadlier than some confetti. Having to clean up more corpses so soon after yesterday¡¯s bloodbath would probably be a bit much to ask of the Citadel custodial staff.


    Meanwhile, the White Team is paired off and running melee combat drills, something Kat in particular seems rather uncomfortable with, which I imagine is why Sofie is her training partner. Of course, none of them are learning any of these skills for the first time- that sort of knowledge can be downloaded easily via the brainband at any time. But knowledge doesn¡¯t equate to skill, and even if you have a natural advantage in terms of skill, as many Nobles do, it doesn¡¯t mean your body has the muscle memory necessary to do something right the first time, a dozen times in a row. Fortunately, you retain most of your old body¡¯s muscle memory through the resurrection process, but many members of my unit never had much cause to develop any in the first place, when it comes to things like guns or explosives, or even hand-to-hand combat. They lived on more developed, urbanized worlds where such skills weren¡¯t easy to come by, and I suspect many of them underestimated how demanding the Citadel would be. I may not have been able to see much of the Imperium from Demeter VII, but at least I learned to shoot straight.


    ¡°So, what¡¯s your take?¡±


    At first, Sander doesn¡¯t reply, just grunts to let me know he heard the question. He continues to observe, from our shared vantage point on a rocky outcrop overlooking the open field where we set up shop for the day. There are plenty of training facilities available in the Citadel itself, but I had a late-night stroke of paranoia and convinced myself that the other units must have bugged most of them already, something I immediately told Sofie to put someone on, and changed our plans. So rather than a nice air-conditioned building with plenty of equipment already set up, we¡¯re in a field a few miles out from the Citadel¡¯s walls, at the foot of the mountain the vaunted institution was carved out of. Most of us are pretty sweaty by now, both from the training exercises themselves, and from having to set up the necessary equipment ourselves. Thankfully, we won¡¯t have to walk all the way back- I¡¯ll just call one of the Citadel¡¯s UAVs to pick us up when the time comes.


    ¡°They seem dispirited,¡± Sander concludes bluntly. ¡°Low initial enthusiasm due to yesterday¡¯s events, combined with the inconvenience of a hastily-decided alternate location for today¡¯s activities. I would recommend taking action to improve morale sooner rather than later.¡±


    I¡¯d already come to most of the same conclusions myself, but hearing it all put so bluntly is somewhat discouraging. Still, I¡¯m glad to have people around me that aren¡¯t just going to tell me what they think I want to hear. That would be a good way to end up in a bad spot.


    ¡°Good idea,¡± I reply, before addressing the whole group over the brainband.


    Okay, everybody. Finish up what you¡¯re doing, we¡¯re taking a break in five.


    That percolates through the unit quickly, and I see them wrap up their ongoing activities, set down their rifles or cut the last wires on their mines, and head to the drinks coolers set up off by the side of our little encampment. The flora of Akademos is as beautiful here as anywhere else I¡¯ve seen on the moon, with blue-tinged grass and a ring of violet-leaf trees encircling us, their gnarled branches quivering every so often as a gust of wind blows through, providing us all with a momentary respite from the heat. It¡¯s worse down here, further from the Citadel¡¯s climate-controlled environment, although I¡¯m fairly used to temperatures like this, having grown up on a farm-world. Luckily, none of us need to worry about sunburns, thanks to standard genetic modifications made to all of our bodies in order to prevent cancers of the dermis. Nobody complained much about that, since it¡¯s no longer necessary to ¡®sunbathe¡¯ in order to get tan skin, you can just change your own hue manually during the resurrection process.


    Having a chance to cool off a bit does seem to be doing the unit some good. I notice Sofie is retrieving a sandwich from the bag, and send her a wordless request to grab two more for Sander and I. She complies, tossing them up to us on our perch where I catch them both deftly and pass my bodyguard one. He didn¡¯t ask, but those coffee candies can¡¯t be a good source of protein, and if he¡¯s too busy watching out for me to look out for himself, that means it¡¯s my responsibility.


    While he¡¯s unwrapping his sandwich, I take a seat, legs dangling off the side of the rock. It looks to have fallen from the mountain itself, most likely dislodged during the Citadel¡¯s construction. Sturdy enough to have survived the initial impact more or less intact, it¡¯s now firmly rooted in the ground, the exposed areas weathered by exposure to the elements. All that¡¯s to say, it makes for a decently comfortable seat. After a moment, Sander seats himself beside me, seeming less stiff than usual.


    ¡°Do you think they¡¯re ready?¡±


    This time he doesn¡¯t grunt, just takes a bite of his sandwich and shakes his head.


    ¡°No, but isn¡¯t that the point?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, true. Still, I think I¡¯ll let ¡®em eat a bit first. Only seems fair.¡±


    Sander shrugs, and we continue eating, watching while the rest of the group follows suit, breaking off into small clusters to sit amidst the azure grass and chat amongst themselves. For the most part they appear to have self-segregated along the same lines by which we divided them earlier, White Team and Black Team, but a few have crossed that divide without prodding. I can¡¯t make out any details, but it seems like they¡¯re conversing amicably. Bret¡¯s managed to worm his way into one group, who seems unwilling to tell him to leave, though it¡¯s plain to see on their faces that they have no interest in whatever he¡¯s saying.


    Obviously, I have more planned for today than just some standard drills. That includes things I haven¡¯t told anybody but Sander about. Springing a surprise on the rest of the unit might not be very fair, but it¡¯s not without purpose. They have to be capable of acting with grace under fire, both literal and otherwise.


    As Sander and I are finishing our sandwiches, I surreptitiously retrieve a small remote control from my pocket, and turn the dial from zero to one. There¡¯s no immediately visible change, but I see Sander give me a look, then descend from our perch to go join the rest of the group, as discussed. Normally, he¡¯d insist on remaining by my side, especially during a situation like this, but I¡¯m safe up here on the rocks, and I need somebody to be my hands down on the ground. After discarding our sandwich wrappers in the trash bag, he heads over to the firing range, and starts inspecting the guns in a manner I suspect he thinks is innocuous. While he doesn¡¯t quite manage to look totally guileless, nobody pays him much mind either.


    It¡¯s hard to make out over the low roar of chatter amongst my Gazelles, but if I focus, I can hear the faint sound of footsteps, too fast to be those of a human, rapidly approaching. They grow louder by the moment, and slowly some members of my unit start to notice, glancing around with mild confusion. A few seem to write it off as the ambient sounds of the outdoors, while one or two respond correctly, by jumping to their feet, ready for a fight. Unfortunately, it¡¯s a little late for that.


    A fierce howl signals the arrival of seven furious scalehounds, bursting into the clearing through the treeline. As the name suggests, they¡¯re canids, but with black scales rather than fur, and lethally-sharp claws to boot. Predators native to Akademos, they¡¯d ordinarily avoid a gathering like ours, which is why I deliberately drew them here, using a hidden speaker to broadcast a sound pitched high enough that only their sensitive ears would hear it. The sound is enough to drive them into a frenzy, but rather than flee, they followed their aggressive nature and sought its source, so they might destroy it. Unfortunately for the Gazelles, they happen to be in the way, meaning the scalehounds are now looking to destroy them as well.


    The few who noticed something was wrong act first, and are rewarded for it, as Sander tosses Ibrahim a rifle while Colleen unsheathes her blade. Everybody else, however, is caught unawares. Grant is tackled by one of the scalehounds, which knocks him onto his back. Before it can sink its teeth into his throat, he grabs it by the neck, holding the ravenous beast back. His desperation is little match for its frantic fury, however, and I watch as one of the scalehound¡¯s claws sinks into his shoulder, provoking a cry of pain. For a moment, Grant¡¯s conversation partners are frozen. Then Bret scrambles backwards, moving like a crab for several seconds before he remembers how to stand up straight, and uses that skill to flee more efficiently. Amalia, on the other hand, gets to her feet immediately, and goes to help wrestle the scalehound off of Grant.


    Nobody else is helping, mostly because the rest of the pack is busy creating other problems for them to contend with. One of the hounds knocks over the table containing the explosives, scattering them across the clearing. Most are already defused, but when one lands in Kat¡¯s lap, she flinches, then swiftly grabs it and hurls it away. Tai, who was heading for the drinks cooler when the hounds attacked, gets his leg slashed by one of them and falls to the ground, though Mars intervenes before it can do any more damage, smacking the beast with the butt of a rifle, which he must have gotten from Sander at some point while I wasn¡¯t looking.


    The other hounds are running roughshod through our encampment, searching for my beacon, although they seem to be easily distracted, particularly by the scent of fear. More than a few Gazelles have decided that their best option is to run, only to realize that there¡¯s nowhere to hide except in the trees, which is the last place they want to be. Moreover, as they attempt to flee, the scalehounds drive them back into the clearing, and their strategy becomes clear. They aren¡¯t just rampaging mindlessly, agitated though they are. After the initial attack, they¡¯ve drawn back, attempting to encircle the unit. Several of our people seem to have been injured- Tai¡¯s on one knee, and Grant¡¯s got blood running down his chest from the gash in his shoulder. Sofie seems to have it the worst, though, with both hands pressed to a stomach wound, as Niko helps her towards the center of the clearing, where everybody is gathered.


    Laying her down, he calls for assistance, and Ada rushes over to apply first aid, while Sander passes the last remaining rifle to the Stormwolf. We only packed four, meaning just about everyone else is unarmed. A few people brought their own weapons- I see Nikitha unsheathe a combat knife, and Valent draw a pistol from his shoulder holster, while others are seeking improvised weapons, like Amalia, who snaps off the leg of the fallen table, hefting the jagged end to use as a spear.


    It¡¯s fairly impressive how quickly they managed to set up a defensive formation. The wounded are in the center, with Ada, who¡¯s taken on the role of combat medic, doing her best to treat them. Most of the others are helping to maintain a perimeter, though Kat and Bret are situated inside of the circle, unharmed but unable or unwilling to help. One of the scalehounds ceases circling and darts in, seeking to strike, only for Mars to drive it back with a burst of rifle fire. He successfully clips the creature¡¯s shoulder, sending fragments of its scaly armor flying, and provoking a cry of pain. As it returns to the safety of the pack, however, I see that more hounds have arrived, drawn both by my beacon, and the scent of blood in the air. Scalehounds are some of the most vicious predators on this moon, and the Citadel likes it that way. It keeps them alive for precisely this purpose, to test and train Nobles. That¡¯s why it was so easy for me to get ahold of the correct frequency with which to attract them.


    So far, the hounds are leaving me alone, presumably because they know they can¡¯t scale the rock on which I¡¯m perched, and because there¡¯s easier prey available. The Gazelles, however, are beginning to remember that I exist. Amalia looks up at me, keeping her makeshift spear leveled at the nearest scalehound, and calls out a question, though without any anger in her voice.


    ¡°Commander! Is this a part of our training?¡±


    ¡°Sure is,¡± I shout back with a wink. ¡°Hold out for half an hour, and I¡¯ll call them off! Don¡¯t forget, you have a defensive strategist down there with you!¡±


    Immediately, all eyes not fixated on the hounds turn to Kat, who goes white as a sheet. Part of me feels guilty putting her on the spot, but this is her specialty, and she¡¯s going to have to prove herself sooner or later.


    Nobody says anything at first, and Kat remains frozen, evidently more scared of others¡¯ expectations than the threat of disembowelment facing her. Then Amalia speaks again, this time not to me, but to her.


    ¡°Okay, Katrina. You¡¯re in charge. What do you recommend we do?¡±


    ¡°Oh! I, um. I don¡¯t know?¡±


    Not even confident enough to express her lack of confidence as a statement, rather than a question. I start to regret hinging so much of this plan on her, when Amalia continues.


    ¡°Think. Our priorities are to keep everybody alive, and to remain alive ourselves for thirty minutes. How can we best accomplish those goals?¡±


    Kat is silent, glancing around swiftly, and I worry for a moment that she¡¯s about to pull her plug. Then she starts speaking, first quietly, as if to herself, then with increasing intensity and speed.


    ¡°We could, um, we could set up some kind of fortification to protect the people who got hurt. Then our defensive line wouldn¡¯t have to be so spread out!¡±


    ¡°Good thinking,¡± the amber-horned scout says encouragingly. ¡°What kind of fortification?¡±


    ¡°That table,¡± Kat replies swiftly, pointing to the fallen piece of cheap, folding furniture. ¡°We¡¯d just have to put it on its side. Then if somebody could grab some of those mines, we could rearm them and use them too.¡±


    A few of the others glance between each other, looking somewhat surprised by Kat¡¯s contributions. I hear them confer, though not loud enough to make out any details from my position. Then two of them, Colleen and Valent, break from the circle and pick up the table, hauling it back as fast as they can. Several of the hounds take notice and move to intercept, but a spray of covering fire drives them back. Within a few moments, they¡¯ve got the table propped up on its side, with Sofie and Tai behind it. Grant¡¯s shoulder has been bandaged, but he¡¯s back on his feet, with a Q-tool in his hand, utility blade extended. Not much as far as weapons go, but it¡¯s better than nothing.


    Emboldened, Kat continues to give orders, directing the members of the defensive line to reposition themselves. Ibrahim, Sander, Niko, and Mars are now arranged in the four cardinal directions, as they¡¯re the only ones with rifles. Everybody else is spread out between them, evenly spaced so there are no gaps which the scalehounds might slip through. However, when Nikitha makes a break for the nearest of the scattered explosives, they pounce, six at once, only a few going for her, while the rest try to get into the circle to finish off the wounded. Mars starts, as though he¡¯s about to charge in and try to rescue the chemical weapons specialist, but Kat grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him back, shouting something I can¡¯t make out over the gunfire. He growls and shakes himself free, but doesn¡¯t rush in, instead firing a precise burst that manages to hit the hound on top of Nikitha, giving her an opportunity to jam her knife into its soft underbelly, and then roll it off of her so she can scramble back to the group. Unfortunately, she¡¯s returning empty-handed, and with a few fresh wounds. Plus, the group is down quite a few bullets, from having to drive back the rest of the attack, which didn¡¯t break the line, but did give a few of the defenders some new cuts and scrapes. In exchange, though, they did take out several of the scalehounds, and no more seem to be coming from within the woods. About a half-dozen are still circling the clearing, with a few that sustained injuries limping away to lick their wounds.


    The Gazelles overextended, an error on Kat¡¯s part. She looks stricken with guilt, particularly because Amalia got a nasty bite on the arm in the attack, but the scout is saying something reassuring while Ada smears a sparing amount of healing gel on the wound. There isn¡¯t much of that to go around either, and a significant amount of the supply was spent on saving Sofie, meaning they can¡¯t afford another slip like that. Fortunately for them, the hounds seem to be faltering, with their numbers thinned. I can¡¯t abide that, not quite yet. They have twenty minutes left to go, and I¡¯ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Turning the dial on my remote up to the second setting, I rest my chin on my palm. This time, there¡¯s a visible effect- the scalehounds become noticeably less agitated. The sound that riled them up in the first place is gone. That doesn¡¯t mean they¡¯re about to leave, though- they¡¯re still hungry, and there¡¯s more blood in the air. Besides, I didn¡¯t turn the speaker off, I just switched to another frequency. It takes a few minutes for that to become obvious, though. Some of the Gazelles start to relax in that time, as the hounds start to circle more slowly, and one even peels away, retreating back into the woods. Their growling and snarling starts to die down, but another sound rises to replace it- the sound of flapping wings.


    Overhead, a flock of Balewings is beginning to gather. At first it¡¯s only a few, but as they cry out, more answer the summons, attracted by my beacon, and by the taste of fresh meat below. Though I may seem an easier target, being up high as I am, they¡¯ll most likely ignore me in favor of targeting those who are already injured. It¡¯d probably serve me right if I was to get attacked, but fortunately predatory animals aren¡¯t famous for their sense of justice or morality.


    As soon as one of the Gazelles notices the avians gathering, a cry goes up, followed by the roar of gunfire. Moments later, I hear Niko bark out an order- ¡°Stop shooting!¡± -followed by an identical brainband command, to ensure he¡¯d be heard. There¡¯s a tense moment after the shooting stops, as the trigger-happy belatedly realize they may have just sealed their own fates. Fortunately, when the bullets rain back down, none of them manage to hit any of my Gazelles. Nor, it seems, did they hit any of the Balewings.


    ¡°You¡¯re just wasting ammunition,¡± the Stormwolf says sharply. ¡°They¡¯re too high up for you to hit. And they¡¯re smart enough to know that they can wait until we¡¯re exhausted or run out of bullets before attacking.¡±


    Nobody responds, though those who¡¯d been firing look sheepish. Then Valent speaks.


    ¡°We must lure them in closer, in order to pick them off. Consolidating the fallen hounds might provide a suitable lure, if we were to suppress the scents of our own wounded.¡±


    ¡°No chance,¡± Mars replies grimly, eyes never leaving the circling Balewings for a second. ¡°The bodies are too far apart. If enough of us broke off to get all of them, it would leave the main group too exposed.¡±


    ¡°Well, then what do you propose we do?¡± Valent snaps back. ¡°There must be a dozen of them up there already, and only more on the way.¡±


    By my count, only seven, but I do have a better view from my position, and a bit of exaggeration probably isn¡¯t unwarranted.


    ¡°Could we not just wait them out?¡± Ibrahim asks. He was one of the ones to open fire as soon as the birds were spotted, which makes him rather brave for speaking up so soon.


    To my surprise, it¡¯s Kat who responds, and without needing to be prompted by anybody to speak up.


    ¡°No. They¡¯re waiting for a full flock to gather, then they¡¯ll attack all at once. You guys wouldn¡¯t be able to shoot all of them, I think. Especially if they claw your eyes out. I read that they like to do that.¡±


    For a moment, I wonder when Kat had cause to read that, then I realize that she probably anxiously read everything there was to read about the hostile wildlife of Akademos before coming here.


    ¡°I see,¡± Ibrahim replies, seemingly slightly perturbed both by that fact and that she knows it off the top of her head. ¡°Well, since we know the commander is behind this, why don¡¯t we find whatever device she¡¯s using to summon these beasts, and disable it?¡±


    Some murmurs of assent travel through the group, and those without the guns begin to glance around the clearing, as if expecting the transmitter to have been hiding in plain sight, rather than carefully secreted away somewhere I doubt they¡¯d ever think to look. Eventually, they seem to realize it won¡¯t be that easy, and Ibrahim has another bright idea.


    ¡°Rebane,¡± he says, turning to Sander. ¡°You follow the commander around everywhere. Did you see where she put the transmitter?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± the gray-skinned behemoth replies bluntly. ¡°I am under orders not to identify its location.¡±


    The group processes that with sounds of vague dissatisfaction, though nobody seems especially surprised. Then, to my own genuine surprise, Ibrahim raises his rifle and points it squarely at Sander¡¯s head.


    ¡°Care to reconsider your answer?¡±


    Though he¡¯s got a rifle of his own in his hand, Sander doesn¡¯t react, just stares straight into the eyes of the heir to the Duke of Flowers.


    ¡°No.¡±


    They remain silent for several moments, most of the group watching the standoff with bated breath, before Ibrahim exhales and lowers the rifle. Sander doesn¡¯t say a word, just shifts his gun back up towards the sky, waiting for the moment the Balewings will strike. As the drama has been playing out, more of them have gathered, to the point where the original numerical assessment is probably accurate.


    When I glance back down from the birds to look at my Gazelles, I see something I can¡¯t say I didn¡¯t see coming- Ibrahim, now pointing his rifle at me. Instead of shouting all the way up at me, he addresses me via the brainband, projecting his words so the whole group can hear. That¡¯s clever- I have to watch my words more in front of them than I would in private.


    Commander, this exercise is over. Members of your unit need immediate medical attention. Disable the transmitter or I¡¯ll be forced to shoot you.


    Making a play for the moral high ground. I suppose that¡¯s fair game, considering I have the physical high ground, and I am the one who set two different sets of bloodthirsty wild animals on my friends and allies.


    The exercise isn¡¯t over until I say it¡¯s over. And if you shoot me, I¡¯ll switch the transmitter to the highest setting, and then destroy the remote, so the only way to disable it is manually.


    To emphasize my point, I take the remote out of my pocket and waggle it. Ibrahim doesn¡¯t budge.


    You¡¯re bluffing.


    Maybe. Are you willing to take that risk? Besides, you only have to hold out fifteen minutes longer, and it would take twice that time for a medevac to arrive if you shot me. Your best option is still to play along.


    Silence. A few other members of the unit let their emotions, not even verbalized, leak out through the brainband. Annoyance, frustration, doubt that I¡¯m bluffing, and even a hint of respect, though it¡¯s hard to tell who it¡¯s directed at.


    Fine, Ibrahim replies, lowering the rifle. But don¡¯t think any of us are going to forget this.


    That¡¯s when it becomes clear to me, he¡¯s not just trying to end the exercise early. He¡¯s making a play for power, and for the loyalty of the unit. Maybe he¡¯s pissed I passed him up for Combat Officer, or maybe he would have done this no matter what I did. Either way, he¡¯s going to have to be dealt with, and soon.


    The best way to do that, of course, is to give the others something to blame him for.


    Of course. I¡¯m not the forgetful type either. Which is why I¡¯m afraid I have to punish this little attempted mutiny. How does turning the transmitter up another notch sound?


    Another, more distinct wave of anger, but this time I can tell quite well where it¡¯s coming from. Half the unit is staring daggers at Ibrahim, including everybody who¡¯s injured. Me escalating things is no surprise to them, it¡¯s to be expected. But without him, things wouldn¡¯t have escalated quite so quickly. Ibrahim spits something under his breath, low enough I can¡¯t quite make it out, and starts swiveling around with his gun, making a show of being on the lookout for the next threat. He seems to recognize I¡¯ve defanged his little insurrection, at least for the time being.


    As I slide the dial up to the next level, I muse for a moment about the potential consequences of this little test of mine. When my copyclan proposed the idea, I was skeptical initially. It seemed like a good way to burn all of my goodwill with them, which was already in short supply after yesterday¡¯s engineered fiasco. But injury and death are temporary things, and I¡¯m willing to bet that any loss of goodwill from this will be outweighed by the victories we¡¯ll win thanks to the skills they¡¯re learning at this very moment. This is the first time they¡¯re working collectively as a unit, and it wouldn¡¯t have been possible if I hadn¡¯t created a legitimate challenge for them to face.


    That¡¯s not to mention the fact that it¡¯s valuable for them to learn that it¡¯s both possible to challenge my authority, and generally not a good idea.


    ¡°Fuck it,¡± Niko spits. ¡°We¡¯re going with the lure plan. You three, get moving!¡±


    The Combat Officer¡¯s tone brooks no dissent, which is precisely what I was hoping for. Not that I¡¯d intended for them to use the dead scalehounds in such a manner, but more generally. My intention in concocting this scenario was to put my Gazelles into a situation where they¡¯d be forced to take decisive, risky action, because sitting around and waiting for the most opportune possible moment would spell doom. Hopefully they¡¯ll be clever enough to put that together for themselves- or at least my chosen officers will.


    Spurred on by Niko¡¯s command, Amalia, Grant, and Bret break from the circle and make for the dead scalehound nearest to them. There¡¯s a tense moment, while we all wait to see if the Balewings are going to swoop down and attack. Fortunately, the predatory avians seem content to continue circling, for now. Grant and Amalia are both lightly injured, and while the Balewings tend to prioritized wounded targets, they¡¯re also intelligent enough to know when someone¡¯s healthy enough to fight them off.


    Much of the tension remains even when it becomes clear the Balewings aren¡¯t going to attack, though, thanks to the looming threat of whatever the third setting on the transponder will summon. There¡¯s a benefit to it too, in that no more birds should be forthcoming, without the signal to draw them in from afar. A sizeable host has gathered, but if Valent¡¯s plan works, they should be able to deal with most of them in a single strike.


    Midway through hoisting up a dead scalehound, I see Grant pause, then turn to look over his shoulder at the rest of the group, wincing slightly as he puts stress on his injury. I¡¯d guess he¡¯s receiving a brainband communication, because there¡¯s little else that could have drawn his attention. He nods his head slightly, likely accompanying a response that¡¯s not audible to me, and then keeps moving, hauling the canine¡¯s corpse over to where Bret and Amalia have piled three others. I don¡¯t know why they¡¯re communicating in a way I can¡¯t hear- it¡¯s not as if I¡¯m going to tell the Balewings what their plans are. But then again, there¡¯s no reason to be annoyed that my subordinates are practicing good infosec. Or maybe the person who was contacting Grant was simply too weak to speak- which would probably mean Sofie, whose condition doesn¡¯t seem to be improving much.


    Rather than head for the next scalehound, Grant starts scanning the area, surveying the grassy clearing for something that I can¡¯t identify. Then he spots whatever he¡¯s looking for, and hurries over to retrieve it, followed by several others. It takes a moment for me to connect the dots- he¡¯s retrieving the explosives that the members of the Black Team were practicing disarming before the initial attack. Part of Kat¡¯s previous plan that had gone awry, but now that they aren¡¯t under immediate threat, they can afford to grab a few mines, inert though they may be. It only takes a single active one to detonate the others, if they¡¯re clustered together in close proximity- and that does seem to be the plan, as Grant takes all the ones he¡¯s collected and drops them into the pile, along with the last corpse collected by Amalia, while Bret heads back to the safety of the circle early.


    As the trio are returning to the fold, the Balewings show signs of taking the bait. The scalehounds were placed far enough away from where the Gazelles are clustered that they should be a distinct scent, hopefully overpowering that of the group¡¯s wounded. Moreover, Ada has been doing her best to help mask the scent of the injured, mainly by tightening their bandages and applying more of the regenerative gel, precious though it may be. Precisely how they intend to detonate the explosives within the pile is unclear to me, though, as none of them exactly came with a detonator.


    That answer comes quickly, as Niko passes Amalia his rifle, and asks her something I can¡¯t quite make out, though it¡¯s probably along the lines of ¡®Are you sure you can make this shot?¡¯, to which she simply gives a grim nod, shifting the weapon¡¯s weight so it doesn¡¯t press down on the spot where she was bitten on the arm. Those among the group who aren¡¯t holding weapons of their own seem to be torn between watching her as she stares down the scope, and watching the bait pile with bated breath. Finally, a bold Balewing swoops down towards it, and digs its talons into the exposed flesh of the hound¡¯s underbelly, which was turned upwards to make for an even more tantalizing treat. Amalia¡¯s trigger finger doesn¡¯t even twitch- not yet. She waits patiently, as the Balewing lets out an earsplitting cry to signal its airborne brethren.


    Soon, more descend, enough that they begin pecking at each other to make space around the pile, before tearing into the dead hounds with their beaks, sharp enough to rend flesh from a human¡¯s bones just as easily. The flock above the Gazelles begins to dwindle, until it¡¯s just a small handful of stubborn birds unwilling to abandon their first choice even for a more easily acquired meal.


    Amalia takes a deep breath, the amber ram¡¯s horns curling ¡®round her ears glowing in the afternoon sunlight. Then she pulls the trigger, and the pile explodes in a massive shower of gore, with shrapnel from the explosives and fragments from the hounds¡¯ scales flying in every direction, though not with enough force to do more than scratch a few of the Gazelles. Amalia herself received one such scratch, judging by the thin red line across her cheek, but she doesn¡¯t scream, just exhales calmly and wipes the blood off with the back of her hand, before passing the rifle back to Niko and picking up her improvised spear again.


    While my ears are still ringing from the sound, I glance up to see the remaining Balewings flying away, spooked by both the explosion and the fact that most of their flock was just blown to bits. A cheer goes up from the Gazelles, at precisely the wrong moment- because the beast summoned by the transponder¡¯s third setting chooses that moment to make its entrance.


    On four thick limbs, each as wide as a tree trunk, it lumbers into the clearing, jaw stretched wide in a furious roar. Jagged spines protrude from its back, emerging from between green snakeskin that glistens in the sunlight. Unlike the scalehounds and Balewings, this creature isn¡¯t analogous to anything someone from old Earth might recognize, except perhaps a dinosaur... minus the feathers, of course. This is a Crushjaw, and rather than scare it off, the explosion and all of our prior antics have only served to enrage it. That jaw will snap shut like a steel trap around someone¡¯s skull, and remove it from their shoulders in a single instant.


    Fortunately for the Gazelles, it¡¯s rather slow, giving them some time to decide on a course of action. Unfortunately, it¡¯s also going to be exceptionally difficult to kill, and I have no intention of ending this exercise until they¡¯ve done so, thirty minute timer or no.


    ¡°Shit,¡± Niko hisses, before shouting ¡°Mars! Get Sofie out of here!¡±


    The warrior hesitates, but only for a moment, before casting his rifle aside and picking up the wounded Intelligence Officer, hurrying to remove her from the battlefield. Without missing a beat, Amalia grabs the rifle and flips it around to face front, joining Sander, Niko, and Ibrahim in opening up on the Crushjaw. Valent is doing so as well, though his sidearm may as well not be there for all the damage it¡¯s doing to the beast¡¯s tough hide. Meanwhile, most of the others are scattering, though only some seem to have any intention of contributing to the battle itself. Tai and Grant I can forgive, as they aren¡¯t combat specialists and have injuries of their own. Bret as well, though seeing the speed at which he flees doesn¡¯t make me gain any respect for him. Ada stumbles, dropping her tube of gel, stopping to pick it up before she runs off after Mars and Sofie, presumably intending to make sure she doesn¡¯t accidentally reopen her wound and bleed out in the middle of the forest.


    When they realize they aren¡¯t doing much good, the members of the gun gang stop firing and split off, most likely at Niko¡¯s silent direction, judging by the way they pair off and circle around the beast. Kat is nowhere to be found, but I see Nikitha poke her head out from behind some cover, and then dash over to where Niko is stationing himself, reaching into her belt to retrieve something from a pouch. He regards it cautiously, then gives her a nod.


    A moment later, everybody else still in the clearing pulls up their shirt to cover their face, instructed to do so by a silent command, and Nikitha tosses what I now see is a grenade at the Crushjaw. It bounces against the creature¡¯s side, with not even enough force to draw its attention, and then purple smoke starts to pour out of it. The creature sniffs the air experimentally, then shakes its head back and forth disagreeably, doing its best to get away from the grenade. However, gas tends to travel faster than a six-hundred-pound reptile, meaning it doesn¡¯t get out of the way in time for the gas to envelop its body fully.


    An open clearing isn¡¯t the ideal location for a gas attack, and so the purple smoke dissipates rather quickly. When it¡¯s gone, however, the Crushjaw is thrashing around in pain, its senses assaulted by the attack. If that purple smoke was meant to be lethal, it¡¯s failed, but the beast is at least incapacitated for the time being. Rather than shoot at it uselessly, which would probably only hasten its recovery, the gun gang keeps their rifles trained on the Crushjaw, while Colleen unsheathes her blade and moves in. This is the first time I¡¯ll have seen the infamous Mantis in action, at least when it comes to wielding her signature weapon. I have to admit, I¡¯m fairly excited.


    The swordswoman slides underneath the beast, slashing the blade out behind her as she moves. It bites into the back of the Crushjaw¡¯s front legs, and as she gets out from underneath it, its knees buckle. Injuriated, it thrashes around violently, but without the use of those legs, it can¡¯t exactly move. Short of deliberately sticking their heads in its maw, the Gazelles have little to fear from it now. All that remains is to finish it off.


    Niko draws breath, as though he¡¯s about to say something, but pauses as Nikitha raises her fist in the universal gesture for ¡®hold back.¡¯ Ducking out from behind cover, she unclips another grenade from her belt and approaches the Crushjaw, apprehensive but undeterred by its crippled fury. Its mouth is still open, essentially locked into that position until it can snap shut around something. The price of being able to bite down with enough force to rend steel. Drawing in breath, the chemical weapons specialist winds up and hurls the explosive right into the creature¡¯s mouth, then turns and sprints for cover again.


    Stomping its back legs furiously, the Crushjaw tries not to swallow, but it¡¯s too late. The grenade detonates, and a plume of sickly green smoke pours from its mouth. Then it begins to seep out from elsewhere on the creature¡¯s body, places I¡¯m completely certain there aren¡¯t any orifices. It takes a moment for me to realize what¡¯s going on- this gas is eating through the creature from the inside out. Aerosolized acid. The Gazelles keep a safe distance, waiting until the Crushjaw stops thrashing about, and until the smoke has completely dissipated. By that time, the creature is little more than a pile of semisolid flesh and bone, slowly sinking into the soil below.


    As the unit waits, the members that fled, including Sofie and Mars, slowly return. I make a mental note of their names, not to punish them, but simply to remember. That¡¯s something they¡¯ll need to work on, if they¡¯re going to contribute to the unit. And if they can¡¯t contribute, they don¡¯t have a place here. I¡¯m playing to win, and I don¡¯t have any time for charity cases if they can¡¯t pull their own weight.


    Once the rest of the Gazelles have gathered up again, I finally descend from my perch, disabling the transmitter entirely. A few people greet me with openly hostile stares, but most seem too exhausted by the whole ordeal to even be particularly upset. For the sake of appearances, I try not to grin at them, no matter how satisfied with this exercise I am.


    ¡°Very well done, all of you. I¡¯ve already summoned an emergency transport to extract our injured members. Those of you who aren¡¯t hurt, help me clean up this mess, and then we can get out of here.¡±

 Chapter Eleven

    The second run of my mock battle goes much more smoothly than the first. Unfortunately, I learn about most of it after the fact.


    Despite Sander¡¯s objections, I don¡¯t spend most of this battle waiting at base. Instead, Sofie takes that job, coordinating things from relative safety, while I accompany the assault team to the bridge. It¡¯s a sound tactical decision on her part, since she still isn¡¯t at a hundred percent after the injuries she sustained yesterday- but something tells me it¡¯s also a bit of revenge on me, for being the person who caused her to sustain those injuries in the first place.


    Another difference is that this time, we aren¡¯t going to entrench ourselves on one side of the bridge and get stuck in a lose-lose stalemate. Instead, Sofie authorizes a full charge, straight through the bridge and towards the enemy¡¯s camp. Everything after that is relayed to me secondhand, because I¡¯m the very first person to catch a bullet to the face. Nothing to complain about, though- hopefully that¡¯ll satisfy some of the people who were more frustrated with my stunt yesterday.


    Upset though I may not be, I still hurry through the resurrection process, not bothering to make any significant changes to my body. I want to be there when the exercise is over, to congratulate everybody on learning the lesson they were meant to- that in battle, hesitation means death. That counts whether you¡¯re fighting someone hand-to-hand, or whether you¡¯re calling the shots from the commander¡¯s chair. It¡¯s better to trust your instincts and make a call, any call, than to sit around and wait for more information.


    That¡¯s not to say having more information isn¡¯t a good thing, but if your spies are competent, you¡¯ll know everything you need to know before the battle even starts. That¡¯s beside the point, though, and would only complicate the message I¡¯m trying to convey.


    When I come out of the pod and reach out to Sander via the brainband for an update, it becomes apparent that the White Team didn¡¯t win. That makes sense. Niko got the better picks, and in a fair fight, we probably couldn¡¯t have beaten them. Sofie knew that, of course, and I¡¯m sure she tried to even the odds, but it doesn¡¯t reflect too poorly on her that she failed, given both her relative inexperience and the fact that she was recently injured.


    Once I¡¯ve gotten myself together and left the medical center, I send a brainband message to the whole unit, congratulating the Black Team on their victory, and giving everybody the rest of the day off for a job well done. Some of the responses I receive are more enthusiastic than others. Yesterday¡¯s stunt may have cost me points with some of them, but it accomplished what I wanted to, so I¡¯m calling it a win nonetheless.


    This was still only the second time I¡¯ve died, and I can¡¯t say I¡¯m particularly comfortable with it yet. So the first thing I do is go get something to eat, and fill my newly-empty stomach. Then I return to the Hyperion Building to reconvene with my copyclan. Most of the unit may be free until classes resume the day after tomorrow, but I¡¯ve still got things to do this week. Specifically, the first meeting of my War Council, which I can¡¯t honestly say I¡¯m completely prepared for. Of course, that¡¯s why I have a copyclan in the first place.


    While I¡¯ve been busy testing the limits of my unit, my other selves have been preparing for the future. All of my plans for the future are predicated on performing well here at the Citadel, and the War Council¡¯s purpose will be to ensure exactly that. Not by helping me with my grades, of course- that¡¯s not a real concern. What matters is that my unit does well in comparison to the other three. It won¡¯t be easy- we¡¯re up against some formidable opposition. But it¡¯s necessary, so it¡¯ll get done. I can¡¯t afford to think of it any other way.


    About an hour into the planning session, Sander arrives, fresh from the resurrection tanks. He¡¯s as difficult to read as ever, but I get the sense he¡¯s disappointed in himself, for allowing me to be killed. It¡¯s not exactly his fault, but I don¡¯t think telling him that would be of much use. The gray-skinned goliath doesn¡¯t seem to have changed anything about himself, at least externally, during the resurrection process. Maybe he¡¯s expecting to have more chances to reconsider his design choices in the future. That probably isn¡¯t inaccurate.


    I wonder how familiar he is with the process. According to the personnel files available to me as unit leader, he doesn¡¯t come from a place that would suggest frequent deaths. Quite the opposite, in fact. He hails from Palmaria, a heavily urbanized world that mostly functions as a tax haven for various multi-planetary corporations. Most of Sander¡¯s parents work in Palmaria¡¯s government, which is responsible for maintaining the highly permissive regulatory apparatus that attracts so many corporations to the planet. Reading a bit between the lines in his file, it seems that, when they decided to have a child, they were intending to create a vessel for their own frustrated political ambitions, someone who might reach a higher station than any of them ever did. For their child to be a Noble must have seemed a dream come true at first, until they realized Sander had no ambition whatsoever, save to be the very best bodyguard possible. Worse still, he ignored the cultural norms of the inner worlds by giving himself a visibly-modified body, prioritizing function over form, and doubtlessly embarrassing his family to their high-society friends.


    Of course, the odds of having two Nobles in one family are astronomically low, so one would expect that they¡¯d just try again. Unfortunately, living in a big city on government salaries meant they couldn¡¯t exactly afford to keep pumping out kids until one happened to meet their specifications. So, for the time being, they¡¯re stuck with Sander, and the slim hope that he might provide an avenue for them to elevate their own stations by ingratiating himself to some other, more powerful Noble. Something tells me that¡¯s not going to be his first priority, though.


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    The next day is my first chance in a while to comfortably sleep in, and I seize the opportunity. It¡¯s almost lunchtime before I allow my copyclan to finally rouse me, and during the process of getting out of bed, the full weight of the previous week begins to set in.


    My life on Demeter VII was anything but sedentary, but it was at least fairly calm. I had a set list of tasks each day, most of which didn¡¯t ever change. Many were involved with the maintenance of our sector, ensuring the growth and harvest of the crops continued apace. The rest were tasks I set for myself, in order to prepare for my eventual arrival here, at the Citadel. And now here I am, feeling completely overwhelmed.


    Part of the problem is that I¡¯ve been dealing with everything on my own so far- which is hopefully about to come to an end. Once we have the first War Council meeting, I¡¯ll be able to delegate to my chosen officers, and focus on only the matters of most importance. Still, there are other things to do before then. I made certain commitments for today, without realizing exactly how exhausted I would be. And the rest of the unit is probably similarly tired, though I doubt any of them have had to deal with any assassination attempts like I have.


    To ensure that I¡¯ve got complete control of my faculties, I wait until I¡¯ve spent a few minutes in the shower before addressing the unit over the brainband.


    Morning, everybody. I hope you all slept well. I know I did. You deserve a long rest after yesterday- once again, an exemplary performance all around.


    Might be laying it on a bit thick there, but it can¡¯t hurt, considering what I put them through.


    The day is yours to do with as you please, but I hope you all didn¡¯t forget that we¡¯ll be having dinner as a unit tonight. The Stygian, 1900 hours. Don¡¯t be late.


    The responses I receive are mostly bland confirmation that yes, they¡¯ll be there, mixed with a few indications of surprise that we¡¯re eating at one of the nicest restaurants in the Citadel. Not only that, but I¡¯ve reserved a private room for us in advance. That should serve as a well-timed reminder to them of the benefits that working for me can provide. Yes, I¡¯ll push them to their limits, and past if possible, but when all¡¯s said and done, I¡¯ll reward them for hard work too.


    Right now, though, I¡¯m not especially interested in pushing past my own limits, which means I won¡¯t be going out for lunch. Instead, I send out a delivery order while I¡¯m getting dressed, and plop down onto the couch to await its arrival.


    ¡°After-action report for yesterday is done,¡± one of my copies informs me, but I wave her off. Perusing the report wouldn¡¯t take more than a second, since all I¡¯d have to do is merge with my copyclan for a moment, but I still don¡¯t feel like it right now. It can wait until after dinner tonight, when I¡¯ll be able to discuss the conclusions therein with Niko, and get his thoughts on how to improve the unit¡¯s performance on the battlefield. Hopefully he¡¯s already put some thought into it based on his own observations. It¡¯s hard to imagine him slacking off, considering how invested he is in disproving his line¡¯s reputation for unreliability.


    For now, I can¡¯t muster enough focus to concern myself with such things. I¡¯m content just to sink into the plush cushions of the couch and wait for my food to arrive.


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    About an hour later, with my stomach full and my thoughts all in order, I leave the Hyperion Building, Sander at my side. With my copyclan handling all the various tasks on my to-do list, including studying for my upcoming classes, my schedule is more or less clear for the day. Still, I don¡¯t want to get into the habit of slacking off just because I can, which means I need to find something to do. And there¡¯s one thing that my copyclan can¡¯t do for me- combat practice.


    The walk from our dormitory building to the gymnasium is short and uneventful, but I make an effort to stay out of my own head for the duration, and instead observe the people who I pass in the street. There are a handful of couriers, transporting food, mail, or other items around the Citadel, most of whom pay me no mind in their haste to reach their destination on time. Other members of the Citadel staff who aren¡¯t on-duty, easily recognizable by their white uniforms, also walk by, many chatting with each other, though they give Nobles a wide berth whenever one of us comes near.


    Naturally, I see more than a few of my fellow students as well. Some of them I recognize from my own year, like Nandor Pal, a member of the Ox Unit with blue, nearly translucent skin that emanates a faint glow even under direct sunlight. We sat near to one another in Logistics, and though I don¡¯t recall saying a word to him at the time, he gives me a friendly wave when he sees me walking past, which I hasten to return.


    Besides him, however, most of the Nobles I pass are ones I don¡¯t recognize. Many of them are upperclassmen, wearing the sigils of one of the four units above ours- Crane, Locust, Orca, and Grizzly. They don¡¯t seem to pay me any mind, absorbed in whatever discussions they¡¯re having amongst themselves. Their internal dynamics aren¡¯t of much concern to me, since we won¡¯t be having much to do with them, but I do intend have my intelligence unit gather some information on the Crane unit when there¡¯s a chance, seeing as the Heir is their current commander.


    That might sound like a mark of distinction, to be led by the future Emperor, but in reality it¡¯s anything but. The unit with the worst performance in their first year is the one whose commander is replaced by the Heir in their second. In theory, the Emperor-to-be will whip them into shape, but that isn¡¯t always how it works out. The current Heir has been here at the Citadel for some twenty years, and quickly lost interest in trying to reform the worst-performing unit, more or less abdicating his duties as commander to whoever used to be in charge. Strangely enough, that seems to have changed as of this year, as the Crane unit¡¯s performance has been unexpectedly strong thus far.


    Whatever is going on there, it¡¯s a mystery I won¡¯t be solving today. Instead, I discard my questions and push open the glass double-doors to enter the gymnasium. It¡¯s a rather utilitarian building, squat and wide, disinterested in mimicking the aesthetics of the Citadel at large. There¡¯s something about that I can appreciate, when the rest of this place feels somewhat hollow, like a gigantic playground designed to pamper a pack of entitled Nobles- myself included, naturally. When I first arrived, the Citadel seemed majestic, especially compared to where I came from, but that¡¯s worn off faster than expected. Now the cool air and practical composition of the gymnasium, which bears no pretentious title, feels refreshing on multiple levels.


    With a wave to the bored front desk attendant, who performs a quick check of my credentials over the brainband, I head through the lobby and towards the sparring room. Since there are no classes in session today, it¡¯s open for anybody to use. With Sander at my side, I have a guaranteed training partner, but I¡¯m secretly hoping someone else will be there who¡¯s wanting for an opponent, since I suspect Sander would be hesitant to properly fight me.


    My wish is swiftly granted, as I hear signs of life before even entering the room. The room¡¯s sole occupant is a man who appears to be a good bit older than me- though obviously looks can be deceiving in that regard -with flowing white hair and a bear that, put together, resembles a lion¡¯s mane. He¡¯s shirtless, broad chest covered in a patchwork of scars that indicate he¡¯s held onto this body for a long time, or that he¡¯s so attached to the memories of his past injuries that he carries them between physical vessels. Either way, I have to admit I¡¯m a little intimidated- and the way he¡¯s whaling on the training ¡®bot in the ring with him isn¡¯t helping.


    Each of the bearded man¡¯s blows seems to land with the force of a torpedo, the impacts throwing the android off-balance and preventing it from even attempting a retaliatory strike. He¡¯s also surprisingly loud, grunting with exertion every time he throws a punch, and not-infrequently shouting with triumph when one lands. It¡¯s a fearsome display, enough to completely captivate my attention. Sander stares too, but with less fascination and more calculation- doubtless trying to spot any vulnerabilities the white-maned man might be exposing. After a moment, I realize why. His shirt, which is draped over the back of a nearby chair, has a Komodo pin attached to it. Despite his seeming age, this Noble is in our year, and a member of the unit I¡¯d consider our most dangerous rival. If Lucia Hark has someone like this at her disposal, beating her is going to be even harder than I thought.


    Shaken by that revelation, I find a place to sit down, waiting for his bout to be over. He doesn¡¯t seem to even register my presence until a few moments after he¡¯s finished pounding the ¡®bot into submission, wiped the sweat from his brow, and poured half a gallon of water down his throat. Then he looks in my direction, nods, and leans down on the ringside rope to address me.


    ¡°What do you want?¡±


    Taken aback by his unexpected hostility, I draw myself up to my full height, tail tensing, and respond sharply.


    ¡°I¡¯m Izanami, eight-eighth in the line of--¡±


    ¡°I know who you are,¡± he interjects, unimpressed. ¡°I asked what it is you want.¡±


    The attempted introduction had more been an effort to observe social norms, and an invitation for him to tell me exactly who he is. Rather than letting him ruffle my feathers, though, I give him the only answer that might earn me some respect.


    ¡°I want to spar. You¡¯ve got to be sick of fighting machines, and I need the practice.¡±


    For a moment he¡¯s silent, looking me up and down with a critical eye- which I¡¯m only now noticing is a striking golden color. Finally, he makes an approving sort of ¡®hmph¡¯ sound, and reaches out a hand to help me into the ring. Behind me, I can feel Sander tensing slightly, no doubt extrapolating in his head what the damage to my body might be if I got hit by one of his blows. Of course, I don¡¯t plan to get hit at all, and the damage would be transitory even if I was, but it¡¯s reassuring to know he¡¯d step in if things went too far.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got guts,¡± the scarred behemoth says, watching me duck under the ropes and stretch out my arms. ¡°I¡¯m Hector. Komodo Unit¡¯s combat officer. Forty-first in the line of Hiraku Fukui, the Master of Arms.¡±


    Hector doesn¡¯t deliver the words with the pride I¡¯ve come to expect from Nobles informing me of their line¡¯s pedigree. He¡¯s gruff and matter-of-fact about it, even though his line has had half as many Nobles as mine has. That makes me suspect the scars on his body aren¡¯t artificial, but genuine indicators of having held onto this body for a long time. For all I know, it could even be his ¡®birth body,¡¯ which plenty of people go their entire life without ever changing, although in most cases it¡¯s because they never do anything dangerous. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    ¡°A pleasure. Shall we?¡±


    He doesn¡¯t say a word, just nods and heads to one corner of the ring. As I¡¯m doing the same, I run the activation sequence for my Midnight implant, making no effort to disguise it. I¡¯m going to need every advantage possible to hold my own against this guy. Almost immediately, I feel the cold clarity surge through my veins, any potential distractions becoming a distant blur as my focus narrows to a single point. Though there shouldn¡¯t be any visible signs, Hector can clearly tell something in me has changed, and he gives an expectant nod, expression serious.


    ¡°Come on, then.¡±


    As soon as the final syllable has left his lips, I¡¯m in motion. Any nervousness I might have felt before stepping into the ring is gone, replaced with a dispassionate drive to win. Not out of pride or vanity, but simply because it¡¯s the goal I¡¯ve set for myself.


    With speed and strength belied by my slender frame, I propel myself across the ring towards Hector, like an arrow eager to be loosed from the quiver. Before he can react, I connect two body blows, then a third, bare knuckles connecting with the taut flesh of his abdomen. The grizzled lion barely reacts, until I go for a fourth strike. Then his meaty fist snaps out, faster than I thought him capable of moving, and grabs my wrist.


    Feet remaining planted firmly in place, Hector tosses me to the side, where I slam into the ropes and bounce back, just barely managing to remain upright. He doesn¡¯t laugh, or even crack a smile, just stares me down, evaluating me coldly. This is a man whose respect has to be earned, and right now I¡¯m nowhere close.


    This won¡¯t be so simple as outspeeding my opponent. His size and strength doesn¡¯t mean he¡¯s slow- I was foolish to assume that it would. And I can¡¯t wait for him to come after me. To all appearances, it looks like he isn¡¯t planning on moving from where he¡¯s standing right now. In fact, even getting him to move at all might be the best I could hope for here.


    Darting in again, I feint, doing my best to make him think I¡¯m trying to land more body blows. At the last moment, however, I surge upwards with explosive force, driving my elbow into his throat. Hector gurgles, gasping for air, and knocks me away with a backhand swing. When consciousness returns a moment later, I feel blood gushing from my nose, and momentarily lament the fact that I couldn¡¯t even manage to go two days with this body before breaking something.


    Pain is nothing but a dull afterthought while I still have the Midnight in me, meaning I can get back on my feet quickly, and take advantage of Hector¡¯s momentary incapacitation, as he struggles for breath through his constricted windpipe. A single blow won¡¯t slow him down for long, but long enough to injure him further. At least, that¡¯s the idea.


    Keeping my center of mass low to the ground, I surge towards Hector for the third time. Instead of striking with my arms, I touch three fingers to the ground, and use them as a fulcrum to swing my legs around, so my boot can strike him in the gut. The Komodo unit¡¯s combat officer rocks backwards, unsteady, and I twist upwards to deliver the coup de grace, an uppercut I intend to knock him on his back with.


    The blow connects, but Hector doesn¡¯t move. All of a sudden, he¡¯s as immovable as a slab of granite. My fist stings, but before I have the chance to process that, he slams his fist into my chest, hard enough that I can feel a rib or two crack. After that, everything goes dark.


    A few moments later, awareness returns, and I see Hector standing over me, impassive. When he realizes I¡¯m awake, he reaches down to help me up. Prideful though I may sometimes be, I¡¯m not so vain as to refuse the gesture, and I grasp his arm, allowing the man-mountain to pull me to my feet.


    ¡°Reinforced bones,¡± he says, almost apologetically. ¡°Let¡¯s get you patched up.¡±


    It takes a few moments for me to put together what he means, mainly because my head is still swimming. When it does click, however, I realize why my attacks barely seemed to phase him before. Whatever he¡¯s got built into his skeleton, be it plastic, titanium, or carbon fiber, was absorbing most of the force of my strikes. That was why only going for weak spots, like his throat or stomach, had any real effect. If I¡¯d hit another vulnerable point, instead of his jaw, I might have actually been able to lay him out.


    As Hector leads me out of the training room, I catch Sander¡¯s eye and shoot him a nod, letting him know I¡¯m alright. He doesn¡¯t follow us immediately, but rather waits a few moments, to shadow me from a few yards back. Hector is no doubt aware of his presence, but it¡¯s more to avoid intruding on our conversation than anything else.


    ¡°That was an impressive display,¡± the scarred man says, pulling a shirt over his bare chest. He removes his hand from my back for a moment to do so, and I nearly stumble and fall, reaching out to the wall to steady myself. ¡°Most people your size wouldn¡¯t have lasted half that time. Ultimately, though, you just don¡¯t have the right kind of build to go up against me. Not in a fair fight, at least.¡±


    He might be overselling himself slightly, considering I did come decently close to putting him on his back. Still, he¡¯s mostly right, even if I don¡¯t think I¡¯d classify this as a ¡®fair fight¡¯ in the strictest sense. If this was any sort of regulated competition, my Midnight implant and his reinforced bones would both be disqualifying factors. But I¡¯m not going to press the issue.


    ¡°Yeah, I know. Trust me, if I was going to seriously go after you, it would be in a way you wouldn¡¯t see until it was too late.¡±


    Tough talk for someone who didn¡¯t manage to draw a single drop of blood, but I¡¯ve got to save face somehow. Hector laughs, unperturbed by the implied threat.


    ¡°I¡¯ve no doubt of that.¡±


    Keeping a firm grip on my shoulder, Hector guides me into the infirmary, which is located quite conveniently down the hall from the sparring room. The attendant on duty looks up at us expectantly, but he waves them away and sits me down near an autodoc machine. Already feeling vaguely numb, I place my hand onto the scanner and wait for it to assess the damage. I only took a few hits, but it¡¯s still worth making sure there¡¯s no internal bleeding that might necessitate another trip through the resurrection queue.


    Fortunately, the prognosis seems positive, and the machine merely spits out a handful of pills, which I down in a single gulp, while Sander watches from the other side of the room. Human bodies are built to be fairly hardy, for the most part, so I¡¯ll likely be fully healed within a matter of days. The only exceptions occur with bodies specifically designed to be disposable, such as those used for competitive deathmatches.


    Once I can feel the painkillers begin to take effect, I gesture for Hector to proceed with the treatment indicated by the machine. He bends down, placing one hand on the back of my neck to hold my head in place, and with a single sharp movement, sets my broken nose. Even through the dull haze, a jolt of pain shoots up my spine, and I dig my nails into my palm to keep from showing weakness in front of the enemy. I doubt he¡¯d try to humiliate me if I cried out or shed a tear, but remaining as stoic as possible is still good practice.


    Hector looks me up and down, assessing my condition, then nods once, satisfied.


    ¡°I need something to eat. You¡¯re welcome to join me.¡±


    That, I suspect, is my reward for lasting as long against him as I did. An opportunity to talk outside the context of violence. Despite the pain, I¡¯m not about to pass that up. Pushing myself out of the chair, I follow Hector out of the infirmary, ignoring the concerned expression on the attendant¡¯s face. Sander remains as impassive as ever, this time following close behind me.


    Rather than leave the building for food, we head to a small cafe within the gymnasium itself. Hector, Sander and myself all order silently within moments of entering the room, and head to a table near the wall window looking out onto the sports pitch outside.


    ¡°So. I have to ask.¡± Hector raises an eyebrow at me expectantly, waiting to see what I have to say. ¡°If your Founder was called the Master of Arms, why are you training barehanded?¡±


    The question provokes another laugh, his gruff voice making it come out more like a bark.


    ¡°The body is a weapon too, you know. My Founder mastered every weapon known to man, and I inherited those skills- but skills don¡¯t matter if you lack the strength to make use of them.¡±


    ¡°Mm,¡± I reply, shooting a glance at Sander. He¡¯d understand that principle better than most, I¡¯d think, given how thoroughly he¡¯s transformed his body into an instrument of violence. ¡°Makes sense.¡±


    Almost without deliberately intending it, I curl my tail over my shoulder and use it to brush a strand of hair out of my eyes, deliberately emphasizing its barbed tip. Hector nods, seeing I¡¯ve already taken steps of my own to make my body a lethal weapon. If I¡¯d been looking to kill him earlier, I wouldn¡¯t have bothered with my fists at all, just jammed the tip of my tail into his throat and torn the artery open.


    Weaving through the mostly-empty tables to where we¡¯re seated, a cafe server places three plastic trays down. One contains a corned beef sandwich, which Hector slides over to his position. The second is mine, a burger dripping with ketchup, mayo, and cheese, plus pickles, and accompanied by mozzarella sticks. Hector raises an eyebrow at my order, but says nothing. Last comes Sander¡¯s meal, a steaming bowl of clam chowder. His portion is smaller than either of ours, presumably because he hasn¡¯t worked up the same appetite.


    Hector digs in right away, the juices gushing from the sandwich almost immediately staining his beard, something I assume is a frequent issue for someone with facial hair as prodigious as his. Meanwhile, Sander stirs his chowder impassively, eyes never leaving Hector for an instant. Passing a hand over the surface of my burger experimentally, I deem it too hot, and let it cool for a moment, indulging in my side dish instead. The soft mozzarella surrounded by the crunchy, fried exterior, all dipped in cool marinara sauce, makes for an enticing combination, and before I know it I¡¯ve gone through half of them without stopping to breathe.


    After a few minutes of eating in not-quite-companionable silence, I speak up again, once more drawing the Komodo officer¡¯s gaze.


    ¡°What¡¯s Hark like, if you don¡¯t mind me asking? Has to be strange, taking orders from someone so much younger than you.¡±


    I did, of course, verify that the Grim Dragon was actually a child, not just an adult choosing to wear a child¡¯s body for some depraved reason. According to every official document my copyclan dug up, she is the exact age she appears to be. Still not a reason to underestimate her, but it¡¯s probably not what any of the members of her unit expected before coming to the Citadel.


    ¡°She¡¯s competent. Most of us stopped thinking of her as a child rather quickly. Judging by appearances is rarely wise, especially here.¡±


    ¡°Of course. But still, isn¡¯t it ever frustrating to have waited so long to get here, only to end up as the subordinate of someone who got fast-tracked simply thanks to the pedigree of her line?¡±


    Disappointingly, Hector¡¯s face doesn¡¯t show a flicker of frustration, or even annoyance that I¡¯m badmouthing his boss.


    ¡°Initially, yes. But she¡¯s earned my respect. And shown me the respect I¡¯m owed, as well. She¡¯s got no ego to speak of. It¡¯s quite refreshing.¡±


    Feeling slightly chastened by that, I look down and return to my food. Hector chuckles at me, dabbing at his beard with a napkin. Then, unexpectedly, he turns his gaze from me to Sander. If he¡¯s bothered by the way my bodyguard has been staring at him, he doesn¡¯t show any sign of it. Instead, he just raises one bushy eyebrow.


    ¡°What about you? How have you found working under Izanami here? Agreeable?¡±


    Sander seems surprised to have been addressed at all, much less asked his opinion on something. He¡¯s silent for a moment, taking a sip of his chowder and wiping a bit of the residue off his upper lip with a napkin. All the while, he doesn¡¯t look at me once, and for a moment I worry that he¡¯s been harboring some hidden resentments that I¡¯ve failed to identify.


    ¡°I have no complaints.¡±


    As soon as the words are out of his mouth, I feel foolish. Even if he does have any complaints, he¡¯s not going to voice them here, to a member of an enemy unit. He¡¯s a consummate professional before all else. Still, the fact that I had doubts at all is cause to check in every once in a while, and make sure he really doesn¡¯t have any cause to complain.


    ¡°I see. And her line¡¯s reputation is of no concern to you? Guarding the life of a Noble whose predecessors are almost exclusively traitors, madmen, or failures?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    Chuckling to himself, Hector finishes the last of his sandwich, brushes some breadcrumbs out of his beard, and stands.


    ¡°In that case, we seem to be on the same page regarding our respective commanding officers. I¡¯ll take my leave of you all now. There¡¯s much to prepare for in the coming week, and beyond.¡±


    Summoning as much poise as I can muster with a hamburger in my hands, slowly dripping ketchup onto the plate beneath, I respond with a respectful nod of my head.


    ¡°On that much, we can agree.¡±


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    The rest of our meal passes in relative silence, and though the healing stimulants I took are helping hasten my healing, I¡¯m not in any state to keep training. So Sander and I leave the gymnasium without any particular destination in mind. We wander the streets of the Citadel for a short while, before happening on a secluded spot down a back street that seems to be infrequently traveled.


    The Citadel¡¯s population shrinks and grows based on the size of the current classes of Nobles, and not all of the miniature city sees active use at the same time. The inactive areas are generally still accessible, just lacking in signs of life, waiting for their inhabitants to return from wherever they¡¯re dismissed to when their services aren¡¯t required. This area seems to be one such spot. I take a seat on a bench hewn from the same white stone as the rest of the Citadel, with the overhang of a nearby building providing some refreshing shade.


    Sander sits beside me, with a gap between us that¡¯s too wide for us to look like friends, but too close to just be a pair of strangers on the same bench. His arms sit awkwardly at his sides, and he doesn¡¯t quite seem relaxed- on guard for an assassination attempt that could come at any time, I¡¯m sure.


    ¡°Can I ask you a question?¡±


    There¡¯s a moment of silence, as if Sander is wondering who I might be talking to, before he realizes it¡¯s him. Then he nods, turning to face me with a characteristically neutral expression.


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    Now I fall quiet for a few seconds, trying to think of the best way to phrase my inquiry so it won¡¯t sound bizarre. Finally, I settle on something I hope is wholly inoffensive.


    ¡°Do you have any hobbies?¡±


    He frowns slightly, as though I¡¯ve impugned his honor in some way.


    ¡°Protecting you will always be my first priority, I assure you.¡±


    I¡¯m torn between wanting to laugh and sigh at what a characteristically serious response that is, and how much he missed the point.


    ¡°No, I was asking out of personal curiosity, not to¡­ I dunno, make you change your priorities or anything.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ see,¡± he replies cautiously, now unsure why I might have any curiosity about his personal life. I don¡¯t blame him- I¡¯ve been taking his presence for granted since the day we met, treating him like a piece of furniture or a particularly useful machine, rather than like a person. An oversight on my part, both from a strategic and moral perspective.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to tell me. I just thought it prudent to learn more about you, considering we¡¯ll be spending a rather significant amount of time together.¡±


    Framing it in pragmatic terms seems to clear it up a bit for him. That¡¯s the language he speaks. Whatever hobbies he might have, I¡¯d feel confident in guessing they would have some kind of practical application beyond just occupying his idle time.


    ¡°When I was younger, I maintained a small rooftop garden in the building where my parents and I lived. Besides that, I¡¯ve mainly concerned myself with my studies, exercise, and upkeep on my equipment.¡±


    Reading between the lines, I can infer that giving up gardening probably wasn¡¯t his choice. More likely, his parents discouraged it as being unbefitting of his Noble status, or some such. Their opinions are none of my concern, though, and now none of Sander¡¯s either.


    ¡°Gardening, huh? My family has a garden back home. We¡¯d grow fresh fruit and vegetables, and Father Jonas would cook for us every week.¡±


    Sander nods along, and makes a vaguely interested sound, which I¡¯ll take as some improvement over his usual stoic silence.


    ¡°Maybe I could find somewhere to start a garden here,¡± I continue, ¡°and you could help me out with it. I don¡¯t really know much about getting stuff to grow, just keeping it alive after it¡¯s already there.¡±


    Suggesting he start a garden would probably not have gone anywhere. Or he¡¯d have taken it as an order, which is precisely what I¡¯m looking to avoid. It¡¯s possible he¡¯ll still do that even if it¡¯s ¡®my¡¯ garden, but I can work on changing his attitude, if he agrees to help in the first place.


    ¡°I would have no issue with that,¡± he replies, showing neither excitement nor disinterest outwardly.


    ¡°Great! In fact, since we¡¯ve got a while before dinner, maybe we can spend some time looking for a good spot.¡±


    I hop to my feet, not giving him a chance to respond.


    ¡°C¡¯mon, let¡¯s go!¡±

 Chapter Twelve

    After an hour or two of fruitlessly searching on foot for an unclaimed patch of greenery we might hope to plant on, Sander has the bright idea of querying the brainband for a solution to our woes. What that turns up isn¡¯t merely a parcel of land, but an entire garden already on Citadel soil, maintained by the staff here. Its purpose is twofold- firstly, to provide fresh produce for certain establishments, and secondly, to create a source of fresh food in case the Citadel is ever cut off from the Imperium¡¯s teleportal network, leaving us without the imports we require to keep everybody here fed. There are large stores of nonperishable food as well, but if some major crisis was to keep us cut off for an extended period, those would eventually run out, and having a garden to harvest from is generally preferable to hunting animals in the wild.


    None of that would be especially relevant to us at the moment if it wasn¡¯t also the case that a section of that garden is set aside for use by the students of the Citadel. A section that currently sits unused, owing to the fact that most of the Nobles here don¡¯t see something like gardening as a worthwhile use of their time. Frankly, I¡¯d probably agree, but I¡¯m not doing this because it¡¯s what I¡¯d most love doing, I¡¯m doing it to find a common interest between myself and the man who I¡¯ve entrusted my life to while I¡¯m here.


    Before heading over, we pay a visit to a general store, where the cashier seems surprised to see anybody purchasing seeds from the shelf in the back, which doesn¡¯t appear to have been touched in some time. Sander makes most of the selections, while I only pick out a handful of packets based on what I can remember Mother Kalli or Father Nico growing in our garden back home.


    With a bag full of seed packets in tow, we cross almost the entire distance of the Citadel to get to the garden, which is larger than I¡¯d anticipated. Only a few people are present tending the crops, and they pay us no mind, once they¡¯re over the initial surprise of seeing a pair of Nobles anywhere near this place. The section of the garden reserved for students is easy to locate, because it¡¯s the only place where nothing is growing. The soil seems to have been maintained, but only to the minimum extent necessary.


    Sander is initially hesitant, but hastens to join me once I get down to work. I know the basic principles of planting seeds, but let him show me the ropes. In typical fashion, he says only what¡¯s necessary, leaving the rest for me to figure out myself.


    Over the course of several hours, we plant seeds for more than a dozen different plants, from celery to strawberries, and begin the cultivation process with plenty of water and a healthy dose of artificial fertilizer. I read once in some historical text that humans used to use actual animal excrement instead of the synthetic stuff we employ now, a prospect which seems so vile that I have a hard time believing it ever actually took place.


    To my surprise, however, the overall process proves quite relaxing, even if I get more dirt beneath my nails than I¡¯d really prefer. That¡¯s not exactly new, having come from a world that¡¯s mostly dirt, but I¡¯d been glad to kiss that goodbye when I came to the Citadel. Besides that, though, gardening turns out to be rather pleasant, as does Sander¡¯s company. He still resists my occasional attempts at small talk, and certainly doesn¡¯t initiate any himself, but he does lend the odd word of encouragement when I¡¯m struggling with something, and never seems to get frustrated when I make a mistake.


    The two of us could probably have kept going well into the night, if it weren¡¯t for a brainband message from my copyclan, reminding me that dinner was fast approaching. We finished our last planting and hurried back to the Hyperion Building in order to prepare, Sander apologizing for not being more aware of the time, though I of course dismissed it as unnecessary.


    Besides thoroughly washing my hands, the only real preparations necessary for either of us are getting changed. I already had an outfit in mind, while Sander simply threw on a black button-up that does little to disguise the fact that he¡¯s wearing body armor beneath it. My evening gown, black with purple accents, provides no such protection, but that¡¯s not of much concern. We¡¯re eating at the Stygian, not going into a war zone.


    The gown isn¡¯t easy to move in, nor are the heels that accompany it, and I didn¡¯t exactly have much opportunity to try similar outfits back on Demeter VII. However, there¡¯s time enough to adjust on the walk over to our destination, such that I look at least reasonably comfortable by the time that we arrive.


    Rather than eschew the design sensibilities of the surrounding buildings entirely, the Stygian more or less mirrors them, with one crucial difference- it¡¯s hewn from black stone, rather than white, making it stand out like a dark mirror compared to the other high-end restaurants surrounding it. The material isn¡¯t native to Akademos, meaning it had to be imported, a cost that was easily borne for the sake of creating an establishment of this quality.


    Sander and I made sure to arrive a few minutes early, but when we get there, a few of our fellow Gazelles are outside, chatting. Grant appears to be holding court, with Valent and Mars listening carefully. They wave and nod in our direction as we approach, but don¡¯t fall silent, which seems to me a good sign.


    ¡°¡ªreally more about pushing the limits of the medium, when you think about it. Switching between so many distinct perspectives is deliberately meant to disorient the viewer, and make it harder for you to pick up on what Janssen¡¯s character is doing.¡±


    Based on that, I can infer that Grant is talking about a mem he¡¯s seen recently, most likely some obscure piece I¡¯ve never even heard of. They¡¯re the primary form of entertainment in the Imperium, the name derived from ¡®memory,¡¯ as they¡¯re a series of fictional events you can witness through the eyes of a principal character, just as though you were seeing that person¡¯s memories. Ordinary films and television do still exist, mainly because they¡¯re significantly cheaper to produce, but the difference is immeasurably vast, like that of a small pond and the whole of an ocean.


    ¡°Evening, gentlemen,¡± I say by way of greeting. All three of them are dressed appropriately for the venue, Valent with a striking red flower on his lapel, and Mars in a smoky charcoal ensemble with a gun conspicuously strapped to his hip. More of a fashion statement than anything, I suspect, but one I approve of.


    ¡°And to you, Commander,¡± Valent replies, with a respectful bow of his head. ¡°Looking lovely tonight, I might add.¡±


    Mars snickers at the overly formal compliment, prompting Valent to playfully smack him on the shoulder. I grin, glad to see the members of my unit getting along so well.


    ¡°Well, we¡¯d best head in now. Our table may be reserved, but this seems like the kind of place that places an emphasis on punctuality.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have expected you to know about such things, being from such an¡­ unsophisticated background,¡± Mars says, voice dripping with so much sarcasm that I¡¯m sure not even Sander could miss it.


    Laughing along with the boys, I push open the doors to enter the Stygian. What greets us is a stark contrast to the stately, classical design of the building¡¯s exterior. Dark ambient lighting and harsh gray metal surfaces, befitting the ¡®neo-plutonian¡¯ theme of the restaurant. It was designed to represent a modern interpretation of the Greek underworld, one of the many ancient human superstitions that still provide a point of cultural fascination.


    The man with the thin mustache at the front desk inclines his head as we enter.


    ¡°Ah, Miss Izanami. Party of... fifteen, yes?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right.¡±


    ¡°Very good. Please, follow me.¡±


    Hands held stiffly behind his back, he steps out from behind the desk and steps through the doorway into the restaurant proper. The main room is almost entirely empty, illuminated by flickering torches on the walls, lit with actual flame. Among the various empty tables, I spot one that¡¯s occupied- by none other than the Heir himself. He¡¯s in a corner booth, sitting with someone who seems to be a Citadel professor, based on her uniform, and they¡¯re clearly quite wrapped up in their conversation, as neither of them even turns to look as we pass through the room. Whatever they¡¯re saying is inaudible to us, thanks to the privacy filter around the booth, a basic service offered by most establishments of this caliber.


    Our guide leads us down a short hallway, where the walls are narrow enough I can feel the heat of the torches on my skin, and into a room at the very end. Inside is what I can only describe as a banquet table, large enough to comfortably fit a group twice the size of our unit. It¡¯s got fifteen place settings, with a healthy amount of space between each one, though not a single morsel of food has yet been set out for us.


    ¡°Please, sit,¡± he says, sweeping out an arm to gesture us to the table. ¡°Your journey will begin as soon as the rest of your party has arrived.¡±


    After he¡¯s left the room and we¡¯ve all taken our seats, Mars looks at me with a raised eyebrow.


    ¡°Journey, huh?¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah, I paid for the whole package here. They¡¯ll explain everything, I¡¯m sure.¡±


    He nods, satisfied with that answer for now, and we fall into silence for a few moments, the distance between us and the emptiness of the room making casual conversation feel impossible. On the wall, the flames flicker and cast odd shadows. The table itself is metal, but carved in intricate patterns to make it resemble wood grain, while the silverware is engraved with delicate tracery. There¡¯s clearly some unifying symbology between it all, but what really stands out is how much effort has been made to make it all look expensive. That¡¯s consistent with my understanding of what other restaurants like this do, to say nothing of luxury hotels, resorts, and the like. The main objective is to make you feel like the experience is worth all the money you spent.


    If you spent your entire life paying that much money to come to places like this, I can see how it would become tiresome, but as someone who¡¯s only experienced it vicariously until now, I have to say I¡¯m enjoying myself.


    A minute or two later, the receptionist returns, with a few more members of our unit in tow. Katrina, Amalia, and Tai come in together, with Bret following a few paces behind them- my guess is that he didn¡¯t want to come in by himself, so he waited outside the building until another group showed up, and then followed them in. He takes a seat as far away from me as possible. The other three fill in seats along the midsection of the table, chatting amongst each other, which does wonders to lighten the mood. A few snippets of their conversation indicates to me that it¡¯s nothing of interest to me, so I tune it out and turn my attention back to the ones I entered with.


    ¡°Tell me, how did you three spend your day off? Nothing too strenuous, after all that I put you through, I¡¯m sure.¡±


    ¡°Certainly not,¡± Valent responds, with an ironic twinkle in his eye. ¡°I was conducting some... shall we say, research, into our assorted malefactors. Beyond that, I¡¯m afraid there¡¯s little I can say, though rest assured Mademoiselle Lang will have my full report in due time.¡±


    The more I hear Valent speak, the more certain I am that his French accent is an affect. It¡¯s not that the accent itself isn¡¯t still around in some places, but he places a little too much emphasis on the few actual words of the language he slips into his speech. That being said, I can¡¯t help but find it somewhat charming.


    ¡°Glad to hear it. You two?¡±


    Grant scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably. It feels a little like he doesn¡¯t know how to act around me, after I called him out on his little ¡®smooth operator¡¯ act the first time we spoke. To his credit, he hasn¡¯t slipped back into it, and seems to have taken my words to heart, but without a script to stick to, he¡¯s a little lost.


    ¡°Stayed in, mostly. Doing some of that stuff you asked me about. Called my parents. Boring shit, you know the drill.¡±


    I make a sympathetic noise and turn away from him, which makes him relax a bit.


    ¡°Got into a bit of a scuffle,¡± Mars says, a hint of pride in his voice. ¡°One of the Peregrines. Avis, her name was. Scrappy type. Said she was looking for a fight, I said I¡¯d give her one. We both got a few good hits in, decided to call it a draw before it went too far.¡±


    A better outcome than my ill-fated bout with Hector, then. Fortunately, Sander is about the last person I¡¯d expect to tell anybody about that encounter, so my secret is safe for now.


    ¡°You get her number?¡± I ask, with a laugh.


    ¡°Nah, didn¡¯t try. She didn¡¯t seem like she¡¯d be interested. Told her to look me up if she wanted a rematch, though.¡±


    Sleeping with the enemy is generally considered bad practice, but there are also potential advantages if you play your cards right, so I¡¯m not going to forswear it completely. It¡¯s good to know Mars has some restraint, though.


    ¡°Sounds like a good time. Maybe you can introduce me.¡±


    Mars chuckles.


    ¡°Yeah, you seem more her speed. And her weight class, for that matter.¡±


    While we¡¯ve been chatting, a few more Gazelles have come in. Sofie and Ada walk in together, the former wearing a silver gown that¡¯s rather more revealing than mine, while the latter has a navy-blue suit with a yellow tie, matching her two-toned hair. After then is Nikitha, alone and seemingly glad to be that way.


    Almost the entire unit is here, though there¡¯s one absence that does concern me slightly. Ibrahim might be planning to skip the dinner entirely, to display his dissatisfaction with my leadership- though that would be a more compelling statement if anybody joined him, while it currently seems like nobody will be. And the other two who are yet to arrive, Colleen and Niko, are among the last I¡¯d expect to display such a sentiment so openly, or at all.


    Sure enough, the two of them come in a few minutes later, animatedly discussing the technical differences between two varieties of sword. Colleen seems to have loosened up a little, which I¡¯m glad to see, and it speaks well to Niko¡¯s potential as an officer that he was able to make that happen.


    Rather than turn around and head back to the front desk, the receptionist glances at the sole remaining empty seat, then to me, asking silently if we¡¯re ready to begin or not. It¡¯s a few minutes past our designated start time, and the whole process does take a while, so we can¡¯t wait forever. I consider my options for a few seconds, trying to figure out what choice is the least likely to make me look like an asshole.


    Give it a minute, I decide eventually. He nods and heads out, while the rest of the group continues chatting. I swish my tail back and forth impatiently, like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, wondering if I made the wrong choice. If we end up waiting forever and Ibrahim never shows, I look weak for not just moving on without him, but if I make a big show of moving on and then he walks in, I look like a jerk for not just being patient.


    Fortunately for me, the situation resolved itself just a few moments later, when Ibrahim strides through the doorway, wearing a suit with a multicolored floral print, a clear reference to his Noble heritage.


    ¡°Commander. Apologies for my lateness,¡± he says with a bow, nothing in his tone indicating he means that even slightly seriously.


    There¡¯s really nothing to be gained from replying, so I just nod in response and gesture for him to sit. The last seat remaining is on the far end of the table, away from me, right next to Bret. If that¡¯s where Ibrahim wants to be, it¡¯s his prerogative, but I wouldn¡¯t make that choice if I was in his position- especially not with the way Bret¡¯s face lights up when he sees he won¡¯t be alone for the evening. Bret¡¯s the sort of person to assume that anybody who even exists in his general proximity wants to be friends, unless they make an effort to convince him otherwise- and Ibrahim, with a politician¡¯s instincts, will be hesitant to alienate him. But after an evening sitting next to Bret, and realizing that he¡¯s the only person who would be particularly interested in making some kind of play against me, he might begin to reconsider whether his attempted mutiny is a good idea after all.


    ¡°Delightful, you¡¯re all here,¡± the concierge says dryly. ¡°Your journey will begin forthwith, but for those of you unfamiliar with what we do here at the Stygian, allow me to explain. The meal you¡¯re about to be served consists of nine courses, five liquid, four solid, representing the five rivers and four realms of the underworld. You will pass through the lands of purgatory, punishment, and finally, paradise. Are you prepared?¡±


    Murmurs of assent pass from one end of the table to the other, and he nods to us, before turning to leave. The moment he¡¯s passed through the doorway, three servers enter, two men and a woman, all wearing the same uniform. They each carry a tray of drinks, all of which appear identical- the first of the liquid courses. We remain silent as the servers place one glass in front of each of us. They¡¯re shot glasses, each holding barely a thimbleful of what appears to be plain, ordinary water- yet the servers hold each of them with such care that I¡¯d forgive someone for assuming the glasses themselves were somehow priceless, despite the contents appearing to be so mundane.


    ¡°Acheron,¡± the concierge¡¯s voice intones, from some hidden speaker that makes his words reverberate around the room, while the servers quietly make their exit. ¡°In Ancient Greece, a real river was believed to be the entrance to the underworld. A bridge between reality and myth. As such, we have imported genuine Earth water, taken from that same river, preserved and purified, for your first course. Even a single drop is priceless, so be careful not to spill any.¡±


    Several of my Gazelles inhale sharply in surprise, while others silently regard the glass in front of them with renewed interest. A few, Ibrahim among them, make a show of being unimpressed. Though they¡¯re too far away for me to hear, I can see Bret lean over and whisper something in his ear, prompting Ibrahim to make a forced attempt at laughter. He¡¯s placed himself in an unenviable situation, having to tolerate Bret¡¯s attempts at humor for the rest of the evening.


    Trying to hide my smirk, I raise the glass to my lips and drink. Naturally, it tastes the same as any other glass of water might. Knowing it came from the world where humanity originated doesn¡¯t actually imbue it with any special flavor or weight. Maybe if it hadn¡¯t been treated to remove whatever pollutants were there originally, it would taste special, but not in a good way.


    Swiftly, the rest of the unit follows suit, each of them cautious not to let the glass slip from their hand, lest they waste a drop. When all fifteen glasses have been emptied, the servers swiftly re-enter the room and collect them. As soon as that¡¯s done, another set of servers enters, this time wearing masks, which I vaguely recognize as being associated with Greek theater, one half of them smiling, the other half sporting a frown. They¡¯re carrying a number of individual plates, each with a metal lid hiding the contents. One is placed in front of each of us, while we watch in silence.


    Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bret, impatient, try to remove the lid, only to find it attached to the plate via a magnetic strip. He glances around guiltily, and I pretend like I saw nothing. From what I can tell by observing the rest of the unit, the theatrics are still somewhat perplexing to them or perhaps just an annoyance for now. Hopefully that¡¯ll change soon, else this entire enterprise, which wasn¡¯t inexpensive, will have been a waste of time.


    After the masked servers have all left the room, the magnetic locks on our plates deactivate, and everybody reaches to remove the lid obscuring their next course. Underneath my plate is a replica of my own face, expression neutral, eyes obscured by a pair of coins. Drachmae, if I¡¯m not mistaken, the currency the Greeks used in antiquity. There are gasps, even a few sounds of disgust, though I hear others chuckling as though this is a prank. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    ¡°Erebus,¡± the concierge intones. ¡°The realm through which all the dead pass through before dying. You see before you a reminder of your own mortality, coins placed over your eyes to pay your way down the River Styx.¡±


    Picking up one of the coins, I find the eye socket beneath sunken and hollow, but the coin itself surprisingly soft. Closer inspection reveals the metal to be foil, which I peel back to find chocolate beneath. After flashing it to the rest of the table, I take a bite, savoring the rich, sweet taste. After I¡¯ve set the other coin aside, I lift the replica face, the flaky surface revealing itself to be some kind of pastry. And when I bite in, the red fluid that gushes out isn¡¯t blood, but raspberry jam. It¡¯s delicious, albeit an unorthodox appetizer for dinner, but I enjoy it just the same.


    Some of the others seem to have some qualms about eating a detailed replica of their own visage, but they all succumb to temptation eventually, especially with the sounds Sofie is making as she eats, scarfing it down like she hasn¡¯t eaten in days. She seems much better, her wounds from the training exercise two days ago almost entirely healed. Still, I probably do owe her a proper apology for that whole affair. Even if I wouldn¡¯t have actually done anything different.


    ¡°This is weird, right? Am I the only one who thinks this is weird?¡± Bret jokes awkwardly. Nobody laughs- not even Ibrahim can muster a sympathetic chuckle. He glances around uncomfortably, looking for someone to respond favorably, but it doesn¡¯t come. ¡°What? I¡¯m just saying what we¡¯re all thinking!¡±


    The way his voice rises in desperation at the end makes me wish I actually was eating my own face, so I could bite off my own ears and not have to hear another word from him. Fortunately, we all finish our face-pastries quickly enough, prompting the masked servers to return and clear our plates.


    ¡°The second river, Styx, from which we take our name,¡± narrates the concierge, as the first group of servers returns, carrying yet more drinks. These are proper glasses, filled with some kind of cocktail, glowing an eerie green color. ¡°These drinks each contain a concentrated dose of phencyclidine, said to induce a sensation of invulnerability, much as Achilles was made invulnerable after his mother dipped him in the Styx as a child. The effect should last only minutes, but be warned, it¡¯s quite potent.¡±


    Mars whistles at that, looking impressed, while Nikitha, our resident chemical warfare expert, only chuckles. For a few moments after we¡¯ve all been served, everybody regards their drink somewhat suspiciously, nobody willing to take the first drink. That means, of course, that it¡¯s got to be me. So I pick up the glass and toss back a mouthful, before my common sense can kick in and remind me why it¡¯s a terrible idea.


    The Styx tastes like liquid death. Then everything goes black.


    When awareness returns, I get the feeling that some stretch of time has passed. Not too much, but enough for me to be concerned about the fact that I can¡¯t remember exactly how long. The second thing I notice is that the rest of the unit looks as shaken-up as I feel. Ties have been loosened, sleeves rolled up, hair let down. But precisely what happened to precipitate any of that, I can¡¯t recall.


    ¡°You have all passed through the third river, Lethe. The river of memory. It contained an amnesiac, enough to completely erase your memories of what you did over the past several minutes, including anything you might have done under the influence of the previous drink. During the period you forgot, we encouraged you, with your inhibitions lowered, to share secrets you might not otherwise have told anyone, in the spirit of forgetting. Rest assured, any confessions you may have made were not recorded, nor heard by myself or any of our staff.¡±


    That explanation provokes some uncomfortable mutterings from around the table. I don¡¯t really feel the same discontent as the others do, even though I¡¯ve got secrets more significant than any of them. The reason why is simple- I trust myself enough to know I wouldn¡¯t have spilled the beans about anything important, even if I was completely certain we weren¡¯t being overheard by the staff here. My only regret is that I didn¡¯t think to bring a listening device and surreptitiously activate it, to record the confessions of the rest of my unit.


    ¡°Well, if anybody wanted to confess their love to me, uh, I wouldn¡¯t be upset if you did it again now,¡± Bret says, then laughs a little too hard at his own joke. Ibrahim exhales in a way that could be interpreted as a laugh, if you were feeling very, very generous, but it seems to be enough to bolster Bret¡¯s spirits. He¡¯s looking rather uncomfortable, sweat beading on his forehead. I would imagine the phencyclidine didn¡¯t agree with him- giving someone with so much unearned self-confidence a drug like that would definitely not be healthy.


    ¡°And now,¡± the concierge says calmly, unconcerned by the unit¡¯s obvious discomfort, ¡°comes Asphodel. Purgatory.¡±


    Once more the masked servers make an appearance, carrying several largely identical platters, which reveal themselves to be charcuterie boards, each with a white asphodel flower resting in the center. At some point, plates appeared in front of each of us, presumably placed while we were under the amnesiac¡¯s influence. A neat parlor trick, I suppose. This is also the first real food we¡¯ve received since we got here, which is a relief to me, and clearly many of the others, judging by how quickly they start to dig in.


    When it becomes obvious that we aren¡¯t going to be interrupted by the concierge again for the next little while, conversation begins to start up around the table.


    ¡°So, Izzy,¡± Sofie calls from a few places down the table, picking up a grape with two fingers and popping it in her mouth. ¡°What¡¯s the plan for next week? Gonna release a pack of rats into our dorms and see who gets eaten?¡±


    A roar of laughter erupts from her side of the table, and I can feel the tension draining from the room. It¡¯s good to know she isn¡¯t nursing a grudge, and displaying that openly will take the wind out of the sails of Ibrahim¡¯s attempted coup, since his main argument more or less hinged on the fact that I allowed her to get seriously injured during a training exercise.


    ¡°Rabid ferrets, actually,¡± I call back, spearing a pair of olives with a toothpick. ¡°But close enough!¡±


    She laughs back, and blows me a kiss, which makes me blush, unexpectedly. Not for the first time, I notice that she¡¯s rather pretty, and while that¡¯s not exactly special in a society where everybody can choose their own appearance, the fact that her captivating charms are paired with such an appealing body and face certainly doesn¡¯t hurt.


    It¡¯s probably just the last vestiges of the drugs in my system lowering my inhibitions, but thinking of that only makes me wonder what I might have said to her, or to certain other people at the table, while the influence of the drugs was at their peak, and I knew none of them would remember my words after imbibing the amnesiac. I wouldn¡¯t have spilled any important secrets, but it¡¯s not inconceivable that I might have admitted something that even now, I can¡¯t quite articulate inside of my own head, just to get it off my chest.


    With surprising speed, the charcuterie boards are cleared off. I suppose the unit was hungrier than I thought- or maybe the drug cocktails we all imbibed did something to increase our appetites. Still, I don¡¯t regret drinking mine. After all, the restaurant has no incentive to put anything legitimately dangerous in those drinks, not if they want repeat customers.


    Once the last remnants of this course- the fourth overall, I¡¯m pretty sure -have been eaten, the servers return to clear the boards away, and make room for the next set of drinks.


    ¡°Cocytus,¡± the concierge says grimly, as a server places a glass full of a silver-gray, almost sickly fluid in front of me. ¡°The wailing river. Said to dwell in the lowest circle of the abyss, it was thought to be ice-cold, the final punishment of betrayers to be frozen in its depths. This cocktail is meant to simulate the sensation of that same icy pit, with a generous helping of liquor to keep you warm through it.¡±


    As his voice fades, I glance around the table, looking at a room full of people who don¡¯t seem thrilled at the prospect of drinking anything like what he just described.


    ¡°Yeah, it doesn¡¯t sound thrilling to me either. But we were promised paradise at the end of all this, and I did pay up front, so... bottoms up!¡±


    With as cheerful a wink as I can muster, I down half the glass in one gulp, feeling a freezing chill run through my veins almost immediately. It¡¯s got some vague similarity to the sensation of taking Midnight, but without any of the clarity the combat drug provides. Fortunately, the warmth of the liquor comes right after, leaving me with a strange feeling in my bones. It¡¯s not entirely unpleasant, but certainly not something I¡¯d want to drink on a regular basis. Still, once the initial discomfort passes, I have no problem finishing my drink, nor does most of the rest of the unit.


    Bret appears to be having some trouble with his, though when he realizes the rest of the unit is well on their way to finishing, he gulps down too much, too fast, and coughs some of it up onto his sleeve, before turning away to hide his face. I almost feel sympathy for him, before he turns to Ibrahim and quips ¡°Well, looks like somebody was a little too eager, huh?¡±


    My would-be replacement glances around, uncertain as to who Bret is referring to, before realizing he was talking about himself, and disguising an exasperated sigh as a cough of his own, and mumbling something that sounds vaguely like an agreement.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t go so far as to say I feel like wailing,¡± Valent remarks to me, ¡°but the feeling this concoction evokes is certainly strange.¡±


    Nodding, I down the last of my glass and shiver, already anticipating the rush of warmth that comes after. Without any sleeves on my gown, it¡¯s got to be a bit worse for me than those who wore something more practical for the evening. Still, I don¡¯t regret it entirely, if only for the glances some of the members of the unit have been shooting my way all evening. A few were to be expected, like Mars, who made his interest in me clear right from the beginning, but I hadn¡¯t anticipated Nikitha, of all people, to be looking at me like that. She creeps me out just enough that I¡¯ve avoided returning her gaze, but it¡¯s nice to be appreciated in that sense.


    When the silvery substance has worked its way through my system, I notice my stomach feeling emptier than it rightly should, considering I ate a decent amount off of the charcuterie board not too long ago. The reason why that¡¯s a good thing clicks for me a moment later, when I see the masked servers entering the room with our next course, concurrent with our empty glasses being removed. It¡¯s a veritable feast, with nearly half a dozen full platters, covered by the same magnetically-fastened lids, that look large enough to be a whole meal unto themselves.


    ¡°Tartarus, the land of punishment. We won¡¯t be subjecting you to its torments tonight, but rather a series of dishes that represent the various¡­ creative forms of torture the Greeks imagined their worst sinners suffering.¡±


    The first lid is removed, revealing a heaping plate of spaghetti and meatballs, with one large meatball positioned atop the mound. Something twinges in the back of my head, the allusion nearly clicking, but the concierge explains it before I can remember fully.


    ¡°A meatball atop a mountain of spaghetti, representing Sisyphus, condemned to spent eternity pushing a rock up a hill and never reaching the summit.¡±


    Next comes a platter of smoked fish, startlingly pink, resting on a dish of what looks like pure gold. It¡¯s a striking display, but the significance escapes me.


    ¡°Smoked salmon, on a bed of pyrite, or fool¡¯s gold, representing King Salmoneus, damned to Tartarus for disguising himself as Zeus, the King of the Gods.¡±


    At that, I can¡¯t help but roll my eyes. It seems like a bit of a stretch, not to mention there was no mention of a punishment there at all¡­ but I suppose there are only so many stories about the residents of Tartarus that lend themselves well to being turned into meals.


    Third is a platter of¡­ something I don¡¯t recognize. It¡¯s meat for sure, but what kind, I can¡¯t say.


    ¡°King Tantalus served the gods themselves the flesh of his son, earning himself an eternity of hunger without sustenance. Which is why we present to you the flesh of man. Ethically sourced, of course.¡±


    More than a few members of the unit blanch at that. Tai, who the platter is closest to, actually pushes it away from him a little. But I see a couple others looking curious- and I¡¯m certainly among them. It¡¯s not like anybody had to actually die for this, same as all our other meat, which is cloned rather than harvested from live animals, so there isn¡¯t any real ethical issue in play.


    ¡°And finally,¡± he concludes, as the last dish is uncovered, ¡°steak tartare.¡±


    Almost everybody breathes a sigh of relief, as the final dish is revealed to be nothing more than a cheap pun. A few people even laugh. Personally, I¡¯d rather have cooked human meat than raw animal meat, but apparently not everyone shares that opinion.


    As the masked servers leave the room, we dig in. Nobody wants to be the first person to ask for the human meat, so it inevitably falls to me to break that seal. Mars passes the tray over to me with a raised eyebrow, as if daring me to actually eat it. Maintaining eye contact with him, I take a piece from off the platter, move it to my plate, and cut off a small chunk, then pop it in my mouth.


    ¡°Verdict?¡± he asks, after a moment.


    ¡°Pretty good,¡± I conclude. ¡°Tastes like pork. You should try some.¡±


    Mars scratches his chin, looking uncertain, but eventually gives in and takes a slice of meat off the platter for himself. His willingness to give it a try seems to give some of the others permission to do so as well- and for those still unwilling, there¡¯s plenty of other food as well.


    Scanning the table, I look for somebody who isn¡¯t currently engaged in conversation, and land on Niko, currently carving up a piece of salmon on his plate. He¡¯s too far down the table for us to speak aloud without shouting, so instead I open a private brainband channel to him. He glances in my direction, gives a half-nod to let me know he sees me, and returns to his food.


    How¡¯d you spend your day off, hm? Preparing for the War Council, I hope...


    Niko laughs silently, the only outward hint of his amusement a small smile on his face as he sticks a slice of salmon in his mouth.


    Please, Iza, who do you take me for? I spent the day at a bar, taking bets on fieldball games, while my copyclan did all the real work.


    Picking a bit of flesh from between my teeth, I chuckle back at that.


    And taking a commission on those bets, surely?


    Well, of course, he replies with a sardonic smirk that¡¯s only visible in my mind¡¯s eye. Body language cues are crucial for communication, so it¡¯s sometimes necessary to transmit them over the brainband when speaking silently, so you can pick up on nonverbal cues even when you can¡¯t actually see the other person¡¯s face.


    Good to hear. We might need to have a talk about cash-flow soon. Spending like we¡¯ve been doing won¡¯t be sustainable if we don¡¯t start bringing money in fast. And I¡¯ve got no issue using more... illicit methods, so long as we don¡¯t get caught.


    That might seem more like something I should be asking Sofie about, and I¡¯m certainly not averse to that idea, but Niko is the only member of the unit I¡¯d expect to have actual criminal contacts of any kind. His Noble line¡¯s reputation has been in the gutter for generations, which has led to them seeking their fortunes through less legitimate means, much as their Founder did. If anybody will know how to start filling our coffers quickly and with minimal effort, it¡¯s probably him.


    Sure, he replies, then terminates the connection. Best to speak no more about it for now, I suppose.


    Unsurprisingly, this course lasts longer than all the ones that came before. Still, with only four dishes between the fifteen of us, we polish it all off within a reasonable amount of time. By my reckoning, that only leaves two of our nine courses left. After the masked servers have returned, silent as ever, to clear our plates and remove the scoured platters, our next course is served swiftly, in the form of more drinks. Hopefully this round will be slightly less disconcerting than the last set of cocktails they brought out.


    ¡°Phlegethon. The river of flame. Your final trial.¡±


    We¡¯re silent for a moment, waiting for further elaboration, but none comes. I suppose I can¡¯t fault the concierge for being a little sick of narrating our meals to us, after the past seven courses or so. Fittingly, the drink in front of me is a fiery orange-red, swirling like the inside of a lava lamp. Since it¡¯s not literally on fire, nobody seems to have an issue getting started with theirs... save, that is, for Kat, who regards hers with a mixture of suspicion and concern.


    Doing okay? I ask her, already bracing myself to see her flinch at the mere fact of somebody speaking to her. Surprisingly, she manages to react more calmly, though she shoots me a look that would make it very obvious to anyone who cared to watch that we¡¯re communicating silently.


    Y-yeah, I¡¯m fine, she replies. That last drink just... didn¡¯t really sit right with me.


    Well, judging by the way everybody else is reacting, I get the sense this is gonna be pretty much the exact opposite of the last one. But you don¡¯t have to drink it if you don¡¯t want to. They¡¯re not gonna kick you out because you skipped a course. And if they try, I¡¯ll have Sander rough ¡®em up a little for you, ¡®kay?


    Kat lets out a laugh at that, making Amalia, who¡¯s sitting next to her, look around for the source of her amusement, before putting together what¡¯s going on.


    No, uh, that¡¯s okay, really. Thank you, though.


    Course. What kind of commander would I be if I didn¡¯t stick up for my people?


    Kat nods, picks up the glass, and tosses back a mouthful, maybe more than I¡¯d advice for an unknown cocktail that¡¯s supposed to be representative of a hellish river of flame. Predictably, she makes a face, momentarily shocked by the sensation, but swiftly adjusts and swallows, gingerly placing the glass back down.


    Not terrible?


    No, but it burns. Like, a lot. And then it fades pretty quickly, which is nice.


    Good to know. Thanks.


    Giving Kat a grateful nod, I pick up my own glass, and take a more conservative sip. As she said, burns on the way down, but fades out swiftly, leaving behind nothing more than a pleasant tingle on my tongue.


    Before any of us have even finished our drinks, the masked servers appear again, with another set of oversized platters, their contents hidden under metal lids.


    ¡°And now, the hero¡¯s reward... Elysium.¡±


    The covers come off, revealing each platter to contain a multi-tiered tower of desserts, ranging from sweet tarts and miniature chocolate cakes to caramel candies and sour lemon drops. The array of options is almost dizzying- I can see why someone with a sweet tooth would call it paradise.


    Without a hint of hesitation, the Gazelles tear into the treats like they¡¯ve been starved for weeks, despite having been fed quite well rather recently. I suppose everybody is capable of making a little extra room for dessert, and it wouldn¡¯t shock me if the last liquid course was designed in part to help speed along the process of digestion, in order to ensure the final course doesn¡¯t go to waste.


    As I¡¯m reaching for a tart, I feel the indistinct tug at my awareness that signals an incoming brainband connection request- from Ibrahim, as it happens, who¡¯s making eye contact with me from all the way across the table. Raising an eyebrow, I accept the request, keeping my gaze locked on him while I bite down and feel the sweet jelly gush out of the pastry like blood from an open wound.


    Commander, he begins stiffly. Allow me to begin by thanking you for taking us all here. It¡¯s been a truly unique experience.


    ¡®Course, I reply casually, giving no indication that I¡¯m aware why he¡¯s saying all this to me. Of course, he knows that I know, but the position I¡¯m in now allows me to mess with him a little, without him being able to complain. There something else you wanted to talk about?


    I, ah, wished to ensure there were no misunderstandings between us, regarding my conduct during our training exercise two days ago. You must understand I meant no disrespect, and acted only in the best interests of the unit, as I¡¯m sure you would have in my situation.


    Reading the subtext a little there, he¡¯s basically saying ¡®sure, I was trying to further my own ambitions at your expense, but you¡¯d have done the same if you were me.¡¯ Which, to be honest, isn¡¯t entirely untrue. And if I¡¯d caved and allowed him to undermine my position, he wouldn¡¯t be apologizing right now. But I maneuvered around him, and now he¡¯s realized that he can¡¯t handle the prospect of having Bret as his only ally against me.


    Right. No misunderstandings here. Just don¡¯t do it again.


    There¡¯s a distinct pause, as he stands at the edge of capitulation, wondering whether this is really worth his pride. Then Bret makes a joke, a little too loud, speech slurred by the liquor, and he cracks.


    Of course.


    Good.


    I terminate the connection, and get back to dessert. It tastes sweeter now- like victory.


    Slowly, we work through the dessert trays as a unit. I discover I don¡¯t much like the sour lemon drops, but Valent can¡¯t get enough- I spot him tucking some into his pocket for later, and he gives me a playful wink. Sander doesn¡¯t indulge much in the confectionaries, but I prod him into having some chocolate cake, and he even takes seconds.


    The bill is already paid, so once everybody¡¯s had their fill, people start to peel away from the group and leave, usually in pairs or groups of three. Bret notices this, and- no doubt emboldened by his intoxication -asks the nearest woman, who happens to be Ada, if she¡¯d like to leave with him. After getting turned down, more politely than I would have done it, he turns to Ibrahim and asks him the same, though without the implied request for sex, and gets flatly denied.


    Once again, I start to feel some sympathy for him, until he turns to the rest of the group and quips ¡°Well, I guess it¡¯s just not my night,¡± before leaving alone. It¡¯s not quite bad enough for everybody to groan simultaneously, but the mood does perceptibly lighten once he¡¯s gone.


    A few minutes later, Mars shoots me a look, implicitly asking a similar question- one I¡¯d be inclined to answer positively, if I didn¡¯t already have plans for tonight. I shake my head with an apologetic frown, doing my best to convey that it¡¯s not him, it¡¯s me. He nods, unpreturbed, and gets up to leave, tapping Colleen on the shoulder as he passes by. She gets up, grabbing her sword from off the back of her chair, and follows him. Whether they¡¯re going to fight or fuck, I¡¯m not sure, but I hope they have a good time.


    Once they¡¯re gone, that leaves just me, Grant, Sander, Sofie, and Niko. It doesn¡¯t escape my notice that my ultra-exclusive War Council consists of an even third of the unit¡¯s total membership, but that¡¯s an unfortunate consequence of only having a relatively limited number of people to work with.


    The four of them adjust their seating slightly to come closer to me- and to the tray with the most sweets remaining. Having eaten as much as they did, the Gazelles weren¡¯t able to polish off the platters completely, meaning we¡¯ll have something to snack on if the meeting runs long enough for us to get hungry again.


    ¡°Okay. Let¡¯s get down to business.¡±

 Chapter Thirteen

    There¡¯s little more liberating to me than trying to win a battle that somebody else has already lost. So long as you don¡¯t manage to fuck things up even worse than the other guy did, you¡¯ll come out of the fight looking good. And if you manage to actually win, that¡¯s even better.


    Over the past three weeks, we¡¯ve been covering a single military campaign in Professor Brennan¡¯s Introduction to War class. Namely, the Damocles Offensive, an infamous series of engagements from the middle years of the War of Conquest. It was given that name after the war was over, owing to the fact that most of the campaign was conducted with a massive threat hanging over the heads of the Imperial commanders, who knew only that it was there, not when it was likely to drop.


    The battle we¡¯re replaying today was the battle where the sword fell. It was one of the most crushing defeats the Imperium suffered during that era of the war, something no student of military history would be unaware of, though Professor Brennan helpfully reminded us all at the beginning of class, before activating the simulation and sending us off to try and do a better job than the Founders themselves.


    Like almost every significant conflict during the War of Conquest, the Damocles Campaign was largely a naval affair. Engaging the enemy on the surface of a planet was seen as a futile effort until the system itself had been secured, else the enemy could throw wave after wave of bodies at the Imperium forces, who were flatly outmatched by the savage efficiency of the Beast. So long as they could resupply biomass to print more bodies for the Beast to occupy, they would win a war of attrition ten times out of ten. So the primary objective in any campaign was to cut off their supply lines completely, effectively starving them out, so we could then engage on the ground and slaughter every last instance of the Beast we could find, until their local stores of biomass were completely exhausted.


    The commander we¡¯re all replacing for this battle is Vice-Admiral Luther Machado, a man whose hopes of promotion, and perhaps one day Founder status, were dashed by his failure in the Damocles Campaign. His charge had been to capture the Sorian System, a collection of planets with moderate strategic value. If he¡¯d merely failed, it wouldn¡¯t have tarnished his reputation so badly, because the practical cost of the loss would have been low. But to fail so badly, and in such a visible manner, had been a blow to Imperial morale, and a boon to our enemies, the warlords.


    During the campaign, the sword hanging over Machado¡¯s head, and now ours, was the threat of reinforcements sent from the neighboring Braach System to bolster the forces of the local warlord, Deimos. Imperium spies had been able to confirm that reinforcements were on the way, but not when or where they might be arriving. That they would be sent at all was unusual, as most warlords, though by this point united in a loose confederation against the Imperium¡¯s efforts to conquer them, were still looking out for themselves above all else. Braach¡¯s warlord, however, possessed more cunning than the average despot of the day, and more importantly had the surplus of resources necessary to send some additional ships to Deimos¡¯s aid without compromising his own defenses.


    Now, one would be forgiven for expecting that it would be difficult for an entire battle cruiser to simply sneak up on you in the middle of space. After all, the teleportal network has certain inherent limitations that prevent it from being used to simply drop a ship anywhere you want at any time, and certainly not in the middle of a battle. But anti-radar cloaks, though crude compared to what we have now, were still available during the War of Conquest, meaning that if one was clever and careful, they could keep an entire cruiser hidden until it was time to decloak and strike.


    That was the sword hanging over the head of Vice-Admiral Machado, and the Battle of Gloriana was when it fell. The planet itself was a highly resource-rich one, where the citizens were worked to the bone in order to provide the wealth that the warlord enjoyed from his throne, far closer to the Sorian System¡¯s star. It had been named for one of the warlord¡¯s wives, despite the fact that she¡¯d never visited the place, but simply as a grand gesture to win her back after some petty argument. Precisely the sort of capricious rulership the War of Conquest had been launched to rid the universe of.


    The forces defending Gloriana were commanded from a stationary capital ship nestled within the planet¡¯s icy rings, in an ingenious defensive position. It was virtually impossible to reach on one plane thanks to the rings themselves, while the rest of the ship¡¯s defensive perimeter was maintained by a blockade of outwardly-facing fighter craft that didn¡¯t have to worry about their flanks, because the rings provided a natural shield preventing anybody from encircling them.


    At the time, the conventional wisdom had been that the Braachii reinforcements would prioritize defending the Sorian System¡¯s capital world, where Deimos dwelled, even over a strategic resource like Gloriana. Besides, the defensive formation at Gloriana would ensure we¡¯d be bogged down in a siege. And if Machado had attempted to lay siege conventionally, that might have been their response. But instead, he tried something clever and new- something that might earn him a promotion to Admiral. I can¡¯t fault him for trying, of course- only failing. And even then, it wasn¡¯t completely his fault. But I still think I can do better.


    Machado¡¯s strategy was to create a ¡®corridor,¡¯ through which his ships could attack an undefended side of the enemy¡¯s capital ship, by covertly lining the moonlets and asteroids in a specific path with explosive charges, which would either destroy them outright, or propel them in a certain direction, creating an artificial passageway through the rings, which would have otherwise been impossible to traverse. His gamble was that he¡¯d be able to destroy the ship and its defenders before the motion of the rings closed the corridor around him. Calculations by the Vice-Admiral¡¯s Science Officer confirmed that it was possible, but would require extreme precision. Machado was willing to take that gamble.


    It might have worked, if it weren¡¯t for the Braachii reinforcements. Contra to what the strategos had thought at the time, they weren¡¯t on their way, they had already arrived, weeks before- and instead of moving to shore up the defenses of the capital, or even of Gloriana, they¡¯d tailed Machado¡¯s ships, counting on the fact that they would be training their most sensitive scanners frontward, rather than behind themselves. And when Machado¡¯s ships had entered the corridor, the reinforcements had decloaked and attacked from behind, trapping them within a choke point of their own creation.


    At that point, Machado found himself with two bad options. Reverse course and try to flee the corridor before it closed, facing down the Braachii as he went- or continue with the original plan, hoping that losses incurred from the Braachii assault wouldn¡¯t impede them from destroying the enemy¡¯s capital ship in time. He chose the latter, perhaps still dreaming of glory, and it went disastrously. With a third of their forces destroyed by the Braachii, they were unable to get past the Soriana fleet¡¯s defenses in time, and the corridor had closed around them, destroying the bulk of their ships with nothing gained in return. A humiliating defeat, and to many, an example of the Imperium¡¯s hubris being punished.


    Now it falls to myself and my classmates to prove that we can do better. Most of them, I suspect, will abandon the corridor scheme entirely, correctly reasoning that it¡¯s madness to repeat history¡¯s mistakes and expect a different outcome. I, however, will be doing just that. Like Machado¡¯s original strategy, it¡¯s a gamble, and if I fail, it¡¯ll be an embarrassment. But if I win, well... that¡¯s sure to turn some heads.


    Humming the half-remembered tune of a song under my breath, I send my ships into the corridor, mirroring Machado¡¯s formation almost exactly. Even though the simulation runs nearly five times faster than reality, the ships are still relatively slow, and moving through the impossibly vast expanse of space, so I¡¯ve got some time before the reinforcements appear to pin us down.


    Leaning back, I peer over the shoulders of some of my classmates, intrigued by what tactics they might be employing to solve this conundrum. Tellis, it seems, has dispersed his forces almost completely, sending individual ships to test the enemy¡¯s defenses without ever attacking in such force that it would provoke a response from the reinforcements he knows are waiting to strike. Clever enough, but I do wonder whether it¡¯s going to be enough to actually win the engagement, rather than simply locking him into a battle of attrition, which the enemy is better-positioned to win. Still, he¡¯s no fool, and I suspect he has a deeper plan that isn¡¯t yet obvious to me.


    Before I get a chance to look around any further, my display freezes, as does every other. Concurrently, I receive a brainband connection request, the shape of which tells me it¡¯s a public broadcast, rather than a private message. It¡¯s difficult to describe the way one can sense the difference between the two, as it relies on an invisible, intangible feeling with no particular reference point within the scope of human experience. Still, I accept, as does the rest of the class- an announcement being made to such a broad audience must surely be something worth hearing.


    Good morning, intones a familiar voice, albeit one I struggle to place for a moment. This is Dean Gennis.


    That would explain it- I haven¡¯t heard the Dean speak since the day I arrived.


    I apologize for the interruption, but I bring to you important news. The first War Games of the year are ready to be announced. We¡¯ll begin with the second-year pairings. Our first matchup will be... the Grizzly Unit versus the Locust Unit!


    Gennis delivers the announcement the way one would if they were expecting an applause break, but naturally none comes, as it¡¯s a one-way brainband announcement. Nor does anybody in the classroom stir, as it impacts none of us. However, there¡¯s tension in the air, knowing our year¡¯s pairings will be announced next.


    That means, of course, that the second matchup is the Crane Unit versus the Orca Unit! The first match will be held this coming Sixthday, in the Callad Jungle, so be sure to pack some insect repellant! And the second match will be the following Seventhday, aboard the Hellion in orbit! Remember, she¡¯s on loan to us from the Imperial Navy, so don¡¯t bang her up too badly.


    That fits with my understanding of how the War Games work. First-year Nobles have theirs in the Crucible, a controlled and preconstructed environment, whereas the second-years have their battles outside of the Citadel¡¯s confines. In this case, the jungles of Akademos or on a naval cruiser parked in orbit above us. Those are certainly more complex environments, so I understand why they¡¯re waiting for us to be more prepared before dropping us into them.


    Now, of course, are the pairings for the first-year students. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Despite myself, I draw in a nervous breath. Anything but the Komodos. We¡¯re just not ready for them yet.


    Our first matchup... the Komodo Unit, versus... the Peregrine Unit!


    Nobody cheers, but the release of tension in the room is palpable enough to mask my own sigh of relief. Except, that is, from the Peregrines themselves, who look more nervous than before. I see Anton shoot a glance towards Lucia, whose gaze is still fixed on her frozen screen, giving no indication she¡¯s even hearing the same announcement as the rest of us. Then I turn to look at Tellis, whose eyes I can feel on me. He knows what this means.


    Next, then, is the Ox Unit versus the Gazelle Unit! I¡¯m sure we¡¯re all excited to see those two ¡®lock horns,¡¯ as it were. The first match will be on Sixthday, at the Crucible, while the second will be in the same place, but on Eighthday, to give our Crucible staff some time to take down the previous arena and build up a new one. Please use the time until then to prepare accordingly, but be sure not to neglect your studies either!


    With a jovial laugh, Gennis signs off, leaving us all slightly dumbfounded. Nobody had been expecting the announcement to come so suddenly- even, it seems, the Professor himself. Brennan is sitting behind his desk, looking rather annoyed at his class having been interrupted. He waits for the chatter to die down, then unceremoniously hits a button that unfreezes our simulations all at once.


    I don¡¯t have a moment to think about the implications of those matchups, much less start to formulate a strategy for dealing with the Oxen. What matters right now is seeing my strategy for this simulated battle through.


    At my command, the explosive charges activate, opening the narrow corridor that leads directly to an opening in the enemy capital ship¡¯s defenses. The simulation is incredibly high-fidelity, down to the exact position of each individual chunk of ice and rock in Gloriana¡¯s rings. It also allows the player to take a wide variety of actions within the simulation, just about everything that would have been possible at the time, given the resources available. It wouldn¡¯t be a particularly useful tool for testing Nobles if it was anything less- although there are of course commercial versions one can download to their personal devices for entertainment, if they so desire.


    The Vice-Admiral didn¡¯t bother to cloak his approach at the time, so neither do I. There wouldn¡¯t be much point, as the purpose of the corridor would be immediately obvious to anyone with half a brain. They wouldn¡¯t have to actually see the ships coming through it to infer their existence- which is precisely what I¡¯m counting on. At the far end of the tunnel, the capital ship¡¯s defenses scramble to reposition to block our approach, but doing so requires them to navigate through the rings themselves. That means they can either take it slow and ensure that they won¡¯t have enough ships in place by the time mine arrive, or burn as fast as possible, and most likely lose a few ships to a stray chunk of rock ripping through the hull. Either way, their odds wouldn¡¯t be great- if they didn¡¯t have reinforcements ready to decloak at any moment.


    Right on cue, that¡¯s precisely what the Braachii do. In reality, they waited days before doing so, until Machado¡¯s ships were right in the middle of the corridor, but with the simulation moving at accelerated speeds, I don¡¯t have to wait long for them to show up.


    Judging by a quick glance at some of the other screens around me, however, the Braachii reinforcements don¡¯t seem to have made their appearance yet. I even think I know why. Everybody was intensely aware of the inevitable appearance of reinforcements, and made sure to detach a significant portion of their forces to the rear, in order to ensure they were well-defended for when that moment came. But they failed to consider that doing so would signal rather blatantly that they were aware of the Braachii¡¯s presence. And though they may just be simulations of long-dead soldiers, they aren¡¯t exactly stupid. They¡¯re not following some pre-programmed script that will make them decloak at a certain, predetermined moment. If they think the enemy is aware of their presence, they¡¯ll hang back and wait for a more opportune moment to strike... maybe in another battle altogether.


    Using foreknowledge to your advantage might sound easy, but when you deviate from the course of events you know from the history books, that foreknowledge quickly becomes less useful. Which is precisely why I followed the Vice-Admiral¡¯s own strategy to the letter... or at least appeared to. I wasn¡¯t going to ignore the fact that I know how the events played out in real life, but in order for that knowledge to be useful, I had to trick the simulated enemy forces into behaving the same way they did in reality.


    To that end, I had the rings seeded with explosive charges that could be triggered to create a corridor, just as Machado did. But instead of sending all my ships into that corridor, I sent a handful of shuttles and small fighter-craft, all piloted remotely- but with their transponders altered to make them look like they were my main battle cruisers. Since space is so large, nobody is looking out their window to see the enemy, they¡¯re relying entirely on sensors to tell them what¡¯s happening outside. Sensors which can be fooled. Not to mention the fact that having windows of any kind on a spacecraft is practically asking for death by hard vacuum.


    I wouldn¡¯t be as confident about a trick like this in reality, of course. Real people are clever and observant in a way that the enemy AI in these simulations simply aren¡¯t, advanced as they may be. Someone would probably cotton on sooner or later- and even if they didn¡¯t, word would spread and nobody would ever be fooled by it again. But here, I can take advantage of the AI¡¯s blindspots, and make them think my whole fleet is moving through the corridor, rather than a handful of expendable ships without any live crew.


    Meanwhile, the rest of the class is dealing with the fact that they planned their attack under the assumption that reinforcements would be striking from behind right about now, only to discover those reinforcements weren¡¯t coming, meaning their frontal assault is underpowered, and by the time they bring those rear-guard ships around to help, the battle might already be lost. The cherry on top will, I¡¯m sure, be when those reinforcements do arrive, but only after that rear guard has completely changed course and pointed their weapons forward.


    Changing the ships¡¯ transponders was only half of my plan, though. The second half has to wait until the Braachii reinforcements are fully inside of the corridor themselves, firing upon the unmanned shuttles. Sooner or later, they will realize what I¡¯ve done, especially when the ordinance the shuttles are firing back doesn¡¯t remotely match what the battle cruisers they look like should be firing. But when that happens, it¡¯ll be too late. Bwa ha ha, and so on.


    Despite knowing this is a simulation, and the fact that everything is proceeding according to plan for the time being, my heart thuds in my chest. It¡¯s not even a bad feeling, just a minor distraction, but I do consider activating my Midnight implant for a moment, before dismissing the thought. Best not to become too reliant on the stuff, even if it¡¯s got no addictive components in its chemical makeup. I could still become psychologically dependent on its benefits if I used it too often. And more importantly, I don¡¯t need it. Not for this, at least.


    Swiftly, the shuttles and attack-craft are being picked off, mainly owing to the fact that the enemy is hitting them with much more firepower than should be necessary, assuming they¡¯re firing at much more powerful ships. But my plan wasn¡¯t just to exhaust their ammunition stores. In fact, that¡¯s about to become completely irrelevant.


    Just as the Braachii ships are close enough to my own for their sensors to finally realize they¡¯ve been duped, the asteroids and massive chunks of ice comprising the corridor slam shut, hours sooner than they should have. Originally, the debris Machado cleared out would have either been destroyed, reabsorbed into the ring elsewhere, or simply been launched off into the void, without any friction to slow them down. When the corridor closed, it would be an entirely different set of debris rushing in to fill the gap. But I didn¡¯t just rig charges to push that rock and ice out of my way. I had my people attach wires between the rocks on either side of the corridor. Wires with incredibly high tensile strength, which would extend a great distance, and then, when fully taut- instead of simply snapping -would pull those rocks back together, closing the corridor much sooner than anybody¡¯s predictions would have suggested.


    The scant few of my decoy ships remaining are utterly destroyed, of course- but so is almost every one of the Braachii ships. Some try to flee the second they see what¡¯s happening, but navigating rings like these is difficult at the best of times, and these are far from the best. A handful do make it out, albeit most of them damaged, and make no effort to circle back and help defend the capital ship- they just flee. Wisely, I¡¯d say.


    When the idea for this stratagem first came to me, I wasn¡¯t certain if I¡¯d be able to actually execute it within the confines of the simulation. To many complex, minute details that likely didn¡¯t fit the programmer¡¯s idea of ¡®conventional strategy.¡¯ But apparently the physics simulation is advanced enough to accommodate my most unorthodox ideas. Now there¡¯s only one thing left to do. Finish off the capital ship.


    Even though losing the decoy ships still leaves me with the bulk of my forces intact, I¡¯d rather not get drawn into a siege if I can avoid it. At reduced capacity, our victory would be far from assured, and hunkering down to wait for reinforcements to arrive isn¡¯t exactly the decisive victory I¡¯m looking for. Fortunately, there¡¯s no need to draw this out at all. After all, my main force hasn¡¯t exactly been sitting idle all this time.


    While all eyes were turned towards the corridor, my battle cruisers crept around to the other side of the capital ship under cloak, where the enemy would suddenly be vulnerable, the ships comprising their blockade having rushed to reposition near the opening created by the corridor. And before they can put together precisely what just happened and return to their posts, I decloak my ships and unleash a full bombardment.


    At normal speed, they¡¯d probably have hours to realize how many missiles were coming at them, and the fact that the capital ship¡¯s defensive cannons wouldn¡¯t be able to shoot all of them down before impact. But at the speed at which I¡¯m viewing things, there¡¯s barely thirty seconds between giving the order to fire and the capital ship shattering into a trillion shards of metal. No explosion, of course- this is all taking place in hard vacuum. But it¡¯s still a satisfying sight.


    It might seem harsh not to have offered them a chance to surrender, but even with guns trained on their exposed flank, it¡¯s unlikely they would have. The only thing they¡¯d really fear is truedeath, and you can¡¯t exactly lace an entire missile with Mindkiller. That means they¡¯d probably rather blow the capital ship up themselves than let it fall into our hands, since they¡¯ll just be resurrected elsewhere eventually. So I saved myself the time of conducting a pointless negotiation, which they¡¯d probably have used to stall for time while they got their defenses back in place anyway.


    Moments later, when the warlord¡¯s remaining forces disperse, realizing the battle is lost, my simulation freezes again, this time because the victory condition has been met. A soft chime sounds on the professor¡¯s desk, and he looks at his screen, surprised to see somebody¡¯s already finished. Then he sees the name on the screen, and chuckles.


    A few students glance up at him, hearing that, then follow his gaze back to me, where I¡¯m leaning back in my chair, paying no mind to the now-blank screen. With their own battles ongoing, and not going particularly well by the look of things, they quickly return to their screens- but not before I catch flashes of emotion from many of them. Frustration. Envy. Contempt. Once again, I¡¯ve solved a puzzle that they had already concluded was impossible to solve.


    It takes me a minute to realize why Professor Brennan might have found that so funny, though. Not just because it was me who finished first- but because, in doing so, I just painted a giant target on my back. Now just about everyone in this room, except for the people who are members of my own unit, are invested in seeing me take a fall. So if there¡¯s any way they can help the Ox Unit make that happen at the end of the week, they¡¯re going to take it.


    At another time, I might have been worried by that. But just now, having just watched a plan of mine go off without a hitch, I couldn¡¯t care less. Bring them all on.

 Chapter Fourteen

    When I get out of Professor Brennan¡¯s class- after a lengthy lecture on what everybody did wrong, including a stern reminder that my own strategy likely wouldn¡¯t have worked outside of a simulation, much less without the foreknowledge of the position of the enemy¡¯s reinforcements -two members of my Intelligence Group are waiting for me.


    Both Tai and Amalia wear grim expressions as they greet me. Intensely aware of the eyes of our enemies¡¯ intelligence agents on us, I give them a nod in response and gesture for them to follow me. It was sunny outside when I went indoors for class, but now clouds have gathered overhead, portending rain.


    Sander, hang back and watch for tails, will ya?


    Copy.


    My ever-present, hulking shadow slips away, leaving the two intelligence agents and I to stroll down a secluded street, away from the crowd of students all being released from their classes, the same as us.


    ¡°Sofie sent us over,¡± Amalia explains. ¡°Would have come herself, but she¡¯s still stuck in PPP.¡±


    That would be ¡®Proper Preparation and Planning,¡¯ her class on how to properly manage and run intelligence operations. Apparently it¡¯s derived from some old military saying or other, though the specifics are far from my mind at the moment. I know Valent is in that class with her, but not these two, which is why I¡¯m speaking with them right now, even though one of them is a surveillance technician and the other is a scout- not the pair best suited for delivering me what I assume is going to be a briefing on our first major enemy.


    ¡°Gotcha. You¡¯re here to discuss the... announcement, yeah?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Tai confirms. ¡°Ox Unit. She wanted us to fill you in on everything we¡¯ve gathered so far.¡±


    Mhm, yeah, I gathered that, I respond silently. But not out loud, ¡®kay? I sent the Sandman to ward off any unwanted guests, but you can never be too careful.


    I agree, he replies. Of course he does- he¡¯s the surveillance expert, he should know better than anybody not to say anything sensitive where someone else might hear.


    Their commander is Thomas Starling, Amalia begins, sounding like she¡¯s reading off a script, which I suppose she very well might be. A politician. Not much of a tactical concern, both in terms of leadership and battlefield prowess. Still, they don¡¯t make just anybody a unit commander, so don''t underestimate his ability to make life difficult for us off the field.


    A single raindrop strikes the top of my head, and I flinch. The whole enemy-spies-tailing-us situation has me a bit on edge, even if I know they can¡¯t really do anything to us, but that¡¯s not really why I react so badly to something so innocuous. It¡¯s because, back home on Demeter VII, even a single drop of rain was invariably a prelude to a torrential downpour- the kind we¡¯d have three days out of every week. When I was younger, I¡¯d once gone outside in the early hours of the morning, to play in the cornfields- it was early in the season, so nothing was fully grown yet, and the harvesters were all inactive. I wasn¡¯t in any danger, or so I¡¯d thought. But I stayed out a little too long, strayed too far from home, and when I felt the first few raindrops, it was too late. I ran home, but under rain like that, having soggy socks is far from your main concern. When I got back home I was half dead, frozen and covered in mud from all the times I¡¯d tripped over my own feet and fallen down in my haste to get back.


    That¡¯s why, when the raindrops hit, my first instinct is to run for cover like we¡¯re being bombarded from orbit. But I suppress that urge as best I can, and inject some false cheer into my tone when I say ¡°I¡¯m feeling hungry. You two want to go eat? Let¡¯s go eat.¡±


    Sure, Tai replies. I mean, uh--


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    We duck inside the nearest restaurant just before the rain really starts coming down, finding ourselves inside of a pizza place, looking right out of a period piece set on Earth, down to the checkered black and white floor. Sadly, the man behind the counter isn¡¯t wearing a chef¡¯s hat, nor does he have a mustache- just a Citadel staff uniform and a clean shave.


    ¡°What can I get you?¡± he asks aloud, somewhat unusual for a restaurant, where you usually order via brainband while walking in. I suppose it must be a part of the old-world charm of this place.


    ¡°I¡¯ll have a calzone,¡± Tai says immediately, stepping up to the counter. ¡°With spinach, please.¡±


    That wouldn¡¯t be my first choice for an order at a place like this, but I try not to judge him.


    ¡°Two slices of the meat lovers¡¯,¡± I add from over his shoulder. ¡°And a knot of garlic bread.¡±


    Tai raises an eyebrow at me, and I shrug, my discomfort with the weather outside already fading. I never minded the sound of rain while I was safely inside of our home, it was only being stuck outside while it was coming down that frightened me. Death might not be permanent, but freezing to death in a cornfield is certainly one of the least pleasant ways to go.


    ¡°Do you have anything like a salad?¡± Amalia asks, frowning. The guy at the counter purses his lips.


    ¡°I¡¯ll see what I can do.¡±


    Our orders placed, we find a table and sit, far enough away from the restaurant¡¯s sole other occupant, an older student wearing a Locust pin and seemingly absorbed in his novel, a pair of pizza crusts sitting on his plate.


    Right, so, picking back up where we left off, there¡¯s Tellis Ayedar, Tai says, leaning in as he speaks. It probably couldn¡¯t be more obvious to anyone watching that we¡¯re having a private conversation, which is generally considered somewhat rude to do in a public space, but not so much so that anybody is going to call us out on it. Starling appointed him chief tactical officer, and also asked him to pick someone out to be head of their combat group. Ayedar seems to have decided that he himself is the best fit for the role. As you might expect, that¡¯s caused a bit of friction between him and some of the people who got passed up. Plus, plenty of them just think he¡¯s an egotistical blowhard in general.


    That pretty much seems to fit with my own assessment of the man. Amusing to think he appointed himself head of the Oxen¡¯s combat group, but I can¡¯t say I¡¯m particularly surprised. For someone like him, the idea of coming up with a strategy and then simply entrusting it to somebody else to execute must be intolerable.


    I ran reconnaissance on their training session last week, Amalia continues, wiping down her amber ram¡¯s horns with a napkin, to remove the lingering rainwater from them. Maintenance on those things is probably a hassle. Ayedar seems to be a perfectionist, and their combat group is divided between those willing to meet his expectations, and those who are not. I don¡¯t imagine we¡¯ll be able to turn the latter group against him, certainly not at this early juncture, but knowing which is which will give us some idea of who to watch out for.


    The way these two are trading back and forth makes me think they prepared for this conversation ahead of time. It comes off as a little rehearsed, but I¡¯d rather that than them trying to improvise a briefing with no preparation at all.


    The heavy hitters are Oskar Dalgaard and Chen Lu. Dalgaard¡¯s a gun nut, dual pistols, incredible aim. Lu¡¯s Regalia is supposed to be a sword, but he doesn¡¯t have that yet, so he¡¯s using an LMG for the time being. Slow but strong, you know the type.


    Before I can say anything about that, the cashier rings a metal bell on the counter, signaling that our food is ready. Swiftly, Amalia turns and strides across the room, bringing all three plates back and placing one in front of each of us. I give her a grateful nod, and bite into my garlic knot, enjoying the greasy flavor while I ignore Tai¡¯s slightly perturbed expression.


    Anything on those two we can exploit? I ask, while chewing. Secret trysts might be too much to ask for, but anything that might make ¡®em less of a threat on the field would be good.


    The two intelligence agents share a glance, as if checking to see if the other has anything useful to offer before speaking up.


    I can¡¯t say for certain, Amalia responds eventually, drizzling some creamy dressing over her salad with one hand. Apparently Dalgaard employs some sort of preparatory ritual for his firearms before using them. If we could find a way to disrupt that, it might provide a psychological advantage against him.


    We¡¯ll speak with Valent about it, Tai follows up. His surveillance network is responsible for much of this intelligence, I suspect. According to Sofie¡¯s weekly reports at our War Council meetings, he¡¯s been secreting cameras and listening devices all over the Citadel, with the help of other members of our Intelligence Group, as well as some members of the staff who he¡¯s paid off using the unit¡¯s funds. That¡¯s not exactly encouraged by the administration, but neither is it entirely forbidden- if those staff members were discovered to have done so, they likely wouldn¡¯t even lose their positions. Students spying on one another is as much a part of our education here as anything else.


    Okay. Who else?


    Tai bites into his calzone, and slurps up a stray bit of spinach that only got halfway in his mouth. The way the two of us who aren¡¯t speaking both turn to look to the one who is, without any words coming out of anybody¡¯s mouth, is a dead giveaway that we¡¯re communicating silently. With some practice, it¡¯s possible to quell that impulse and make it look like you¡¯re just sitting in silence, or even to carry on two separate conversations at once, but we don¡¯t seem to be at that level yet.


    Ayedar¡¯s main detractor seems to be a pilot by the name of Fabian Vasile. Ambitious type. Frustrated he got passed over for the job he wanted, frustrated he can¡¯t show off his flying skills... I¡¯ve got some ideas on how to exploit all that. Going to talk with Ada, see if she can doctor some audio of Ayedar disparaging him to their commander, maybe we leak it to Vasile the night before the match and hope he gets mad enough to throw a wrench into their plans.


    Putting the garlic knot down, I wipe my hands on a napkin. It tastes great, but getting grease all over my hands is a high price to pay. Still, I have no regrets.


    Good thinking. See if you can expand on that, though. Figure out who might be most inclined to side with Vasile if he called Tellis out, and make it sound like he was shit-talking them too. Just don¡¯t get too overambitious with it, we don¡¯t want them figuring out it¡¯s a stitch-up too soon.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Huh. Good idea. Thanks, Commander.


    Some part of me does feel a bit guilty having my people put words in Tellis¡¯ mouth, considering he was never anything but nice to me, but that¡¯s just the way of things here. Pangs of conscience have no place in a strategy session like this. Hell, if he¡¯s got half an ounce of sense, he¡¯ll be sitting down with his own intelligence people right now to try and do the same thing to me. Which is probably something we should discuss, come to think of it.


    No problem. Now, tell me about their intel people.


    Amalia frowns, and spears her fork into her salad harder than seems strictly necessary.


    Valentin Gardinier runs their intelligence operation. His Founder was known as the Inquisitor. Specialized in rooting out spies and infiltrators. As such, his attention is mainly focused inward, on preventing leaks from within his own unit.


    Yeah, he¡¯s already disabled half the bugs I had put in their dorm, Tai confirms, not sounding too bothered by it. There¡¯s pretty much no way he gets fooled by that trick I was talking about, so if we go ahead with that, we¡¯ve got to make sure he never gets wind of it. At least, not until after the damage is done.


    Nodding in agreement, I pick up one of my two slices and fold it in half, to keep the limp tip from drooping too far down and dumping the sausage chunk atop it onto my plate.


    Good thinking. What else?


    Behind me, the door swings open, and I glance over my shoulder to see a woman wearing a Komodo pin enter, sopping wet, with a pair of swords strapped to her back, and a pair of pistols on her hips. If she was here to spy on us, I suspect she¡¯d have tried to make a subtler entrance, so I feel fairly safe ignoring her as she steps up to the counter to order. Besides, Sander probably wouldn¡¯t have let anybody near us who he thought was a legitimate threat. Idly, I wonder where he is right now, and hope he isn¡¯t standing out in the rain. He¡¯s smart enough to know that¡¯s not what I¡¯d want him to do, I think.


    Well, Tai continues, Gardinier¡¯s number two is named Lauren. They called her founder the Analyst, which should probably give you some idea of what her specialty is. I¡¯d bet anything she¡¯s already got files on all of us- detailed ones. Favorite color, last book we read, average number of bathroom breaks per day, that kind of thing. And not just that, but psychological profiles. If any of us have weaknesses to exploit, she¡¯s already found them, and you can bet she¡¯s helping put together plans to use that intel right now.


    By the time he¡¯s finished, Tai isn¡¯t even trying to disguise how impressed he is. If she¡¯s half as good as he¡¯s making her out to be, I¡¯ll be impressed too.


    Sounds like we need to step up our counterintelligence game. Anything more I should be worried about with the Oxen?


    One of their tech people, Emilia Heinonen, Amalia says. You¡¯ve probably seen her around- she wears this bright red armor around everywhere. Apparently it¡¯s attached to her skin, she calls it an ¡®exo-dermis.¡¯ She¡¯s stronger and faster while it¡¯s active, and most likely bulletproof as well. Someone to watch out for.


    The description does seem familiar- I remember noticing somebody who looked like a cherry-colored retro sports car in the shape of a human being. My own tech team seems comparatively unimpressive compared to that, though of course I¡¯m not going to say that to them. Still, if I could trade Bret out for someone like that, I¡¯d do it in a heartbeat.


    Got it. Ask Ada if she can come up with some countermeasures when you get a chance. Or maybe see if Nikitha could whip something up that would eat through her armor.


    Will do.


    Great. I think we¡¯re done here, then. You two have your assignments, and I... have a garden to take care of.


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    Over the past several weeks since Sander and I started tending to it, our little garden has started growing nicely. It¡¯ll take some time before the benefits of today¡¯s rain shower are obvious, but there¡¯s still work for us to do right now. Not least of that is taking care of the weeds, which will also benefit from the overabundance of nourishment today¡¯s rain provided, unless we root them out now.


    Sander is already waiting for me when I arrive, examining the garden with a critical eye. The rain has stopped, mercifully, but its aftereffects remain, and I can¡¯t say I¡¯m thrilled by the prospect of digging around in the mud for the next few hours. If nothing else, though, it¡¯ll give me something to focus on besides worrying about our upcoming battle.


    That¡¯s not to say I shouldn¡¯t be thinking about it at all, but right now there¡¯s nothing productive to be done. My copyclan will have received the same message I did, and they¡¯re busy coming up with a plan of action for how we¡¯re going to get the unit into proper fighting condition. In fact, they¡¯re probably working with Niko¡¯s copyclan as well- or at least whatever part of it he doesn¡¯t have assigned to managing his ¡®extracurricular activities,¡¯ from his little gambling ring he runs here at the Citadel, to more illicit off-world activities.


    A quick ID confirmation unlocks the nearby shed, where Sander and I retrieve our gardening equipment. As I¡¯m pulling on a pair of gloves, to keep my hands clean while we¡¯re doing the aforementioned rooting around in the mud, he looks to me.


    ¡°I headed off one of the Peregrine Unit¡¯s intelligence agents who tried to follow you. She didn¡¯t seem especially concerned to have been spotted.¡±


    ¡°A Peregrine, huh?¡± I muse. ¡°Interesting. You recognize her?¡±


    Sander shakes his head.


    ¡°She had cat¡¯s ears. Very distinctive.¡±


    ¡°Maybe that¡¯s why she gave up on following me so easy,¡± I quip, tail twitching playfully. ¡°Probably can¡¯t stand the rain, with those things.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps.¡±


    Once we¡¯re fully geared up, Sander and I exit the shed, the metal door sliding shut behind us without a sound. Weeding is an important task for the maintenance of any garden, doubly so thanks to the ubiquitous presence of blackroot. Originally discovered on the nearly inhospitable world of Darovar, it was inadvertently spread across the Imperium, a hardy weed that can grow in just about any climate, so long as there¡¯s soil of any kind. It¡¯s been seen on the lips of active volcanoes, and breaking through permafrost in arctic tundras. Comparatively, growing in our little garden must be effortless for it.


    The blackroot is easily spotted by, as the name suggests, its black roots, and stem, and even leaves once it¡¯s bloomed. Nobody is quite certain what provoked such a unique adaptation, though the prevailing theories are either that it was to make absorbing heat from the sun easier, or that the coloration made it more difficult for predators to notice it, much the same way you might find animals in a snow-colored environment to have white fur. Neither of those seem completely plausible to me, but it does make my job a little easier here.


    Approaching the first black sprout I see, dangerously close to one of my strawberry bushes that¡¯s just beginning to flower, I bend down to pluck it from the ground, tossing the offending plant into a nearby compost bucket. Sander is already moving to follow suit elsewhere, near the row of carrots he planted last week.


    ¡°So, what do you make of this thing with the Oxen?¡± I ask casually.


    ¡°I have faith in your abilities.¡±


    Laconic as ever. Some days he opens up more easily, when we¡¯re doing this. Apparently today isn¡¯t one of them. Fine by me, but I¡¯m still gonna try to get something resembling a conversation out of him.


    ¡°Well, I appreciate that, but I was more asking your thoughts on them.¡±


    While he formulates a response, I brush an overhanging leaf aside with my tail and move over to the next weed, digging my spade into the ground to help uproot it. It¡¯s hard not to admire the blackroot, for going from one of the few native life-forms on a planet famously inhospitable to life of any kind, to a near-universal presence across the entire Imperium. We spent plenty of time digging it up back home on Demeter VII too, though only in our home garden. The cornfields themselves are chemically treated to prevent it, or any other kinds of weeds, from growing amidst the crops.


    ¡°Their soldiers are impressive. I¡¯ve faced most of them at least once during sparring sessions in Combat 101. Hudson, in particular, possesses an impressive degree of determination.¡±


    ¡°Hudson, huh? ¡®malia and Tai didn¡¯t mention him. What¡¯s his deal?¡±


    ¡°We didn¡¯t speak at length,¡± Sander clarifies, to my complete lack of surprise. ¡°However, he made no secret of his disdain for, as he put it, ¡®people who care more about being a Noble than doing anything that could actually be called noble.¡¯¡±


    That certainly sounds like he¡¯s talking about Tellis. Maybe not the most charitable description, since the guy did seem pretty into the whole noblesse oblige thing, but I wouldn¡¯t call it an entirely inaccurate summation either. And it¡¯s not hard to see how someone like that would chafe under the leadership of somebody like Tellis.


    ¡°Innnnteresting,¡± I drawl, drawing out the syllables slowly. ¡°Verrrry interesting. Thanks.¡±


    ¡°I am glad to be of service,¡± Sander responds stiffly.


    Sometimes, Sander¡¯s total refusal to talk like a person frustrates me. It¡¯s not just that we can¡¯t really have a proper conversation, although that¡¯s certainly an element. What really bothers me, I think, is that it feels like he¡¯s not getting anything out of our relationship.


    I¡¯ve got no problem using people. I¡¯m using everybody in the Gazelle Unit to some degree or another. They¡¯re tools to be wielded, tools that will help me achieve my ambitions. I¡¯v got affection for them- some more than others, of course -but there¡¯s an element of transaction underlying all that. The difference is, they know I¡¯m using them, and they¡¯re using me in turn, because they know that my success is their success. With Sander, it feels like he¡¯s got no ambitions at all, so he isn¡¯t gaining anything by working for me.


    The idea bothers me, maybe more than it should. Nobles, with very few exceptions, are creatures of ambition. I know how to deal with people like that, because I¡¯m one of them. So long as it¡¯s in their best interest to help you, they will- and the moment that changes, you can expect them to turn coat. But Sander isn¡¯t helping me out of self-interest, or even really a sense of personal loyalty. It¡¯s just what he does. A bell rings, a sword cuts, and Sander protects his principal.


    Nobles aren¡¯t the only people I¡¯ve ever known, of course. My parents are selfless people, by and large. But none of them would devote their life to someone else so fully, certainly not without getting something out of the equation. It¡¯s basic self-preservation, humans are hardwired against it.


    Maybe what I¡¯m afraid of is betrayal, as outlandish as the idea seems. If any of my other allies turned on me, I could appeal to their self-interest, or find a way to leverage them. Threaten their families, or destroy their career with a scandal, real or manufactured. But Sander has nothing to leverage. He can¡¯t, else he¡¯d be a pretty poor bodyguard. Yet I still can¡¯t help but think that if he did turn on me, I¡¯d have no way to stop him. I¡¯ve already put so much of my life into his hands. He could have my bedroom rigged, or he could be slipping nanite bombs into my tea every time we eat together.


    It¡¯s paranoid, yes. He¡¯s done nothing to warrant my suspicion- in fact, he¡¯s saved my life once already. But the thing is, I outsource all of my other paranoia to him. Thanks to Sander¡¯s presence, I don¡¯t have to spend every waking moment worried about assassination attempts, because I know he¡¯s doing that for me. So my paranoid instincts seek the only other target available-- which is him.


    I could probably set up some kind of contingency. A way to shut him down if he ever acted against me. He¡¯d probably let me do it, if I asked. But I don¡¯t want to be that kind of person, even if it¡¯s the smart move. Doing that would destroy the possibility of us ever having any other kind of relationship than bodyguard and principal. It would preclude the possibility that he might ever watch out for me because he¡¯s my friend, rather than just because it¡¯s his job.


    The unmistakable sound of footsteps on wet stone shakes me out of my reverie. Glancing over my shoulder, I see a familiar blue face approaching. Nandor Pal, of the Oxen. He wears the same serene expression that I¡¯ve seen on his face whenever we¡¯ve passed by each other in the street. Were it not for his luminescent blue skin, I probably wouldn¡¯t have noticed him at all.


    Before I¡¯d even registered Pal¡¯s presence, Sander was on his feet, hand on his holster. I get up slowly, and wave to our guest, gesturing with my other hand for Sander to relax. The Oxen stand to gain very little by killing me right now, and if they were going to try, they¡¯d have sent somebody else.


    ¡°Commander Izanami,¡± he says, bowing his head politely. ¡°I am here to extend an invitation to you, on behalf of Commander Thomas Starling. He wishes for you to join him for dinner tomorrow evening at the Five Rings Restaurant, along with Commander Anton of the Peregrine Unit, and Commander Lucia Hark of the Komodo Unit.¡±


    A sit-down with all four unit commanders in our year. Now that¡¯s interesting.


    ¡°Tell your boss I¡¯ll see him there.¡±

 Chapter Fifteen

    Professor Gabrielli¡¯s class on Rulership is still about as interesting as watching paint dry. She¡¯s expressed no interest in doing anything to help out as our unit¡¯s sponsor, and I haven¡¯t bothered asking for any assistance when it¡¯s obvious she¡¯d give it grudgingly if at all.


    Because Rulership is the one class where my entire Gazelle Unit is together, however, it makes certain things more convenient. Like having an emergency War Council meeting. While Gabrielli is giving a riveting lecture on the nuances of Imperium tax policy, I link Sofie, Niko, and Grant with myself on a brainband ¡®conference call.¡¯ That¡¯s obviously not the sort of thing you¡¯re supposed to do in the middle of class, but so long as none of them give any obvious indication they¡¯re having a silent conversation when they¡¯re supposed to be listening, we¡¯ll be fine.


    Okay. Let¡¯s get started. Sofie, you¡¯re up first. What¡¯ve you been able to dig up about this meeting?


    Not much, she answers apologetically. Anton and Hark both accepted the invite, but no chatter about what Starling¡¯s actually planning. Given the timing, we can probably assume he¡¯s not just hoping to get to know you better, though.


    By timing, she means the first round of War Games, fast approaching at the end of this week. Four days to go until the Komodo and Peregrine units duke it out, and six before my Gazelles face off against the Oxen. No word yet on what form the competition will take- they don¡¯t tell us any of that until the day of. Some kind of combat is assured, but we don¡¯t know if it¡¯s going to be a standard deathmatch, capture the flag, or something more complex.


    I¡¯d say it¡¯s a pretty low-risk situation, Niko interjects, curt and businesslike. They don¡¯t stand to gain much with an assassination attempt. Unless it wasn¡¯t really Starling who invited you, and somebody else is trying to maneuver the four of you into the same place so they can take you all out. But I don¡¯t have a clue who would benefit from that. So don¡¯t go in too worried, but definitely have Sander scope the place out beforehand.


    He¡¯s headed there right after class gets out, I confirm, giving an approving nod across the brainband, while my actual head remains still. Gonna bug up the kitchen while he¡¯s there. Make sure nobody slips something into my food.


    Slipping a lethal dose of Mindkiller into someone¡¯s food is probably the most common way of truekilling someone in the Imperium. I¡¯m not too worried about it, mainly because there hasn¡¯t been a single attempt on my life since the very first one, and because embedding someone in the kitchen of one of the Citadel¡¯s many restaurants on the uncertain chance I might eat there isn¡¯t exactly a safe bet from the perspective of whoever¡¯s trying to have me killed. It¡¯s a different story when your next meal is scheduled, however, which is why I¡¯m exercising caution in this case.


    Frustratingly, we still haven¡¯t been able to determine who placed the truedeath trap in my apartment to begin with. Both Sander amd members of my intelligence unit have looked into it, and failed to come up with a name for who was in my apartment before I arrived. More than a dozen people were involved in prepping our dormitory, and there are no records of who was in what room when. We could try to interrogate every single one of them, but that would probably attract the Citadel administration¡¯s attention, which is something I¡¯d rather avoid for the time being.


    Okay. Grant. What¡¯s your read on this? What¡¯s Starling hoping to gain here?


    My aide-de-camp, or whatever Grant¡¯s role in this whole thing is, has been growing into his position slowly over the past couple of weeks. That doesn¡¯t mean he¡¯s at peak performance yet by any means, but at least he doesn¡¯t hesitate before answering now.


    My guess? He¡¯s trying to lay the foundation for an alliance. With who, it¡¯s hard to say. Probably not us, since we¡¯re gonna be fighting in a few days no matter what. But then again, every unit is gonna fight every other unit once anyway. If I was in his position, I¡¯d be trying to decide who posed the biggest threat, so I could convince everybody else to team up against them.


    That seems plausible enough to me. Starling¡¯s a politician, he¡¯ll be looking to solve this without violence, or at least use diplomacy to minimize the use of force to only what¡¯s necessary. Of course, there can only be one winner here, so all alliances are by nature temporary. But even a temporary alliance of three units against one could be enough to cripple the odd one out.


    Makes sense. But we don¡¯t wanna play things down too much. If it looks like we¡¯re acting weaker than we are, he might assume we¡¯re actually much stronger than we are.


    Niko sighs.


    I¡¯ve got no patience for this ¡®does he know that we know that he knows¡¯ shit. We¡¯re not blowing the place up, are we?


    Probably not, no.


    Then do you really need me here? Because this isn¡¯t exactly my area of expertise.


    At the front of the room, Professor Gabrielli is slowly swiping through a holographic slideshow detailing how an overambitious administrator¡¯s three percent tax increase on the sale of plutonium contributed to his world¡¯s eventual breakaway to join the Meritocracy. I rub my eyes, trying to keep them open.


    C¡¯mon, you¡¯re selling yourself short. Think of it like this- you¡¯ve got four triad bosses sitting down together. They know that their superiors won¡¯t be happy if any of them knock each other off, but they also know only one of them is gonna move up to the next rank. So they each gotta figure out who their main rival is, and find a way to take ¡®em out of the running. But they only way they can do that is by getting the other two to back them up, or else it¡¯s mutually assured destruction.


    Wow, Izzy, killer metaphor, Sofie giggles.


    Ah, fuck you too, I laugh back. It wasn¡¯t exactly the most elegant analogy, but it seems to have at least partially convinced Niko that he might have something to contribute here.


    Citadel isn¡¯t exactly run like a triad, but I get your point. We need to make them underestimate us, without them realizing we¡¯re doing it. Thing is, if you try too hard at this meeting, they¡¯ll see something¡¯s up right away. They¡¯ve had people watching you for weeks, just like you¡¯ve had people watching them. So act like you usually do- confident, but not too confident. What will really convince them is what we do when they don¡¯t-- I mean, when we don¡¯t-- fuck.


    Stumbling over his words, Niko cuts himself off, then starts over, forcing out each syllable slowly and deliberately.


    What we do when they think we don¡¯t know they¡¯re watching. That¡¯s what¡¯ll convince them. Fucking hell.


    Sofie hums softly, thinking it over, or perhaps just trying to piece together what he actually meant by any of that.


    So what you¡¯re saying is... we put on a show?


    Yes, exactly, he says, relieved that somebody got what he was saying. We make them think Iza¡¯s confidence is just a front. Then go out of our way to hide a training session, so they¡¯ll be sure to send people to spy on it. We botch it intentionally, they¡¯ll assume we fucked up for real and decide we¡¯re not the biggest threat after all.


    Despite his claims that this isn¡¯t his specialty, Niko¡¯s proving rather strategically competent. That¡¯s not too surprising, really. His Founder commanded one of the first Myrmidon units- you¡¯ve got to be more than just a meathead to do that. And the Stormwolf¡¯s time as a triad enforcer clearly helped him develop some cunning as well, which Niko has inherited.


    Solid plan, but if we¡¯re gonna pull it off, we¡¯ll probably have to keep the others in the dark. If we let them all in on the plan, someone would let something slip, it¡¯s inevitable. Plus, I¡¯ve got a feeling that not everybody in the unit would be a great actor.


    In particular, I¡¯m thinking of Bret and Colleen. The former is bad enough at acting like a normal person that I shudder to think how he¡¯d behave if he was actively trying to fool someone he knew was spying on him. And the latter is so stiff and self-serious that she¡¯d probably write out a script for herself and recite it aloud in the direction of the nearest hidden camera.


    We don¡¯t want to create a self-fulfilling prophecy, Grant concurs. And if we waste one of our only training sessions on this plan, we might not be in good shape for the fight itself.


    I¡¯ve got some ideas about that, I reply. But let¡¯s get back on track here for a second. This meeting is an opportunity, and I don¡¯t want to waste it. All four commanders in one spot- how can we take advantage of that?


    All three of my advisors fall silent for a moment, and my attention drifts back to the professor, now warning against the dangers of too lenient a tax code. The Imperium offers system governors a reasonable degree of freedom in determining municipal policy, so long as they don¡¯t do anything to contradict a direct Imperial ruling, or otherwise undermine the Emperor¡¯s leadership. That means some systems deliberately craft more permissive taxation systems, to entice corporate interests. Of course, a multiplanetary corporation pays tax to the Imperium directly as well, and the Imperial line has been generally consistent about making sure the wealthy pay their fair share.


    Some system governors who¡¯ve been too lenient on those corporate interests have provoke a reprimand from the Emperor himself, and in some cases, even been removed from their positions. That typically happens in systems that either aren¡¯t governed by a Noble, or where the Noble¡¯s seat is being held by a regent until their graduation. While the Emperor may be the supreme authority, he does have to exercise some caution in acting against a Noble directly, because the right alliance of Nobility could supersede or undermine a given Emperor¡¯s rule- or simply conspire to have him assassinated, and hope the Heir Apparent will govern differently.


    There¡¯s no evidence of such a thing ever happening, of course. If an event like that ever became common knowledge, or made it into the history books, it would undermine the Emperor¡¯s rule forever. But there are a few odd historical blank spaces, where it¡¯s written that an Emperor clashed with their Nobility frequently, and then the details of their demise are left frustratingly vague. Nobody knows for certain, and speculating aloud in the wrong place might get you locked up, but in private, people continue to whisper.


    Here¡¯s an idea, Sofie says at last. We could see if Nikitha has anything that you could use on them. Nothing lethal, just something that would give them, like... indigestion, or something like that. Make it harder for them to run their own training sessions if they¡¯re busy barfing their guts up.


    Seems risky, Grant replies. If they notice, it would alienate all three of them at once, and then no amount of subterfuge would convince them not to target us.


    Sofie considers that for a second, and nods.


    Yeah, good point. Maybe you can wear a recording device, and we can take the opportunity to synthesize their voices. That could be useful for playing mind games later on.


    She¡¯s probably thinking about the plan I cooked up with Amalia and Tai yesterday, to drive a wedge between the members of the Ox Unit by fabricating a recording of their chief strategist badmouthing some of their more disaffected members.


    Good idea. I¡¯ll talk to Tai, see if he¡¯s got anything that would be hard to detect. I don¡¯t think they¡¯re gonna pat me down, but I bet they¡¯d ask about any suspicious bulges under my shirt.


    Yeah, Niko says gleefully, barely managing to keep the shit-eating grin off his face. They¡¯d be pretty confused if it looked like you¡¯d finally grown some proper tits.


    Surprised by the sudden joke at my expense, Sofie can¡¯t stop herself from exhaling sharply, drawing Gabrielli¡¯s attention.


    ¡°Is there something amusing you, Miss Lang?¡± she asks icily.


    ¡°N-no,¡± Sofie lies, fighting to keep from laughing out loud. Despite being the butt of the joke, I have to dig a nail into my palm to avoid joining in, more amused by her own struggle than the joke itself.


    ¡°Very well then,¡± Gabrielli says, not buying it at all. ¡°Perhaps you could tell us what Undersecretary Boone meant when he said ¡®The problem with balancing on a knife¡¯s edge is what happens when you get cut¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Uh, well, in terms of politics, uh... I think what theUndersecretary meant is that, uh...¡±


    Okay, I say to the three of them, chuckling silently as Sofie flounders for an answer aloud. This emergency session of the War Council is adjourned.


    <hr>


    ¡°Appearance is everything in a situation like this,¡± Grant tells me sagely, as he shakes his head to reject one of the outfit options in my closet. With a shrug, I replace the shirt and continue sifting through my clothes for something else. ¡°You need to project confidence, without seeming like that¡¯s what you¡¯re trying to do. And we¡¯re probably going to have to do something about your hair.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with my hair?¡±


    The moment we stepped into my wardrobe, Grant became almost an entirely different person. He¡¯s more confident and assertive than I¡¯ve ever seen him. This, I suppose, is his area of expertise. The questions of image and appearance that, to be entirely honest, don¡¯t make much sense to me. I understand the importance of political maneuvering well enough, even if I¡¯ll always be more at home on a battlefield, but worrying about how I look has never been a major concern of mine.


    By all accounts, my Founder was much the same way. He wore his admiral¡¯s uniform to most formal events, something I can¡¯t copy yet, because I don¡¯t have any uniforms available except my Citadel one, which simply doesn¡¯t send the same kind of message as showing up in full military regalia does. Which is why I asked Grant to help me pick out what to wear to my dinner with the other commanders.


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing wrong with it. It looks fine- but not appropriate for a formal dinner. Going in with it looking like that signals that you don¡¯t care about the meeting, and not in a good way.¡±


    With my face still hidden by the closet door, I roll my eyes. The reason I keep my hair short is purely practical- long hair easily gets caught in machinery, which was a real concern back home, and it can be grabbed and yanked around in a fight. Short hair has none of those problems.


    ¡°Sure, okay. You got a stylist in mind, or are you gonna do it personally?¡±


    ¡°There are several salons and beauty parlors here at the Citadel,¡± he informs me, which comes as somewhat of a surprise, even though it really shouldn¡¯t. Even with such a small population, this place was built to cater to just about every need imaginable, yet I never thought to look for a stylist here. Not like there are any on Demeter VII, and I was perfectly happy taking care of my own appearance there. ¡°I¡¯m told Amora¡¯s is the place to go for those who are using a feminine form. They¡¯re located not far from here, so you should have plenty of time to head down there before the dinner¡­ assuming we can find an appropriate outfit for you first.¡±


    We¡¯ve only been at this for about a half hour, but I¡¯m already becoming impatient. Shifting aside a puffy golden jacket that I¡¯m fond of, but know wouldn¡¯t be appropriate for this occasion, I settle my eyes on a black and white printed dress, narrow enough to emphasize my figure, which- while not quite as impressive as Sofie¡¯s -is certainly nothing to sneeze at.


    Pulling the garment off the rack, I hold it out for Grant to examine. For once, he doesn¡¯t respond immediately in the negative, instead stroking his chin contemplatively.


    ¡°¡­I can work with this,¡± he concludes at last. ¡°Get yourself down to Amora¡¯s, tell them you need to get cleaned up for a dinner tonight. They¡¯ll know what to do.¡±


    With a grimace, I hand Grant the dress, and he steps past me to examine the remaining contents of my closet. Leaving him to the doubtlessly difficult work of constructing a whole outfit for me in time for the dinner, I head out of my apartment, Sander wordlessly falling in behind me, to go get my hair done for the very first time.


    <hr>


    When I return, it¡¯s with my typically curly hair straightened, and styled so that rather than hanging down by my ears, it¡¯s parted from one side of my forehead to the other, the overall result making me look more put-together and dignified than I may have ever in my life. If the entire process hadn¡¯t taken so long, and required so much product. I might be tempted to make getting my hair done a semipermanent part of my routine.


    Grant spent that time hard at work too- crafting the outfit I¡¯m now wearing on my way to the Five Rings Restaurant. The dress is a comfortable fit, and the ink blot-like black and white patterns slowly shift and move across its surface as I walk. Over that, I¡¯ve got an orange-brown leather jacket, with my Gazelle pin prominently positioned on the left breast. Apparently unsatisfied with the contents of my jewelry drawer, which was admittedly pretty bare, Grant had a set of circular ivory earrings fabricated, apparently in the same style as worn by some insipid celebrity at a gala last month.


    Covering my legs are stockings and a pair of knee-high white boots with solid soles that clack satisfyingly against the Citadel¡¯s streets. For once, Sander isn¡¯t with me- this meeting is for the commanders only, and he¡¯s already scoped the location out to the fullest extent of his abilities. If anything goes down in the restaurant, I¡¯ll have to handle it myself.


    Apparently, according to Grant, wearing a gun at my hip would be ¡®gauche,¡¯ so instead I¡¯ve got a small pistol in my handbag. As Niko concluded during his threat assessment, the odds of me having to use it are low, but I¡¯m not going to get caught flat-footed out of a desire for the appearance of propriety.


    The Five Rings Restaurant is in the same part of the Citadel as the Stygian, but with a much less austere aesthetic. Its name takes inspiration from a noteworthy work of Earth-era literature, originally written in Japanese. Drawing from Earth culture and lore is a common trend among upscale establishments, because it¡¯s seen as conferring some deeper level of substance and aesthetic than just naming it after the proprietor, or the kind of food served there.


    Much like the Stygian, they have a signature multi-course themed meal, in this case patterned after the eponymous rings, which encompass the four classical elements, plus an additional fifth, the void itself. A rather forward-looking choice, as most modern conceptions of ¡®the elements¡¯ also include the void, owing to the vacuum of space¡¯s presence in the daily lives of many. However, we won¡¯t be having a five-course meal tonight. Starling probably assessed- and correctly, in my book -that having all four of us in one place for that long might be dangerous. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    The building¡¯s design draws clear influence from that of a pagoda, with multiple tiers of progressively narrowing eaves, though with a modern architectural sensibility, and circular rather than square, doubtless to represent the rings, just as there are five stories to the building. It more or less mirrors the white stone of the rest of the Citadel, but mainly seems to be comprised of steel and glass, which would be more at home in a proper city.


    Even with the sun beginning to dip below the horizon, the doormen wear mirrored shades, and matching suits for good measure. They¡¯ve even got sheathed swords on their backs, though I¡¯d bet good money their edges are blunted. The Citadel is one of the most well-guarded places in the entire Imperium. They¡¯re not here to protect us, they¡¯re here to help curate an aesthetic. And one I can get behind, considering I wore sunglasses of my own, which I tilt down as I approach them.


    ¡°Miss Izanami,¡± one of them says, nodding to me curtly. ¡°They¡¯re waiting for you on the terrace at level three.¡±


    Waiting for me? That doesn¡¯t make much sense, considering I made sure to arrive a few minutes early¡­ unless Starling had his emissary give me the wrong time on purpose, to ensure I¡¯d be late and embarrass me in front of the others. A power play. One I should have expected.


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I tell the guard, and stride in, trying not to seem like I¡¯m in a hurry. It takes effort to make myself slow down. If I burst in looking harried, it¡¯ll mean that his power play worked. No- I¡¯m going to walk in as casually as ever, bullshit political machinations be damned.


    The glass elevator takes me straight up to the third floor, and I step out, keeping one hand firmly on my bag, the other resting in the pocket of my jacket, where I¡¯m toying with a small metal cube, shifting around the different facets on its surface. Just a distraction, something to help me manage my stress levels. Still, best not to let any of the others see it.


    All three of them turn to look as I walk out onto the terrace, brushing back a stray strand of hair knocked loose by the breeze. We¡¯re not that high up, but it¡¯s still noticeably windier up here than at ground level.


    Hark is the one my eyes settle on at first. It¡¯s not usually the kind of thing I think about, but all my talking with Grant has me considering what thought process went into her wardrobe. She¡¯s wearing a conservative grey cardigan over a bland white blouse. It¡¯s far from childish, but doesn¡¯t exactly scream ¡®take me seriously¡¯ either, like I might have expected from a child expecting to be sitting at a table with adults. A safe middle ground, nothing less than what I would expect from the Grim Dragon.


    Next is Anton, who does not look especially happy to be here. He¡¯s got on a tailored cobalt-blue silk shirt, which doesn¡¯t seem like the kind of thing he¡¯d have in his wardrobe, and which he certainly doesn¡¯t look very comfortable in. The engineer¡¯s hair is cut quite short, most likely to keep it out of his way while he¡¯s in the workshop, meaning there really isn¡¯t much a stylist could do with it. To compensate, somebody seems to have applied a bit of makeup, accentuating his features, even though the man looks incredibly average. That¡¯s not necessarily a bad thing- average in the Imperium is still good-looking, since virtually nobody chooses to be outright ugly. But still, his entire appearance seems to have been curated purely for functionality, not to stand out in any way. It makes his fashion choices, or more likely the fashion choices that were made for him, all the more incongruous.


    Finally, Starling. The striped blazer he¡¯s wearing is primarily orange-brown, unfortunately quite similar to that of the jacket I¡¯m wearing. My guess would be he had the same idea as Grant, which was to wear an article of clothing that alluded to the primary colors of our unit. It just so happens that the gazelle and the ox have a fairly similar color scheme. There are black and white oxen as well, of course, but considering the dress I¡¯m wearing, it wouldn¡¯t have been much better if he¡¯d gone that route instead.


    It¡¯s not like this dinner is going to be publicized in any way, though, so a bit of unplanned matching is nothing to worry about. Despite my now near-certainty that he was the one who orchestrated my lateness, I wave to Starling, smile at the group, and take my seat, tucking my sunglasses into my bag before I place it beside me.


    ¡°Glad you could make it,¡± Starling says, charm on in full force. Annoyed at the insinuation, I let a calculated flash of anger show in my eyes, before swiftly returning to my previous false friendliness. He gets the message, and turns his gaze elsewhere. ¡°Now that we¡¯re all here, let me just say that it¡¯s so good to finally meet all of you properly. We waited too long to do this.¡±


    Neither Anton nor Lucia seem inclined to respond. The former probably had to be talked into coming at all by one of his Peregrines, while the latter simply isn¡¯t the type to engage in idle chatter, though I doubt she¡¯d have willingly missed this meeting. That means it falls to me, I suppose.


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s been a busy few weeks. I hope everybody¡¯s getting on well with their people so far?¡±


    ¡°Oh yes, quite well,¡± Starling replies readily. ¡°My Oxen are a wonderful bunch. Quite multi-talented. What about you, Anton?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re doing fine,¡± the Peregrine commander replies, in a tone I can only describe as sullen. It calls to mind my younger brother when asked to help with the dishes. To think someone like that would end up commanding a group of Nobles here at the Citadel is almost laughable. Or if it would be, if he wasn¡¯t sitting right here next to me.


    ¡°Glad to hear it,¡± comes the smooth response, not giving the slightest hint of perturbation at Anton¡¯s surly demeanor. ¡°And you, Lucia?¡±


    ¡°I have not experienced any difficulties,¡± the youngest commander replies coolly, folding her hands together on the table. Despite the height difference, she¡¯s on the same level as the rest of us, which makes me suspect she requested a taller chair beforehand.


    ¡°Excellent. Being a commander is a serious responsibility, and while we may be in competition, I¡¯m sure all three of us would be happy to help you if you ever run into any trouble.¡±


    Lucia doesn¡¯t respond besides giving him a single nod of acknowledgement. It¡¯s hard to tell whether Starling is seriously dumb enough to be unerestimating her, or if he¡¯s acting condescending on purpose for some reason. Either way, I¡¯m not going to play along.


    ¡°Hey, same goes for you, big guy,¡± I reply, patting Starling on the back. He¡¯s seated to my left, with Anton to my right, so I¡¯m facing Hark by default. ¡°Military strategy is tough stuff. Don¡¯t be afraid to reach out if you need some advice from any of us.¡±


    Judging by his expression, Starling gets what I¡¯m saying. This isn¡¯t about defending Hark, exactly- she certainly doesn¡¯t need it. But it¡¯s an insult to our collective intelligence to act like that at a meeting like this. If we¡¯re all going to just talk in platitudes and pretend we think the others are stupid, there was no point in coming at all.


    Even Anton, who doesn¡¯t exactly seem interested in being a commander, isn¡¯t stupid. He¡¯s just got more intelligence than he has cunning, more creative passion than ambition. It¡¯s not going to do the Peregrines any favors, but I still have no intention of underestimating him.


    ¡°That¡¯s a very generous offer, Izanami. I¡¯ll be sure to keep it in mind.¡±


    Maintaining my bland, friendly demeanor, I smile back at him.


    ¡°Just call me Iza, everybody else does. Anyway- I ordered on my way up here, so I hope you all haven¡¯t been waiting for me to do that.¡±


    ¡°We ordered before you got here,¡± Anton supplies. ¡°Somebody told me the yellowtail here is supposed to be good, but I¡¯m not really a fan of sushi, so I got the chicken katsu instead.¡±


    Starling frowns.


    ¡°If I¡¯d known you didn¡¯t like sushi, I would have suggested we eat elsewhere. My apologies.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± insists Anton, seemingly regretting having spoken up at all. I seriously have to wonder what the Citadel¡¯s administration was thinking, putting him in charge of anybody. My initial speculation was that they were hoping to bring out the Starhammer line¡¯s tactical acumen by forcing one of its Nobles into an unwanted command position, but one glance at his psychological evaluation would have told them he wasn¡¯t suited for that. Maybe they set him up to fail deliberately, in order to control which unit would be given to the Heir to control in our second year, after their inevitable poor performance this year. But what end that would serve, I¡¯m not certain.


    Silence falls around the table after that, and even I begin to feel slightly uncomfortable. There¡¯s only so far that Starling¡¯s extroversion can take us, when I¡¯m the only person who¡¯ll willingly engage with him.


    Thankfully, drinks arrive a few moments later- soda for Anton, green tea for Hark, and liquor for Starling and I. The politician raises his glass, and I follow suit, followed by the other two, although we¡¯ve got to lower our arms slightly to accommodate Lucia, who betrays the barest hint of annoyance that she couldn¡¯t reach.


    It surprises me how much I sympathize with Hark, even though she¡¯s easily the greatest threat to my ambitions at the moment. Being stuck in a child¡¯s body like that, even if she¡¯s not really ¡®stuck,¡¯ has to be frustrating. In theory, she could just switch out for a more mature form, but it¡¯s not exactly considered acceptable for a child to do that. For one thing, it makes the age-of-consent situation pretty dicey. Generally speaking, you¡¯re expected to use a body that looks more or less your age, although some people do make a point of defying that convention. But those are people who want to look younger, not older, and it¡¯s typically dismissed as the behavior of someone too juvenile to age with grace. You don¡¯t have to live in a decrepit, gnarled body, of course, but a tasteful bit of gray hair and some laugh lines are expected when you¡¯re in your late eighties.


    Lucia¡¯s not really a child in any meaningful sense of the word, that much is obvious just from the look in her eyes. But because of certain social norms and expectations, she¡¯s got to wear a child¡¯s body for years. I hated being a kid badly enough when I was living back on Demeter VII- it¡¯s hard to imagine how miserable I¡¯d have been if I was here on Akademos back then. On the other hand, I wasn¡¯t quite as mature as Hark is back then, so I might not have had the self-awareness to even understand that people were looking down on me.


    ¡°So, tell me,¡± I say to Starling, as the scotch burns its way down my throat, ¡°why¡¯d you call us all together? It can¡¯t have been because you were expecting a great conversation.¡±


    Despite himself, Starling lets out a chuckle.


    ¡°There isn¡¯t always some ulterior motive behind every action, Iza. I thought it would be a benefit to all of us if we got to know each other a little better. That¡¯s it.¡±


    As he speaks, I can feel the lens in my right eye going to work, recording every minute movement of the muscles in his face, so as to better create a doctored recording of him, one that will be virtually indistinguishable from the real thing. Starling has already provided me plenty of data, but I¡¯m going to need to get the other two to talk a bit more if I intend to do the same for them.


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s going great so far. You think we should play some fun icebreaker games? Would that help?¡±


    From my right side, I hear Anton groan at the prospect. Can¡¯t blame him- those exercises never serve the purpose they¡¯re supposedly meant to. My theory is that they¡¯re more meant as a form of humiliation for the children, to remind them that they have no power over their lives yet.


    ¡°Perhaps not,¡± Starling replies judiciously. ¡°But we might still benefit from a topic for discussion. I don¡¯t share many classes with the three of you, so perhaps something unrelated to our studies here?¡±


    ¡°Like sports?¡± Anton asks, seeming annoyed by the mere idea. ¡°That¡¯s not really my thing.¡±


    As soon as I hear him draw breath to speak, I¡¯m turning towards him, ready to catch as much as I can with the lens in my eye. It¡¯s supposed to be virtually undetectable without specialized equipment, but a part of me is still slightly nervous about one of them noticing. If they do, I¡¯ll simply claim it¡¯s so that I can review the conversation again later, but I¡¯d rather not have to go through with all that.


    ¡°No, I was thinking... our backgrounds. It might provide us some perspective on one another, to know where the others hail from.¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± I respond readily. ¡°I¡¯m from a farm-world, Demeter VII. Pretty much the least interesting place in the entire Imperium. Spent my whole life waiting to get out of there.¡±


    Starling nods, expression filled with something between sympathy and pity.


    ¡°So I¡¯d heard. It must have been difficult, knowing you were destined for greater things. I was fortunate enough to have been born into a position of relative privilege, on Ocrain.¡±


    There are tens of thousands of inhabited worlds in the Imperium, and Ocrain is one of the few that the average person is likely to know by name. It¡¯s a major cultural center, where some of the most popular and influential music and mems are made. In addition, it¡¯s home to many of the people who star in those mems and perform that music, not just the people who produce it all. There are entire artificial cities built and maintained on the planet purely for the purpose of creating mems, because the technology used to capture it is so high-fidelity that using a soundstage would destroy any sense of immersion for the viewer. Those who can afford to actually live there tend to be wealthy and influential themselves, whether they¡¯re involved in the industry or not.


    Of course, there are plenty of people who can¡¯t afford to live there, but want to regardless, who end up working as part of the de facto servant class that makes the extravagant lifestyles of the wealthy and powerful possible. Evidently, Starling was not born to one such family.


    ¡°Really?¡± Anton asks, showing some genuine interest in the conversation for the first time. ¡°You ever meet Melanie 23?¡±


    ¡°Not personally, no. But one of my fathers saw her at an office Christmas party that some of the talent his firm represents was invited to. She was quite charming, to hear him tell it.¡±


    ¡°Cool.¡±


    Another brief silence, as Anton slowly realizes we¡¯re all expecting him to talk next. His face falls, and he takes a sip of his soda to buy himself some time.


    ¡°I¡¯m, uh... well, my family¡¯s from Kiyobetsu originally, but they left during the defection. Or, most of them did. One of my mothers stuck around. Apparently she was a Disciple of the Path. None of my other parents even knew. Anyway, that all happened right after they had me, before I even got my body, so I grew up on Maadt.¡±


    Starling gives him a sympathetic look.


    ¡°Growing up without one of your parents must have been difficult.¡±


    ¡°It was fine,¡± Anton shrugs, seeming slightly annoyed at the implication of vulnerability on his part. ¡°Never really knew her. My other parents had, like, five more kids after she was gone too. It¡¯s a good thing I ended up being a Noble, or I might have ended up a theist like her.¡±


    Theism of any kind is prohibited throughout the Imperium. In practice, policing what somebody believes inside of their own head is next to impossible, but operating any kind of church or other formal religious organization is strictly illegal. No school of thought that conflicts with the Imperium¡¯s official ideology is allowed to flourish- particularly not any of the sort that glorify death like the Disciples of the Path do. Having one in your lineage is considered a black mark, the way a genetic predisposition might have been, back when genetics were out of human control.


    ¡°Indeed,¡± Hark says, speaking up for the first time without having been prompted. I don¡¯t turn fast enough to catch much of her speaking, but it¡¯s a good sign that she¡¯s talking at all.


    ¡°Yeah. Maadt was kinda the only place we could afford after leaving Kiyobetsu, so it wasn¡¯t great. My parents had a hard time finding jobs at first, and I had to help out with things a lot. Luckily there was a lot of engineering work, so I actually made some decent money.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear that,¡± Starling frowns. ¡°Surely, as refugees, you received some compensation from the Imperium?¡±


    ¡°Some, yeah,¡± Anton says. ¡°Not very much. Kiyobetsu was a big place. There were a lot of refugees.¡±


    ¡°That, and if everybody gets a big enough payout to live comfortably, it¡¯s less than ideal for the regional economies of wherever they end up moving. Better that some of the refugees end up in a position where they have to accept some manual labor job they wouldn¡¯t have otherwise taken.¡±


    All three of the others turn to look at me as I¡¯m speaking. It¡¯s by no means illegal to say things like that, but Nobles badmouthing the Imperium itself isn¡¯t exactly common. After all, it¡¯s not like we have a choice about whether we¡¯re gonna end up working as a cog in its machinery, so those who have a genuine ideological opposition to its policies don¡¯t tend to make it as far as the Citadel. And even those who do make it here with anti-Imperium views generally know better than to say things like that out loud in public, lest they end up branded as a Meritocracy sympathizer.


    ¡°That¡¯s certainly one way of looking at it,¡± Starling says cautiously. ¡°Hopefully that policy can be reexamined once we graduate.¡±


    Even he has to know that¡¯s not likely- individual Nobles don¡¯t actually have much control over questions of wider policy, except for what falls under the specific purview of their office. And something like determining how much money refugees get to resettle themselves isn¡¯t a single Noble¡¯s decision, but a matter of committee. He probably just wants to change the subject, and I can¡¯t blame him for that.


    ¡°Well, what about you, Hark? Any fun stories from growing up?¡±


    The kid doesn¡¯t really look like she has fun stories about anything, but she¡¯s the only one of us who hasn¡¯t spoken yet. And hopefully saying ¡®growing up¡¯ as though she isn¡¯t currently doing that won¡¯t come off as condescending- I only realized it might sound like that after the words were halfway out of my mouth.


    ¡°Not especially. I only have one parent. He was¡­ understandably upset when I turned out to be a Noble.¡±


    Hearing that makes some things seem clearer about her. Most ordinary people her age don¡¯t act the way she does, and while being of the Grim Dragon¡¯s line doubtlessly has something to do with it, being raised by a single parent who wanted to clone himself and didn¡¯t get to probably didn¡¯t help either. There¡¯s no law against individuals reproducing by themselves, but it¡¯s rather strongly discouraged, and banned past one generation. Fortunately, there aren¡¯t very many people who want to raise themselves as a child alone.


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t he just have another kid?¡± Anton asks, with little awareness of how the question comes off. Fortunately, Hark is too stoic to react in the slightest.


    ¡°He¡¯s planning to have one after I graduate. I¡¯ll be supplementing his income with my own, as he wouldn¡¯t otherwise be able to afford another child.¡±


    That must have been an uncomfortable conversation. Hell, raising Lucia has to have been an uncomfortable experience from start to finish. Again, I feel sympathy for her. Her father wanted a child for some very specific reason, and she wasn¡¯t able to fulfill her intended purpose. It can¡¯t have been good for her self-esteem. I¡¯m lucky enough to have had parents that supported me from the moment I told them I wanted to do more with my life than work on a farm. Of course, they¡¯d already had a child who wasn¡¯t a Noble, and had another one after me for good measure. They¡¯ll probably have a few more after Cesar and Byron leave home, too.


    ¡°I see,¡± Starling says. ¡°That must have been difficult.¡±


    Hark¡¯s total refusal to emote seems to be throwing him off a little bit. Some people would only tell a story like this for sympathy, but she doesn¡¯t seem interested in that at all. I can only imagine what family dinners with her father were like.


    ¡°I had little cause to complain,¡± Hark replies neutrally. She holds a hand over her tea, gauging the temperature, then raises the cup to her lips and takes a cautious sip.


    Nobody speaks for a little while. Something about talking with these three like this feels off. We¡¯re supposed to be rivals, and here we are chatting about banalities. None of the others quite seem to know what to make of the situation. Even Starling, who arranged all this, is struggling to get anything out of Anton and Hark. Thankfully, our food is quick to arrive, and its presence masks our inability to hold a proper conversation, if only for the moment.


    All of us save Anton got sushi of some kind, in my case with a side of sweet potato tempura, recommended to me by Niko. The praises he sang of it turn out to be entirely accurate. For the sake of politeness, I offer them up to the others, and wait only a moment for their polite refusals before practically inhaling the entire plate. After all, I don¡¯t have to worry about my sushi rolls getting cold, but that¡¯s absolutely a concern with the steaming-hot fried potato slices.


    Starling and Hark eat their sushi with careful precision, making sure not to let a single grain of rice spill. Anton, on the other hand, tears into his breaded chicken strips with ferocity, uncaring how he looks. If it was a deliberate power-play, I might respect it, but to all appearances he¡¯s simply oblivious to the finer points of etiquette.


    ¡°So,¡± Starling says casually, a few minutes into the meal, ¡°is everybody feeling prepared for the first of the War Games? I¡¯ll confess some nervousness.¡±


    Here it is- the real reason he called this meeting. He¡¯s trying to get a sense of which of us is the biggest threat, exactly as my advisors predicted. But he waited to establish an atmosphere of familiarity with us, so it would come off less like he¡¯s transparently fishing for information. I somehow doubt Hark will be fooled by it, and I¡¯m obviously not, but Anton is a different story. And of course, just because we know he¡¯s looking for information doesn¡¯t mean our responses won¡¯t still give something away.


    ¡°I¡¯m not too worried,¡± I reply airily, before popping a sushi roll into my mouth. It¡¯s not strictly untrue, but I¡¯m still lying in a certain sense, because the idea is to get them to believe my nonchalance here is an act, after observing our staged training session. Putting it so simply makes the whole plan sound a little ridiculous, I¡¯ll admit, but it still seems solid enough to me.


    ¡°Should I take offense to that?¡± Starling asks with a laugh. ¡°I promise you, my Oxen are no pushovers.¡±


    ¡°Oh, no, it¡¯s got nothing to do with you. I only meant that I¡¯m confident in my unit¡¯s abilities.¡±


    ¡°I see. And the two of you?¡±


    Anton shrugs.


    ¡°Not stressing too much about it. My guys are mostly good doing their own thing.¡±


    Somehow, I doubt that. More likely Anton just isn¡¯t used to giving anybody orders, so he¡¯s convinced himself that a hands-off approach to leadership is actually ideal, despite any evidence to the contrary. Still, he¡¯s given his answer, and we turn our eyes to Lucia.


    ¡°My Komodos stand ready,¡± Hark says simply, and if I wasn¡¯t looking right at her, I¡¯d swear the words came from the mouth of a general hardened by a hundred years or more of warfare.


    Her Founder, the Grim Dragon, and mine, the Tyrant¡¯s Bane, are two of the Nine Titans, the most infamous commanders in the Imperium¡¯s forces during the War of Conquest. The difference is, my Founder was primarily concerned with naval combat, hence his second title of Deceiver Admiral. His campaigns were fought in the void between worlds. And Hark¡¯s founder was mainly focused on ground battles. Taking hold of worlds by force, routing the armies of the warlords. That was how he earned his other title- He Who Walks With Ash In His Wake. A bit wordy, but well-deserved. Fighting against the Beast, the perfect warrior-mind incarnate in countless combat-ready bodies, you have to go scorched-earth. And the Grim Dragon left behind some pretty damn scorched worlds. A few are still half uninhabitable from the destruction he wrought. That, if nothing else, is why I refuse to classify Hark as anything less than the primary threat to my unit¡¯s victory in this year¡¯s War Games.


    Anton and Starling seem to have been stunned into silence by her quiet conviction, or perhaps by the fact that it came from someone who looks so unthreatening on the surface. Hopefully that¡¯ll shift some of their focus away from me for the time being. Not that I want to be underestimated, but it¡¯d be preferable to avoid them all ganging up on me right now. If all goes according to plan, that¡¯s bound to happen eventually, but as the saying goes, by then it will be too late to stop me.

 Chapter Sixteen

    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¡ª¡±


    ¡°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.

 Chapter Seventeen

    ¡°I¡¯ll be the first to admit I¡¯m no expert, but isn¡¯t it usually considered... I dunno, unethical to date one of your officers?¡±


    I flash Sofie a grin over the rim of my glass.


    ¡°Sure, but if you date two at once, it cancels out. Simple mathematics.¡±


    ¡°This is a date?¡± Niko says, in mock surprise. ¡°I thought we were having another emergency War Council session.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I was wondering where Grant had gotten to,¡± Sofie remarks sardonically. ¡°This explains so much.¡±


    ¡°Quit it, both of you. You¡¯re gonna make me regret doing this in the first place.¡±


    Despite my reprimand, I¡¯m grinning. These two are easy to be around, in a way few others I¡¯ve met here at the Citadel are. Our general compatibility makes me wonder again if their placement in my unit was the deliberate choice of the same hidden benefactor who made sure I¡¯d be protected from the assassination attempts that typically befall Nobles of my line by assigning Sander to me. But bringing that up would probably kill the mood, so I cast the thought aside.


    ¡°Well, there are probably better things we could be doing with our time,¡± Niko comments idly, stretching his arms over his head in a way that makes his black shirt tighten and accentuate the contours of his well-sculpted body. ¡°War Games aren¡¯t far off.¡±


    ¡°We could all use a break after that training session yesterday, though.¡±


    Especially since we¡¯ve got one planned for the whole day tomorrow, Sofie adds.


    Nodding in response, I continue aloud as though she hadn¡¯t said anything. We need to avoid mentioning anything about tomorrow¡¯s secret training session, or that the one we had yesterday was a sham, in case any spies from the enemy unit are listening in on us- and they¡¯d be foolish not to be.


    ¡°I should probably check in with Grant and see if he¡¯s got a sense of how mad people are at me after that,¡± I note. ¡°But enough about business, we¡¯re supposed to be relaxing. How were your classes this morning?¡±


    ¡°About the usual,¡± Niko shrugs, churning the contents of his glass with a straw. We¡¯re eating in a retro diner, the kind of place that specializes in burgers, milkshakes, and not a ton else. Sadly, thanks to my recent last-minute health kick, I¡¯m forcing myself to abstain from the typical indulgences of a place like this, eating only a single burger with lettuce and tomato, rather than the double-layered monstrosity laden with cheese, bacon, mayo, and all other manner of toppings, that I usually get. I¡¯ve forgone the milkshake entirely, opting instead for an artificially sweetened soda, which simply doesn¡¯t taste as good as the real thing.


    ¡°Yeah? What class do you even have today? I can¡¯t remember.¡±


    ¡°Ooh, bad first date etiquette,¡± Sofie says with an exaggerated wince. ¡°Admitting you forgot something he already told you? That¡¯s basically admitting you don¡¯t listen to him at all.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s because I don¡¯t listen to him,¡± I inform her with a smirk. ¡°All I care about is his body.¡±


    ¡°Well, it is a nice body,¡± she replies, scratching her chin contemplatively.


    ¡°Are you two planning on letting me talk any time soon?¡± Niko asks.


    ¡°Yeah, sure, go ahead,¡± I tell him, with a disinterested wave of my hand, as I sink into the plush red leather of the booth and pick up my glass of bland diet soda.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got Fireteam Combat Tactics on Fourthdays. It¡¯s taught by Professor Kore, the Crane Unit¡¯s advisor. She¡¯s quite clever, I think you¡¯d like her.¡±


    The Crane Unit¡¯s advisor- could that be the professor I saw having a private dinner with the Heir at the Stygian, on the night I took the whole Gazelle Unit out for a meal? I suppose anybody who¡¯s got the Heir¡¯s ear would have to be at least somewhat intelligent.


    ¡°Now who¡¯s making first-date mistakes?¡± I ask with a laugh. ¡°Talking about other women? Pretty sure that¡¯s supposed to be verboten.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s got you there, Nicky. Anything to say for yourself?¡±


    ¡°I regret nothing,¡± he maintains, straightfaced.


    ¡°Hmm, firm in his convictions. What do you say, Izzy? Is he forgiven?¡±


    While Sofie is busy cracking up at her own unintentional pseudo-rhyme of ¡®Izzy¡¯ and ¡®is he,¡¯ I make a show of considering the question.


    ¡°For now,¡± I conclude eventually. ¡°But you¡¯re on thin ice.¡±


    While this may be our first date in the strictest of senses, I don¡¯t really consider it to be a hugely momentous event or anything. We¡¯ve been in an ambiguous state of entanglement for a little while now, this is just making things official. Polyamory really does make this sort of thing much easier than it would otherwise be- we¡¯d surely have been caught in some terrible love triangle, where two of us competed uselessly for the affections of the third.


    (I would have won, of course.)


    ¡°Sure, sure,¡± Niko responds, smirking. ¡°Anyway, I answered your question. Your turn.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I just had Logistics. Boring as ever. Spent the whole class thinking about the two of you, ¡®course.¡±


    Sophie chuckles at my obvious flattery.


    ¡°What about you, Sof?¡±


    ¡°Combat 101,¡± she says with a frown. ¡°Not my fave. Almstedt doesn¡¯t seem to like me.¡±


    ¡°Huh, that¡¯s funny,¡± I reply, smirking. ¡°He likes me just fine.¡±


    ¡°I wonder why? It can¡¯t possibly be your personality...¡±


    As Sofie pretends to mull that conundrum over, I roll my eyes and scarf down the last morsel of my burger. Washing it down with a slurp of my soda, I tap my stomach, feeling taut muscle- but not as taut as it should be. Overindulging with meals like this is probably to blame for that. Food in the Imperium isn¡¯t heavily processed for the most part, but it¡¯s still best not to eat burgers or drink sodas more than once or twice a week, tops.


    Some people choose to succumb to vice completely, even to the detriment of their bodies, because all the damage they do is by definition impermanent. However, one can¡¯t simply dispose of a body and receive a new one on a whim- the waste of biomass means you incur a fee for any ¡®nonessential¡¯ resurrections. I prefer to hang onto a body for as long as possible, and so far I¡¯ve done just fine in that respect. Only two resurrections in my entire life so far, and both occurred here at the Citadel.


    That number isn¡¯t going to stay so low forever, though.


    ¡°Well, what do you two think? Should we head out?¡±


    My dates share a glance. Finding no objections between either of them, Niko nods, while Sofie balls up her napkin and dumps it on her plate. Having paid in advance, we can leave whenever we want. Apparently, before the brainband, there was some arcane process involving multiple trips to your table by the wait staff to confirm your payment before you could go- despite having the technology at the time to streamline the process. Yet another example of the inefficiency of the pre-Imperial system. Hell, even in the Warlord era, most places had some kind of centralized government that was capable of imposing rules onto society when the markets alone would have created suboptimal outcomes. There were a few pseudo-democracies in that era, though most of them were conquered or wiped out by warlords before the Imperium was founded. The few that survived were quickly incorporated during the War of Conquest, typically putting up less of a fight than the warlord-led systems.


    The three of us head out onto the streets of the Citadel, taking in the cool afternoon air. Naturally, my plans for our time together extend further than just a single meal, so Niko and Sofie follow my lead as I head towards our next stop.


    Humming idly to herself, my spymaster slips her hand into mine, shooting me a wink when I turn to her with a questioning glance. I¡¯ve got nothing against physical displays of affection, but they don¡¯t exactly come naturally to me- despite having grown up in a household where they were quite common. The influence of my Founder, I suspect. According to most accounts, Thorn was a fairly extroverted individual, but not one prone to excess touching.


    I don¡¯t intend to fall into the trap of letting my long-dead Founder¡¯s behavior dictate how I live my life. Hewing too closely to the lifestyle of one¡¯s Founder is considered somewhat improper among Nobles, and not in the way where you¡¯d be a countercultural rebel if you did it regardless. So I wrap my tail around Niko¡¯s waist to draw him closer to us. A trio all walking hand in hand would look ridiculous, but luckily I¡¯ve got an additional appendage I can use to express my affection instead.


    Raising an amused eyebrow, my warmaster allows the flexible strand of flesh to encircle him, the tip hidden behind his back, where I use it to gently trace patterns into him, never pressing hard enough to pierce the fabric of his shirt, much less his skin. He shivers slightly at its touch, but doesn¡¯t say a word in complaint. A body that¡¯s been under the needle as much as his probably barely registers such a light touch as pain.


    The three of us don¡¯t attract much attention on our walk. It¡¯s hardly uncommon for young Nobles in the prime of their lives to have flings with one-another while they¡¯re at the Citadel. In fact, the only person who really looks twice at us is a Peregrine who I vaguely recognize, mainly because of her distinctive appearance, as her skin is painted in various bright pastel colors, complimented by her attire. She¡¯s got a falconer¡¯s glove on one arm, which suggests that the bird circling overhead belongs to her, and the way she gazes at us indicates that she¡¯s pointedly saving the memory to show to somebody later.


    It¡¯s been less than a day, so we can¡¯t really tell yet whether last night¡¯s ruse has done the trick or not. Hopefully the sight of us three having such a casual stroll, when by all rights we should be scrambling to get our unit into fighting shape, will help sell the notion that we¡¯re not a real threat. Not that such a thing particularly factored into my decision to ask Niko and Sofie out, but it¡¯s a nice added benefit.


    After several minutes of walking in companionable silence, we arrive at my chosen destination- one of the Citadel¡¯s many outdoor covered markets, where the family members of the Citadel staff hawk various wares to Nobles in order to supplement their income. Many families have multiple members with different staff jobs, and those that don¡¯t typically tend to have off-world positions that allow them to work remotely, but the few who would otherwise have nothing to do all day have stalls in places like this.


    The theme of this particular market is clothing. It stretches all the way down the avenue, with displays presenting everything from saris to sundresses. One stall even seems to be purveying more practical items, like fingerless gloves, cargo pants, and body armor, which I can tell has immediately caught Niko¡¯s eye.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, are we going shopping?¡± Sofie asks me, incredulous. Despite myself, I frown slightly. My expectation had been that she¡¯d be the most enthusiastic about this venture.


    ¡°That was my plan, yeah. Isn¡¯t that something people do on dates?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s something people do, yeah. Not something I thought you¡¯d want to do.¡±


    Niko laughs.


    ¡°What exactly were you expecting?¡±


    ¡°I dunno, that she¡¯d take us to the range or something.¡±


    With a wave of my hand, I dismiss that notion.


    ¡°Too much like training. Plus it¡¯s a pretty solitary activity- we¡¯d be in our own lanes, earplugs in. This seemed like something we could actually do together, rather than just being in the same room at the same time, doing our own thing individually.¡±


    Before I can think better of it, I drop my voice to tell them something else, embarrassed.


    ¡°I don¡¯t really have much experience with this sort of thing, either. Or... any experience. So I picked something cliched.¡±Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    ¡°Hey, don¡¯t get me wrong, I¡¯m fully into it,¡± Sofie tells me, giving my hand a quick squeeze of encouragement. ¡°Just surprised.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± I reply, trying to recover some of my confidence after that admission. ¡°Let¡¯s get started.¡±


    We wade into the market together, breaking from our formation to navigate the narrow corridors between stalls, made narrower by the presence of other customers idling in place and examining the wares. It¡¯s not long before a dress patterned to look like stained glass shining in the sunlight catches Sofie¡¯s eye, and she pulls Niko and I close to fawn over it.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t this gorgeous? Oh, I would look so good in this.¡±


    ¡°Looks... fragile,¡± says Niko critically. Sofie scoffs in response.


    ¡°No duh, it¡¯s meant to look like it¡¯s made of glass.¡±


    ¡°I meant the material. Suppose it¡¯s got to be thin for it to look like glass, but it would probably tear like tissue paper if I tugged on it too hard.¡±


    While they bicker, I turn the dress around and examine it. The design is certainly meant to be revealing, backless and loose like it would hang off of the body, rather than cling to it. Not something I could see myself wearing, but I¡¯m not the one contemplating buying it.


    ¡°I think it would look great on you,¡± I tell Sofie, who gestures to me while looking at Niko, as if to say ¡®see, I told you.¡¯ She takes it off the rack and brings it to the cashier, though she holds it gingerly, as though afraid a strong breeze might tear it to shreds. There¡¯s no cash transaction necessary, almost all payment is handed through the brainband, but she does need to get a bag for it before we can move on.


    ¡°Admit it,¡± Niko prods me, grinning. ¡°You just want to see her wearing it because it¡¯s half transparent.¡±


    ¡°What, and you don¡¯t?¡± I fire back, flicking one of his black metal horns playfully.


    ¡°...touch¨¦.¡±


    So happy with her purchase is Sofie that when she returns, she plants a kiss on my cheek- then blows one to Niko with a wink. He rolls his eyes, but I see the ghost of a smile on his lips. His generally reserved affect makes those subtle signs of his affection all the more valuable.


    Further down the avenue, we pass a mannequin dressed in a sky-captain¡¯s powder-blue uniform, complete with a red scarf and brass goggles. It¡¯s the sort of thing you¡¯d find on the pilot of an airship on a helium-rich world like Argestes, where airships are a common sight in the skies. Stories of airship piracy and the intrepid crews that fend them off are typically exaggerated in mems and books, but such events do occasionally occur in reality as well. I devoured those stories when I was younger, uncaring of whether they were true or false, and gazed up at the empty skies of Demeter-VII, hoping in vain to one day see an airship sailing overhead.


    Now, though, I simply admire the uniform for a few moments, ignoring Sofie¡¯s quizzical glance, and then move on. Much as it might have impressed my younger self to see me wearing that, it would be a waste of money. I would look pretty ridiculous dressing like a sky-captain in everyday life, to say nothing of formal events. At best I¡¯d use it once or twice a year for a costume party.


    While I was examining that, Niko set his sights on another outfit, this time something I don¡¯t recognize. It¡¯s an orangeish-brown leather jacket, covered in patches, pins, and a few empty ammunition loops, over a maroon turtleneck. Distinctive, sure, but not exactly what I¡¯d call iconic. Niko, however, seems quite impressed.


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe they¡¯ve got one of these here,¡± he says almost reverently, before looking over his shoulder at the two of us. ¡°Do you seriously not know what this is?¡±


    Sofie and I both shake our heads.


    ¡°It¡¯s an Arawan Ranger uniform. They were a sort of irregular peacekeeping force from the Annwyn system in the early days of the Imperium, when the power structures of the old warlords were still largely in place. The Rangers didn¡¯t just keep the peace, they dispensed justice to everybody, regardless of their status, and brought low the warlords¡¯ allies who still had the populations of those worlds under their heel. All of them wore a jacket like this, so they could be easily identified by anybody who needed their help.¡±


    As he¡¯s speaking, Niko is examining the jacket closely, poring over every patch with the same intensity he uses while doing maintenance on a rifle.


    ¡°You know this is almost certainly a replica, right?¡± I ask him.


    ¡°Yeah, I know. But still...¡± He trails off, then picks back up where he left off before. ¡°Their founder was asked to become a Founder, and he declined, said he wasn¡¯t interested. Shame, honestly. Would have made a good one. Better than some of the ones we got.¡±


    He doesn¡¯t have to name any names for me to know who he¡¯s talking about. A few come to mind immediately, including some among my Gazelles. But what¡¯s done is done, and I¡¯m not going to judge anyone for refusing to have their personal pattern passed down through endless generations of Nobles. If someone asked that of me, I¡¯m not sure I¡¯d say yes either.


    While Niko is heading off to buy his special jacket, Sofie and I share an amused look.


    ¡°Kinda cute when he¡¯s nerding out like that, isn¡¯t he?¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah,¡± she agrees. ¡°Downright adorable.¡±


    When he returns, Niko¡¯s wearing the jacket, sleeves rolled up past his forearms, looking satisfied. The tattoos on his arms are still fully visible, including one large, distinctive pattern featuring a roiling thunderstorm with a lightning strike in the center that¡¯s taken the shape of a wolf¡¯s howling maw- a clear reference to his Founder¡¯s title. He jerks his head to the side in the universal gesture for ¡®let¡¯s get going,¡¯ and we do.


    Nothing much catches any of our eyes for a stretch, so we continue down the avenue together, until I spot something worth stopping for. Not an article of clothing, but an individual. He¡¯s immediately recognizable, despite his back being turned, thanks to his shock of orange hair, brighter than naturally possible. It¡¯s Tellis. The Ox Unit¡¯s strategist is perusing the wares of a stall that proclaims itself to be ¡®The final stop for any Noble looking to dress the part!¡¯


    ¡°You two go on ahead,¡± I tell my companies quietly, gesturing to Tellis. ¡°I¡¯m gonna go say hi.¡±


    Sofie furrows her eyebrows for a moment, and I try to hide my smile upon noticing that confusion, like almost everything else, is a good look on her. Conversely, Niko just shrugs and turns to head towards the stall selling tactical gear, like a fly drawn to honey.


    Approaching the unaware Noble, I raise my voice slightly so as not to startle him by getting too close before he notices me.


    ¡°Tellis, hey!¡±


    He turns, looking surprised, but quickly recovers and waves to me with a smile, flashing his perfect teeth. Not that anybody in the Imperium chooses to have anything less than perfect teeth, but somehow his are more perfect, in a way I can¡¯t quite put my finger on.


    ¡°Izanami. What a pleasant surprise. I hadn¡¯t expected to see you here.¡±


    ¡°Why does everybody keep acting surprised that I¡¯m here?¡± I ask sarcastically. ¡°I¡¯ve gotta dress myself too, you know.¡±


    Strictly speaking, I wouldn¡¯t have to come here if all I cared about was dressing myself, I could just have clothing fabricated for me from the comfort of my own apartment. But the way people have been reacting, one would think that they assumed I never bothered making any updates to my wardrobe.


    ¡°Yes, of course. My apologies,¡± he replies gracefully, bowing his head for a moment. If he¡¯s concerned at all about being approached by me, this close to the first round of War Games, he doesn¡¯t show it. He¡¯s got to be aware of the scheme to deny my unit access to the Crucible, but that doesn¡¯t necessarily mean he approves. It seems like the kind of plan that would offend his sensibilities.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it,¡± I laugh. ¡°Honestly, I wasn¡¯t expecting to see you here either. Figured you¡¯d prefer to shop somewhere a little more upscale.¡±


    This little market is hardly the only place to buy clothing in the Citadel, and many of the other establishments are marketed more directly to people like Tellis, who prize pedigree above all else.


    ¡°This location came highly recommended,¡± he replies, gesturing to the stall around us, which is replete with fancy suits and gowns. ¡°Besides, what those other stores charge is practically highway robbery, and I should know.¡±


    It takes a moment for me to get the joke- a reference to his Founder, the Corsair Captain. Still, considering he comes from a wealthy family, I¡¯m surprised Tellis would have any issue paying high prices. It makes me suspect that he¡¯s got an ulterior motive for being here. It¡¯s unlikely to be related to my presence, as he seemingly had no idea I was even here, and would be about the last person I¡¯d choose to send on an intelligence-gathering mission anyway.


    ¡°Yeah, I bet. Plus the atmosphere here is nicer. Places like that can be kinda... sterile.¡±


    That¡¯s supposition on my part, I¡¯ve never actually been inside of a place like that. The stipend my family receives from the Imperium isn¡¯t large enough to justify spending my share on overpriced formalwear, and I¡¯m not about to dip into the unit¡¯s funds for that either. Really, I¡¯m just trying to make conversation while I attempt to suss out what Ayedar¡¯s real reason for being here is.


    ¡°Indeed, indeed,¡± he says, glancing to the side so quickly I barely notice it. ¡°Has anything caught your eye yet? The array of options is almost dizzying, but this is simply calling to me.¡±


    Tellis gestures to a red longcoat with a golden fringe, and silver pauldrons on the shoulders. It looks a little overwrought to me, but definitely the kind of thing I could picture him wearing.


    ¡°Not yet,¡± I inform him honestly. ¡°Came here with two of my officers, though, and they¡¯ve both found things they liked.¡±


    ¡°Ah, I hadn¡¯t realized you were accompanied. Apologies if I¡¯m distracting from your excursion.¡±


    ¡°Nah, no sweat. You here with anybody?¡±


    Immediately, Tellis flushes, and turns away slightly as if to hide it.


    ¡°Not as such, no. An... acquaintance of mine indicated she frequented this market in the afternoons, and I¡¯d hoped to see her, but as of now she¡¯s yet to make an appearance.¡±


    Finding excuses to ¡®run into¡¯ someone he¡¯s interested in, then. Strange that he should be so confident in most things, but incapable of directly expressing interest in a woman he wants to be with. I guess maybe in his mind, there¡¯s some kind of courtship ritual he¡¯s got to go through, before he can ask her out or whatever. Thankfully, I don¡¯t subscribe to outdated ideas like that, and neither does Niko, nor Sofie. Though she¡¯d probably like it if I got her a bouquet of flowers or something, come to think of it.


    ¡°Gotcha. Well, I wouldn¡¯t want to get in your way, so I¡¯m gonna head off. Good luck with her, and the War Games.¡±


    ¡°Likewise,¡± he says, looking grateful. His surprise and discomfort upon seeing me makes more sense now- if the object of his desire had appeared only to see him chatting up some other girl, it would have made his attempts to woo her much more difficult.


    When I return to Niko, he¡¯s comparing two utility belts, both of which look pretty much identical to me, while Sofie watches, looking bored. My reappearance changes her expression to one of relief, and she steps away from Niko to greet me.


    ¡°How¡¯d it go? You get anything useful outta him?¡±


    ¡°Think so,¡± I reply with a wink. Specifically, with the eye that¡¯s concealing a recording lens, the same one I used during dinner with my fellow unit commanders two days ago. Before approaching Tellis, I activated it surreptitiously, and made sure to keep focused on his face while he was speaking. Hopefully our conversation was long enough for it to have collected enough data to generate a model of him that we can use to sow dissent within the Ox Unit¡¯s ranks, as I planned to do with Amalia and Tai. We¡¯ve still got a few days to go before the War Games, and for maximum effect, we¡¯ll have to ¡®leak¡¯ the falsified recording to the intended recipients right before the battle, so they don¡¯t have time to examine it in depth and discover that it¡¯s fraudulent.


    ¡°Good. It better have been worth abandoning me here for. Because this place is a nightmare. Look around- everything they¡¯re selling is black. Every single thing. And the pouches... so many pouches...¡±


    Sofie shudders theatrically, and I grin, putting an arm around her shoulder and guiding her away from the stall, leaving Niko to continue examining the various tactical offerings on display.


    ¡°There, is that any better?¡±


    ¡°Now that you¡¯re with me, yeah,¡± Sofie replies, and guides my head down for a kiss. She¡¯s a good few inches short than me, probably to make herself seem nonthreatening to people, which I find rather endearing. Not that I¡¯ve got anything against taller girls, of course, being one myself- but people who choose to be short are somewhat rare, and having to lean down to give her a proper kiss is a nice feeling.


    While her lips are still locked with mine, I slip my tail up the back of her shirt, and ghost the flat of its barb across her stomach, making her shiver. Sofie pulls away slowly, almost reluctantly, and I withdraw my tail, aware that we¡¯ve drawn a few glances from the market¡¯s other patrons, but uncaring.


    ¡°You¡¯re too good at that, farmgirl.¡±


    ¡°What can I say? Some people just have natural talent.¡±


    Rolling her eyes, Sofie brushes a strand of metallic hair out of her face and hoists the bag with her dress in it over her shoulder.


    ¡°Come on, Nicky¡¯s gonna be in there for hours. Let¡¯s find you something nice to wear.¡±


    Already having flashbacks to my time with Grant, trying to pick out what to wear for my meeting with the other commanders, I follow Sofie deeper into the market. She steps between two stalls, into an alleyway I hadn¡¯t even noticed was there, but which seems to have a few hidden establishments of its own.


    ¡°There¡¯s gotta be some good stuff in here,¡± she says, pointing to a stall with a sign above it that simply reads ¡®Chroma.¡¯ The interior is obscured by a curtain, which she parts before stepping through. I enter a moment later, after sending Niko a quick brainband message letting him know where we are, in case he finishes up sooner than expected and wonders where we¡¯ve disappeared to.


    As the name implies, Chroma seems to mainly traffic in extremely colorful clothing. Not exactly my usual style, but I try to keep an open mind as I look around. While Sofie gravitates towards the most vibrant offerings, my attention is drawn to a simple shirt in an eye-catching color. It¡¯s a dark, almost otherworldly shade of green, calling to mind some sort of alien shore.


    ¡°That one?¡± Sofie asks, from over my shoulder.


    ¡°Yeah. You not like it?¡±


    ¡°No, no, it¡¯s just¡­ it seems very you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m gonna choose to take that as a compliment,¡± I laugh.


    ¡°Good, I meant it as one. That color¡¯s all dark and mysterious, just like you.¡±


    Rolling my eyes, I pull the shirt off the rack and bring it over to the cashier to get it bagged, transferring payment as I do so.


    ¡°Interesting choice,¡± says the woman behind the counter. She¡¯s older, streaks of gray in her hair, with lines on her face that tell me she¡¯s held onto that body for quite some time. That stands to reason, if she¡¯s been working for the Citadel a while- there¡¯s very little here that could kill you, unless you¡¯re deliberately putting yourself in harm¡¯s way.


    ¡°Yeah? How¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°The color, chthonic green. It only occurs naturally on one planet in the entire Imperium- Ormenos. Fascinating place. Almost ninety-five percent ocean. Completely dark year-round, thanks to the cloud coverage, so it¡¯s more or less uninhabitable for humans. Plenty of sea life, though. That¡¯s where the color comes from, the oceans. Nobody¡¯s certain exactly why. But within those waters dwell leviathans.¡±


    She falls silent, giving me a meaningful look. I stick the shirt into the bag she¡¯s offered, and smirk.


    ¡°You have anecdotes like that ready to go for everybody who walks in here, or am I special?¡±


    The woman smiles knowingly at me, and I roll my eyes, turning back to my companion.


    ¡°Come on, Sof. Let¡¯s get out of here.¡±

 Chapter Eighteen

    Phase three of my plan begins in the early morning, even before most of the Citadel¡¯s staff has roused themselves. Slowly, in small groups, and taking different routes so as to avoid arousing the suspicions of anybody who might be awake and observing us, my Gazelles and I leave our apartments and head for the Grove.


    The first part of the plan was simply meeting with the other unit commanders, and projecting confidence to them. Part two was staging a training session that would give the impression that my confidence was misplaced, so they¡¯d revise their assessment of the threat we posed downwards. And part three involves making sure that we actually are a threat to them. Playing mind games is well and good, but it¡¯s only half the battle. If we can¡¯t acquit ourselves on the battlefield, all of our scheming will have been for nothing.


    Sander and I are already waiting at the other end of the trail through the Grove, when the first of the Gazelles arrive. While my behemoth of a bodyguard keeps an eye out for any unwanted guests, I help Kat put on her rappelling harness, and slowly walk her through the steps necessary to descend from the cliffside, and jump through the waterfall entrance into the Subterrane. Understandably, she¡¯s quite nervous about the whole thing, and I offer to let her wait for someone else to arrive, so she can watch them go first and ensure that it¡¯s safe.


    To the perpetually-anxious young woman¡¯s credit, she refuses my offer and makes the jump, shrieking as she passes through the water and lands on the other side. A moment later, the now-detached harness retracts to our position, and I send her a congratulatory brainband message for making it through. Even across that mental medium of communication, her shivering is audible. Fortunately for Kat, I already went through once, and left a stack of towels there for everybody to dry themselves off with, before climbing back up to wait with Sander above.


    After that, the rest of the unit proceeds through pretty quickly. In the back of my mind, I make note of a few small groups that arrive together- Grant and Valent, Ada and Mars, Tai, Ibrahim, and Colleen. Finally, I head down after them. Like last time, Sander stays up top alone, this time for two purposes. One, to make sure the anchors keeping our rappelling lines in place don¡¯t come loose, and two, to make sure nobody followed us here. Of anybody in the unit, he needs training the least, and left to his own devices for a few hours, I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll find a productive way to pass the time. That¡¯s not to say I don¡¯t feel a little bad for abandoning him, but he assured me quite firmly that he didn¡¯t mind in the slightest.


    Once everybody is assembled- after drying off, or in the cases of a few, finding a secluded spot and changing into a spare set of clothes they wisely brought with them -I perch atop a well-preserved statue of some minor Founder to address them.


    ¡°I know you¡¯re all wondering why I called you here,¡± I begin, with a sarcastic smile meant to indicate that I know precisely what cliche I¡¯m invoking. ¡°Before we get to that, though, there¡¯s something I need to know. Did you all remember to get a projector drone so one of your copyclan could go around and make some appearances as you?¡±


    Everybody looks around at each other in silence. Eventually, a lone hand goes up. I peer through the darkness to see who it is, and have to suppress a sigh. Of course it¡¯s Bret. Who else?


    ¡°Okay, just one? That¡¯s fine, nobody¡¯s gonna notice. Let¡¯s move on.¡±


    It¡¯s illegal for one mind to be housed in multiple bodies, but that doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯s impossible to be in two places at once. A holoprojector drone can be used to house a member of your copyclan, who can then use the device to project a hologram resembling your body, with a high enough fidelity that it¡¯s indistinguishable from the real thing, at least at a sufficient distance. Obviously if they tried to eat something, or open a door, the illusion would be broken pretty quickly, but they just need to make a few token appearances throughout the day, so nobody realizes that the entire Gazelle Unit is nowhere to be found.


    ¡°Like I said the other day, that training session was meant to go poorly. We needed to make the other units think we¡¯re weaker than we actually are. But we also need to get some serious training in before the War Games start. Which is why we¡¯re gonna spend the entire day today down here, training.¡±


    A few murmurs in the crowd at that. Bret, in particular, makes an exaggerated groaning sound, and I have to restrain myself from ordering somebody to throw him off of the cliff. He¡¯s in no position to be complaining when he just proved he can¡¯t follow even simple orders- though I¡¯m sure his copyclan would have found a way to blow the whole ruse if he¡¯d actually followed my instructions. Others, however, sound slightly impressed with the complexity of this whole scheme. Because they¡¯re mature enough to understand that what we¡¯re doing has actual stakes, and that it¡¯ll take serious effort on all of our parts if we want to win.


    ¡°You¡¯re also probably wondering where exactly we are- so I¡¯ll tell you. This is the Subterrane. The underground section of the Citadel. You¡¯ve probably been down here once or twice before, or at least heard of it, but it still probably looks unfamiliar. That¡¯s because this part of it was sealed off a long time ago. I happen to be aware of a secret entrance, the one we all just used to get in here. Which makes it the perfect place for a secret training exercise, because nobody would know to put hidden cameras down here.¡±


    More murmuring- I even see some raised eyebrows. Probably more than a few people wondering how exactly I know about said secret entrance, considering by my own admission I¡¯d never been away from my provincial homeworld until about a month ago. If they ask, I¡¯ll wink and tell them it¡¯s a secret, to cover for the fact that it was information handed to me by a mysterious benefactor I otherwise know absolutely nothing about. They¡¯d rightly distrust that source, as I would if I was in a position to be looking gift horses in the mouth.


    ¡°It¡¯s still pretty early, I¡¯m aware, so we¡¯re not gonna jump straight into it. Instead, Niko¡¯s gonna run some warmup exercises. So follow me this way, and we¡¯ll get started.¡±


    Hopping down off the statue, I lead the unit down a short flight of stairs, into a wide hallway with a broad walkway separating several pools of stagnant water. There¡¯s an empty vase in the center, which at one point presumably held a potted plant, surrounded by some dead grass. The Subterrane was hardly designed for military training, so it was a challenge to find a spot where there would be enough space for everybody to spread out and do warmups. This hallway was the best we could do, and even with the space it provides, some people have to make do with a narrower spot, where losing their balance will probably result in taking an unwanted dip in a pool of water that hasn¡¯t been disturbed save by insects and algae for decades.


    In the interest of solidarity, or at least the appearance thereof, I find a spot of my own, and assume the requisite position. Adopting his typical stoic facade, Niko begins to lead us through some basic stretches. It¡¯s a pretty stark contrast to how he acted yesterday, out with Sofie and I. But I wouldn¡¯t have picked him as my Combat Officer if he was like that all the time. On an interpersonal level, I might prefer his more laid-back side, but the impassive, uncompromising side has its own uses.


    We start out with some simple stretching, which almost nobody has any issue with. I¡¯m a little bit sore, having spent a couple hours in the gym after my date yesterday, but if anything, this helps lessen that pain, rather than inflaming it. Soon enough, Niko has us transition into some tai chi forms, something I¡¯ve got little experience with. According to him, it¡¯s actually pretty effective for maintaining the body and mind with a focus on combat readiness. Niko barely speaks at all, just demonstrates the movements and allows us to mirror him.


    After fifteen or twenty minutes of that, through which most of the unit manages fine, though I do see a few people struggling, Niko speaks up, breaking the silence.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to move into some basic Inner Flame forms now. These are more difficult, so bear with me.¡±


    Near me, I see Ibrahim cock his head, intrigued. The Way of the Inner Flame is one of the only belief systems that¡¯s not only permitted to be practiced by the Imperium, but actively sponsored. That¡¯s probably got something to do with the fact that it was founded by one of the Nine Titans, the same set of infamous military leaders that my Founder and Hark¡¯s both belong to. And, of course, that it¡¯s got no spiritual component whatsoever, focusing purely on the improvement of the self and the cultivation of virtue.


    Despite its acceptance by the Imperium itself, many people are uncomfortable with the notion of subscribing to a belief system like the Way of the Inner Flame, and letting it dictate how they live their life. I¡¯m not exactly an adherent, but on some level I feel like my own aversion to the idea is because I wouldn¡¯t be able to measure up to the high standard that it demands of its disciples. Niko¡¯s never mentioned being into that kind of thing at all, but I suppose you don¡¯t have to be a devoted believer to think that the exercise routines they use are worth practicing.


    Niko wasn¡¯t joking about these forms being more difficult. Most of the stretches we went through earlier were created well before the Imperium was founded, when you only got the body you were born with. That means they were designed for bodies that were objectively less flexible, durable, and efficient than ours are, thanks to genetic engineering. The Inner Flame forms were designed with the modern body in mind, and they push that modern body to its limit. By the time we¡¯re done, I get why it¡¯s got that name- it feels like my entire body is on fire, inside and out.


    ¡®Okay, that was... good,¡± Niko concludes, as we drop our poses, most of us taking a seat to catch our breath. I¡¯m among that group, wiping a sheen of sweat off my forehead. ¡°I think we can leave it at that. Iza, you wanna take it from here?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± I pant, all eyes turning to me. ¡°Let¡¯s take five and cool off, I¡¯m wiped.¡±


    A few people are too tired to even move, but most of us head back into the atrium where we entered, partly to get a taste of the breeze coming through the open ¡®window¡¯ we used to get inside. I open up the bag I brought with me and take out a bottle of water, which I chug like there¡¯s no tomorrow. Most of the other Gazelles had the foresight to bring bags of their own, but for the few that didn¡¯t, I made sure to pack extra water bottles and provisions for them. It¡¯s my job to look after them, after all. Sourcing that much food on short notice without drawing any attention wasn¡¯t easy, but luckily I had the help of my Intelligence Group to make sure nobody asked any questions about why I needed two dozen sandwiches wrapped and ready to go within the hour.


    ¡°If that was just the warm-up, I¡¯d hate to see what you have planned for the main event,¡± Mars jokes, approaching me casually. I give him a nod and a laugh.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry. I think you¡¯re gonna like it.¡±


    ¡°That so?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. But it¡¯s still a while off, so no spoilers.¡±


    Mars accepts that with a nod, and turns away to greet Ada as she passes by, looking more exhausted than I am. Those warm-ups must have hit the tech team the hardest, since for the most part they don¡¯t seem to make physical fitness a priority. On one hand, they should probably reconsider, since they¡¯ll still be on the battlefield for the War Games, even if they¡¯d prefer to be in a workshop most of the time. On the other, I¡¯m not really in a position to be judging anybody for letting the maintenance of their physical instrument fall by the wayside. Plenty of leaders don¡¯t practice what they preach, but I don¡¯t intend to be one of them.


    After a few minutes, when it feels like everybody¡¯s caught their breath, I address the group, speaking aloud but mirroring my words on the brainband for anybody who can¡¯t hear me.


    ¡°Hope that woke you all up a bit, because we¡¯re not even close to done yet. The Oxen haven¡¯t been sitting around on their asses, so we aren¡¯t gonna either. Now, we don¡¯t know what the structure of the War Games is gonna look like, so we need to be prepared for as many of the possibilities as we can.¡±


    With a click of my fingers, I gesture to Sofie, who swiftly picks up where I left off.


    ¡°Right. We ran an analysis of past iterations of the War Games, and determined that there are three main possibilities, based on which formats were used for the first round over the past century. First is a standard deathmatch- whichever side wipes the other out, wins. Second is zone control- each team has to capture and hold certain designated areas on the battlefield, whichever team held more of them for more time once the timer runs out, wins. And third is siege, where one team has to defend a large fortification against the enemy. That one only tends to get brought out when there¡¯s a significant power gap between the units that are competing, so they can handicap the weaker one by giving them the fort. We¡¯re probably not gonna see that one, so it¡¯s really between zone control and deathmatch.¡±


    Even with our little scheme to make the enemy underestimate us, I doubt we came off so bad that the Citadel administration would think we need that big of a handicap. Though if they do decide to give us one, I won¡¯t complain. I¡¯d feel slightly less proud of winning, sure, but victory here is just a stepping stone towards my ultimate ambitions. There¡¯s no sense feeling bad about how that victory is achieved.


    ¡°Now, both of those are gonna involve killing the other guys, that¡¯s kinda a given. But we need to figure out how best to make that happen. Some of you are better at that kind of thing, some of you aren¡¯t. In order to have the best odds of winning, we¡¯ll need to split into small fireteams that can operate independently, so as to best accomplish multiple objectives simultaneously. My officers and I have discussed this, and these are the teams we came up with.¡±


    At my gesture, Niko starts reading off the teams.


    ¡°First is Iza, Valent, and Katrina.¡±


    That immediately provokes a sigh of relief from Kat, as I suspected it might.


    ¡°Second, Amalia, Grant, and me.¡±


    Though he listed himself last, Niko will obviously be leading that team.


    ¡°Third. Sofie, Sander, and Ada.¡±


    A slightly weird one, since Sofie isn¡¯t exactly a battlefield tactics expert, but I trust her to keep her eye on the main objective while Sander, his usual single-minded self, deals with the shooting-stuff part of the job.


    ¡°Fourth, Mars, Nikitha, and Tai.¡±


    All three of them look satisfied with that selection.


    ¡°Fifth, Ibrahim, Bret, and Colleen.¡±


    I¡¯d be lying if I said that saddling Ibrahim with Bret wasn¡¯t a slight bit of revenge for his abortive attempt to undermine my authority back during our first week here at the Citadel. But on the other hand, I did give him Colleen, whose competence should even out Bret¡¯s uselessness. If he¡¯s smart, he¡¯ll find a way to use Bret as a human shield, since that would probably provide more value than giving him a gun.


    ¡°Thanks, Niko. Everybody, feel free to split up into your groups now.¡±


    There¡¯s a few moments of minor chaos as the various fireteams coalesce around their chosen leaders. Kat comes to me quickly, and I can tell from the look in her eyes that she¡¯s grateful not to have been put under the command of anybody else. Of course, most of them would have treated her just fine, but she¡¯s more comfortable with me. I don¡¯t mind having her close, either- it¡¯ll give me a chance to try and help her grow a little more confident in her own abilities. Valent, on the other hand, I don¡¯t even see come over, I just turn away for a second and then there he is. According to Sofie, he¡¯s got a habit of pulling tricks like that, disappearing entirely for hours or even days, and then suddenly reappearing with some useful bit of information, refusing to divulge how he acquired it.


    ¡°What we¡¯re gonna do now is run a little training exercise, based on a version of the War Games that¡¯s used pretty frequently for upper-year students. It¡¯s called Hoard, and the rules are simple. Everybody gets a token that they carry on them. The objective of the game is to kill other players, and take their tokens. There¡¯s no reward for the killing itself, only for how many tokens you have at the end of the game. So if somebody kills you, they can take all the tokens you¡¯ve collected and double their score.¡±


    As I¡¯m speaking, Niko grabs a black duffel bag and unzips it, offering the contents first to the members of his fireteam before he passes it to the next group.


    ¡°Inside that bag are a bunch of tokens- everybody should take one. There¡¯s also fourteen stun guns, one for everybody here. You get hit, it zaps you, and you take a little nap. Unpleasant, but nonlethal. I don¡¯t want anybody getting resurrection sickness this close to the main event. Take one of those too. Once everybody¡¯s got one, you¡¯re all gonna spread out across the Subterrane. This closed-off area is pretty wide, so you shouldn¡¯t have any trouble finding a spot that¡¯s not close to anybody else. After a couple minutes, I¡¯ll signal that we¡¯re starting. When that happens, you¡¯re free to move out and start hunting for tokens- or hunker down and wait for someone to come to you. The game ends after thirty minutes, or after all teams but one are eliminated. Clear enough?¡±


    A few affirmative murmurs and nods, but most importantly no indications of confusion. The bag comes to us- I pull out three tokens and three stun guns, and pass Kat and Valent theirs. These guns fire charged ¡®shock rounds,¡¯ rather than wires, giving them range closer to that of a real pistol. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    ¡°Great. Now go on, get out of here. You¡¯ve got ten minutes before the starting gun, so find somewhere good to hole up, or you¡¯ll be easy pickings.¡±


    With a wave of my hand, I send the Gazelles hurrying off. Kat moves to follow them, but I put a hand on her shoulder.


    ¡°We¡¯re gonna start out right here.¡±


    ¡°O-oh. Do you want to wait for them to come to us, then?¡±


    I shrug my shoulders theatrically.


    ¡°Depends. Is that what you think we should do?¡±


    Looking surprised that I¡¯m deferring to her, Kat falls silent, looking around the atrium for a few moments. Her gaze turns analytical.


    ¡°I... don¡¯t think so,¡± she concludes eventually. ¡°This isn¡¯t a very defensible position. There¡¯s too many entrances. If you¡¯re sure we should start here, then it would be best to go hunting, not hunker down.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± I reply, satisfied. ¡°And you¡¯re gonna be able to pull the trigger when we find somebody to shoot?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± she declares firmly. ¡°I¡¯ve been practicing.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    While Kat and I have been dialoguing, Valent¡¯s been pacing around the atrium, inspecting its nooks and crannies, toying with the stun-gun in his hand.


    ¡°I concur,¡± he says eventually. ¡°More to the point, might it behoove us to remove these tokens from our personages, and conceal them elsewhere? It may not be in keeping with the spirit of the exercise, but that has never stopped you in the past, has it, commander?¡±


    After considering his proposal for a few moments, I eventually shake my head.


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t make much of a difference. If we get shot, we¡¯re out, so it doesn¡¯t matter much if whoever shoots us gets our tokens or not- either way, we¡¯re not winning. It¡¯d just spite the enemy, which might be worthwhile if this was a real competition, but it would probably just demoralize people if we did it now.¡±


    ¡°You make a compelling point. Perhaps we ought to keep the idea in mind for the future, however.¡±


    ¡°For sure. Now ready up, both of you. I¡¯m gonna put the call out.¡±


    It¡¯s a minute or two earlier than I said we¡¯d be starting, but if my Gazelles can¡¯t deal with that... well, it¡¯d be indicative of a larger problem.


    Begin.


    My command rings out across the local brainband like the sound of a gong, impossible to miss. Obviously, nobody responds, but I can feel a shift in the air, as the members of each fireteam ready themselves for a fight.


    Flicking my tail towards one of the atrium¡¯s nearer exits, I head towards it slowly, stun gun in a two-handed grip. Valent and Katrina follow me, falling into a three-man formation where each of us faces in a different direction, the two of them walking half-backwards in the same direction as me, so as to cover as many angles as possible.


    It¡¯s strange how naturally this comes to me. I¡¯ve had some practice with moving to minimize sound, and of course with using weapons, not to mention various combat skillsets I¡¯ve downloaded off the brainband. But none of that, alone, would be enough to account for how right this feels. The reason why is simple enough- I inherited it. Being a Noble is more than having your long-dead Founder¡¯s personality traits, it comes with a set of skills and talents that you wouldn¡¯t otherwise possess. That same phenomenon is why I¡¯m a better tactician than any non-Noble my age, even those with an equivalent level of education.


    Kat, too, seems to be experiencing the same thing. Her body language is completely different now, displaying a level of confidence I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever seen from her. This exercise has activated her Noble instincts, the same ones that made her Founder, the Shieldmaiden, a formidable warrior.


    Proceeding with caution, we enter a cavernous room down a flight of stairs, Valent and I sweeping it with swift precision, ready to pull the trigger the second we see a flash of movement. Kat covers our rear, her breathing even.


    This room seems to be a thoroughfare of sorts, centered around a large, empty circular platform in the center, which is flanked by four jagged pillars of glittering blue crystal, the same color as the Citadel uniform. Those natural crystal formations are a common sight on the moon of Akademos, particularly in underground areas like the Subterrane. Beneath the raised platform is some dead grass, and a few gnarled, withered trees, which seem to somehow still be alive, despite having access to little light and no water.


    One of the paths branching off from the central platform leads up to a large gazebo, where four statues look inwards at a central altar. As with most of the statues down here, they¡¯re probably Founders, though which ones in particular, I don¡¯t have time to guess at. Heading up into the gazebo, we circle around to the exit on its far end, ducking low to let the altar provide some natural cover for us as we proceed. Going down in a gunfight is one thing, but it would be incredibly embarrassing if we got shot from a distance without ever even seeing who took us down.


    The room we enter after passing through the gazebo is similarly cavernous, with crystalline formations jutting from the ceiling above us. Underneath our feet, the floor transitions from white stone walkways to polished crystal, and ahead, set into the ground, is a small circular seating area. Over that seating area is a metal contraption of some sort, most likely an art piece, consisting of multiple interlocking rings suspended in the air by wires. Seeing that fragile balance gives me an idea.


    Kay, Vee. Find some cover.


    Using my tail, I indicate two spots that seem ideal, an uneven crystal slab on the ground that reaches up to chest height at its apex, and a stone pillar on the other side of the inset seating area. This room has a couple entrances aside from the one we came through, but both of those spots provide cover without being exposed to an ambush from behind.


    As my fireteam moves to seek cover, I approach the suspended installation and reach out to it, using my tail¡¯s full length to grasp a low-hanging ring. Pulling it back as far as I can, I let go, causing metal to clash against metal with a resounding sound that shatters the silence of the Subterrane. With the way noise echoes down here, there¡¯s no way somebody didn¡¯t hear that.


    With the metal rings still jangling, I dash for cover of my own, finding a shadow corner to crouch in while we wait for someone to come investigate.


    Are you sure this is a good idea? Kat asks, some nervousness bubbling back up to the surface, now that she¡¯s had a moment to pause and stop acting purely on instinct.


    Best I got, I reply with a mental shrug. Of course, I put a little more thought into it than that, but I really am mainly just acting on instinct here too.


    It¡¯s not long before my scheme pays off. Footsteps, faint but audible, echo from a nearby passageway nestled between the cave walls.


    Wait for my mark, I instruct the others.


    Slowly, a silhouette becomes visible, though I can¡¯t quite perceive much more than that. Body tensing, I draw breath, determined not to give myself away.


    ¡°--probably just some animal that managed to make its way down here,¡± comes the voice of one of the new arrivals. Ada, I think. Speaking aloud, unwisely. Her companion, who I suppose must be Sofie, hushes her with a sharp hiss.


    The two of them, our smallest group since Sander is still outside, enter trepidatiously, performing a textbook sweep-and-clear maneuver. Since no obvious threats leap out, they relax slightly and proceed further into the room. I do feel a little bad ambushing the one handicapped group, but this is only a training exercise.


    With agonizing, albeit appropriate, caution, the two of them advance towards the center of the room, and the still softly-jangling metal sculpture dangling above it. Sofie turns to scan the room slowly, searching for what could have caused it, and I wait just a little longer, until I¡¯m certain she wouldn¡¯t immediately spot one of us if we popped out. Then--


    Do it.


    Valent and I lean out from behind our hiding spots- further in my case, as I was already peeking out slightly to watch the Sofie and Ada -and fire, both of us drawing a bead on our targets before pulling the trigger. A moment later, Kat follows suit, too late to do anything except hit Ada a second time.


    Both women go down without much of a struggle, though I see Sofie fighting to stay on her feet for a moment before she succumbs to the shock. My fireteam and I slowly emerge from our hiding spots, then scramble over to where they fell, in order to retrieve their tokens. It feels vaguely vulture-like, rifling through their pockets while they¡¯re unconscious, but these are the rules of the game.


    ¡°You were a little slow there,¡± I comment to Kat. Immediately, she cringes in embarrassment, as though she¡¯d been expecting a reprimand. ¡°If there¡¯d been three of them, we would have needed to each hit one. Don¡¯t beat yourself up about it- just make sure it doesn¡¯t happen again.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll try my best,¡± she responds, voice small.


    ¡°In the moment, there is no time for thought, only action,¡± Valent adds. ¡°Your intuition will guide the way.¡±


    Kat nods, her confidence perhaps not bolstered, but at least less wounded. It¡¯s not fun for me to be a taskmaster, but there¡¯s no room for hesitation on the battlefield, and she isn¡¯t going to improve if I coddle her.


    Once we¡¯ve found the tokens, Valent and I each pocket one, while Kat watches our backs. Her previous confidence returns with surprising speed now that she¡¯s out of cover. I¡¯d have expected the opposite, considering her Founder¡¯s specialty was as a defensive strategist. Then again, maybe that¡¯s precisely the reason she¡¯s so much more comfortable alone, by herself- because it¡¯s her comfort zone. When she¡¯s put in a position where she can¡¯t just hide and wait for the fighting to be over, her Noble instincts take over.


    Let¡¯s keep moving, I instruct my team, switching back to the brainband. Both of them nod, and we slip back into formation seamlessly, the two of them once again following my lead as I take us towards the nearest exit.


    After a short walk through a cylindrical hallway, we enter a room that resembles a cathedral- not that I¡¯ve ever been inside of one before, of course. My experience with the concept is based purely off of pictures people took of religious sites on Warlord-era worlds, before they were torn down or repurposed by Imperium forces. While the Emperor¡¯s anti-religion stance was hard-line, he did recognize the value in the architecture and art produced by those superstitions, and allowed much of it to remain, if only as an artifact of a darker time in history.


    While this room obviously isn¡¯t a real cathedral, it does share some similarities with one, mainly in the way it was clearly designed to evoke a sense of awe and grandeur. The sweeping arches and nearly ceiling-high statues do convey a certain level of majesty, even with a layer of dust covering everything.


    Towards the middle of the room is a circular dais, with a device of some sort emerging from its center, resembling a pillar with a mushroom-like cap on top of it. The pillar has a number of sockets on it, which look like they¡¯re meant for a human hand to be inserted into, up to the forearm. The purpose of the device isn¡¯t exactly clear to me, but as I look around more- most of my mind occupied with searching for signs that we might have just walked into an ambush -the real purpose of the room becomes clear. It¡¯s not a cathedral, it¡¯s an agora.


    Around the central stone platform are several wide slices of what was once greenery, now yellowed, dead grass, dotted with rocks, with several benches and tables around them as well. This was a public meeting place, an open-air intellectual salon, but underground. The Citadel has plenty of them, similar to parks, but meant specifically for large communal activities like lectures or debate forums. It stands to reason the Subterrane would have one as well. The device in the center probably relates to that purpose somehow- maybe it¡¯s meant to register votes on a topic, with the arm-slots functioning as a way to verify that only one person votes at a time. Or it¡¯s some kind of weird sex thing.


    Before I can ruminate any further on that, I hear shots. Not exactly the sharp gunpowder cracks of an ordinary weapon, but the slightly muted sound of a stun gun firing. Still, in the Subterrane, the sound echoes unmistakably through another hallway that leads into this agora. Without needing to be told, Valent and Kat rush for cover, just as I do the same, and not a moment too soon.


    Accompanying the sound of stun guns firing come footsteps, as one of the fireteams in the engagement starts to come closer towards us. It¡¯s not a slow, cautious approach like what Sofie and Ada made, but rather a tactical retreat, meaning whoever is driving them back has unwittingly set us up for a perfect pincer maneuver.


    Ibrahim appears first, sprinting into the room without looking, head craned over his shoulder as he fires off at whoever is pursuing him. Ducking behind a rock, he frantically scans the room, breathing heavily, not noticing my fireteam¡¯s presence. A few seconds later, Bret makes himself known, running down the hallway shouting.


    ¡°Colleen¡¯s down! They got her, they got--¡±


    Before he can finish his sentence, he stumbles over his own feet, and hits the ground face-first. Two stun-gun shots ring out, and he shrieks in pain before falling silent. Peering out from my hiding place, I see the face of his attacker for only a second, before Nikitha throws something from her belt into the room, a smoke cloud blooming into the air the moment it hits the ground. It¡¯s Mars¡¯ fireteam, all three of them seemingly still on their feet.


    Stick to cover for now, I instruct my team. Let ¡®em take each other out.


    A voice cuts through the silence, though I can¡¯t quite pinpoint its source in the smoke billowing through the room, thick enough that I can barely see more than six feet in front of me. It¡¯s Mars.


    ¡°Zaman, you¡¯re not going to take all three of us out by yourself. Just hand over your token and your gun, you don¡¯t need to get shot over this.¡±


    Something tells me Mars isn¡¯t exactly expecting Ibrahim to take him up on that offer- if anything, it¡¯s bait to try and get a response out of him, so they¡¯ll have an easier time of locating him within the smoke. While I didn¡¯t exactly prohibit bringing in outside equipment for this exercise, it does feel a bit like cheating, and makes me wish I¡¯d done something similar.


    Neither of you have anything on-hand that might help here, do you? I ask my team. Kat responds nonverbally in the negative, but Valent is silent for a moment, indicating he might have something to offer.


    I could provide an auditory distraction if necessary, he says eventually. Simply give the order.


    Giving him a mental nod of acknowledgement, I take a breath, opening my ears to listen for any hints of movement. Ibrahim hasn¡¯t taken the bait yet, but it sounds like somebody is on the move, judging by the faint squeak of a boot on polished stone. The room we¡¯re in might be large, but it¡¯s also an underground cavern, meaning there isn¡¯t much space for the smoke to go- it¡¯s not going to fully disperse anytime soon. In other words, if I go in, I¡¯m going in blind.


    Vee, give me a count of ten, then do it.


    Understood.


    Creeping forward, I ready my stun-gun, heading towards the source of the sound. Wary of being spotted, I keep my head low and move slowly. Whoever I¡¯m following isn¡¯t doing a very good job of masking their presence, suggesting it¡¯s someone for whom combat isn¡¯t a specialty.


    In the back of my head, I can hear Valent¡¯s countdown approaching zero, and hasten my approach. The silhouette of my target becomes visible, tall and lanky- Tai, it¡¯s got to be. WIth two seconds to go, I lunge forward, wrapping my free hand around to cover his mouth, and pressing my stun-gun into his back, firing once, shifting the barrel, and then firing again to make sure he does down without a fight. At the same moment, a series of firecracker-like explosions go off, completely drowning out the sound of my weapon firing.


    Rather than grab Tai¡¯s token, I let his unconscious body slump to the floor and head back the way I came. Taking the time to go through his pockets now would just leave me exposed for longer than I need to be, while I¡¯ll have plenty of time to take his token later, assuming I make it through this encounter.


    Halfway back to my hiding spot, though, I hear more stun-gun shots. Not anywhere near me, but I still hit the deck reflexively. Reaching out on the brainband, I try to ping Valent and Kat, and only get a response back from the latter. Guess that means I know who just got taken out.


    Someone¡¯s coming towards me, Kat informs me nervously. What should I do?


    Your choice, I reply, staying on the ground and slowly crawling towards cover. Take them out if you think you can, or make a break for it.


    Before Kat can respond, I cut off the connection. We¡¯re in it now, and I can¡¯t focus on trying to avoid getting shot while giving her a pep talk at the same time. Besides, she needs a trial by fire, and better that it happen now than during the War Games.


    No sooner have I made it back to cover do several more stun-gun shots ring out, too many at once to be anything other than distinct, overlapping discharges. A long silence follows, and I stand slowly, searching for any signs of life. The smoke has cleared enough for me to see most of the room, and my eyes immediately fall on the only other person visible. Mars, standing over Ibrahim¡¯s unconscious body, the barrel of his stun-gun still smoking.


    The warrior senses my eyes on his back and turns, arm moving smoothly to raise his weapon and fire. I do the same, maybe a half-second faster, but it makes no difference. Each of us gets a shot off, and as I feel his stun round strike me in the chest, I see mine do the same to him. A moment later, a current surges through my body, and all I see is darkness.


    <hr>


    Being shocked unconscious is, not shockingly, unpleasant. This was my first time, and I can¡¯t say I¡¯m eager to repeat the experience. Even waking up from my little involuntary nap is unpleasant- there¡¯s a tingling feeling all across my body, as if there¡¯s still a lingering charge in my nervous system. Niko hands me a bottle of water, and I accept it gratefully, before slowly starting to take in my surroundings.


    I¡¯m still in the same room where the firefight went down, along with most of the rest of the unit. Mars is already back on his feet, though leaning against a pillar for support, while I don¡¯t quite feel well enough to stand yet. Ada¡¯s helping Nikitha back to her feet, and I see Ibrahim assisting Bret, though he swiftly moves forth to check on Colleen once the engineer is on his feet.


    ¡°Who won?¡± I ask Niko, noting the fact that the other members of my fireteam don¡¯t seem to be present.


    ¡°I did,¡± he replies laconically, the ghost of a grin on his lips. When it becomes clear based on my expression that I want more of an answer than that, he sighs in defeat. ¡°Your girl Kat was the only one who walked out of here. Found somewhere to hole up, gave my team the slip for a while, but we caught up with her eventually. Managed to take out Amalia and Grant before I took her down, though.¡±


    ¡°Did she really?¡± I ask, surprised.


    ¡°Yep. Damn impressive, actually. She¡¯s still out cold, pretty sure Valent went off to look after her.¡±


    ¡°Okay, good. Is everybody else up?¡± Niko nods, and offers me a hand when I move to get up. Accepting it gratefully, I struggle to my feet, still unsteady, and brace myself against a wall for a few moments until I¡¯m certain I won¡¯t fall right back down when I let go. ¡°Great. I¡¯m gonna send out a message, then.¡±


    Listen up, people.


    Every head in the room turns my way, but I¡¯m too fried to even muster any embarrassment.


    You put in a good effort there. Hopefully the teams we picked out worked well for you. If not, you¡¯ve got ¡®til the end of the day tomorrow to let me know, and I¡¯ll see if we can make some changes. No promises, though. Other than that, take a fifteen minute break¡­ then it¡¯s back to training.

 Chapter Nineteen

    Today is a good day. Clear skies, cool air, warm sunlight. I¡¯m in the mood for war.


    Not waging war, of course. That¡¯s not until the day after tomorrow. Today, I get to watch. Today, the Komodos are taking on the Peregrines.


    There are no seats for viewing inside the Crucible- but there are cameras. The War games are broadcast live, not just to the Citadel, but across the Imperium. It¡¯s a rather popular event for betting, according to Niko. The Stormwolf is sitting beside me, but his attention is on the screen in his hand, showing the prediction markets, rather than the one up above us, showing the as-yet empty battlefield.


    Almost every member of my Gazelles, along with a significant number of the Oxen, are gathered in the Citadel¡¯s second-largest agora to watch the match, joined by a collection of staff members, administrators, and professors. The rest are in the largest agora, watching the match between the Grizzly Unit and the Locust Unit, which is happening at the same time. It seems a little unfair to schedule two War Games matches on the same day, but I suppose the administration had their reasons. My guess would be that they didn¡¯t want too many eyes on the lower-year match, because they suspect it¡¯s going to be a pretty one-sided display.


    The format for this match was announced early this morning, to give the two teams a few hours to prepare. They¡¯re doing siege- a format typically reserved for matches where one side needs a handicap. And the Peregrines are the ones who¡¯ll be defending a pre-constructed fortress from the attacking Komodos. Even then, I don¡¯t much like their odds. And, judging by a glance over Niko¡¯s shoulder, neither does the rest of the Imperium.


    Sofie reaches over into my lap and grabs a fistful of popcorn from the bag held between my legs. The three of us are sitting on a blanket laid out on one of the agora¡¯s vast lawns, in a spot with a great view of the holographic view screens being projected up in the air for us.


    Currently, a bird¡¯s-eye view of the Crucible arena is on display. It¡¯s a large, sandy expanse, surrounding a sturdy-looking white-and-green fortification, the backside of which seems to be built into the walls of the Crucible itself. A few large rocks and some man made structures dot the desertlike area outside, but for the most part it¡¯s barren and empty. That¡¯s where the Komodos will be deploying, presumably, while the Peregrines will be heading straight inside the fort. From what I can tell, the only visible entrance points are on the east and west sides of the facility, avenues of approach with little cover and clear lines of sight from the fortress¡¯s windows. It looks like the odds are being stacked against the Komodos, but unless Anton was playing a character during our meeting the other night, I have a feeling this was necessary to make it even a vaguely fair fight.


    ¡°This is boring,¡± Sofie declares, mouth full of popcorn. ¡°How¡¯s your degenerate gambling going, Nicky?¡±


    ¡°Safe money¡¯s still on Hark and her people. For first-year matches, the attacking team wins siege seven out of ten times. This doesn¡¯t seem like it¡¯s gonna be the outlier. Then again,¡± Niko chuckles, ¡°I am just a lowly soldier. If our esteemed commander has a different take, I¡¯ll gladly defer to her wisdom.¡±


    ¡°As well you should,¡± I reply, eyes still glued to the screen. To tell the truth, I can¡¯t help but think about how I¡¯d handle this situation if I was in Anton¡¯s shoes- or Hark¡¯s. Sieges in general are an interesting tactical conundrum, one nobody¡¯s been able to conclusively solve from either side.


    Most of my Gazelles have gathered on one side of the agora, while the Oxen are on the opposite side. Despite that, there isn¡¯t much tension in the air- everybody¡¯s got their attention on the battle that¡¯s about to go down. Plus, despite the fact that we¡¯re going to be having a battle of our own soon enough, we don¡¯t have much of a reason to hate each other. I¡¯ll still fight as hard as I can, because winning here is crucial to the furtherance of my goals, but I don¡¯t hold any more animosity towards Starling and his Oxen than I would to a locked door that¡¯s barring my path.


    Just as I¡¯m thinking about that, I see two people across the agora get up and start heading towards our side, moving swiftly, aware that people on both sides are now staring at them. Looking closer, I realize that one of them is Tellis, wearing the red longcoat he was contemplating buying when we spoke the other day, no less. His companion is a skeletally-thin woman with long black hair and matching solid-black eyes, which have deep black veins emanating from them, making it look like she¡¯s crying tears of pure darkness at all times. Most strikingly, however, are the black ¡®wings¡¯ stretching from her back, like the bones inside of a dragon¡¯s wings. No doubt nonfunctional, as they lack the flesh that would be necessary to allow her to even glide for a moment if outstretched. She makes a strange pairing with Tellis, who bears no outward signs of genetic modification whatsoever- but something tells me that¡¯s why he prefers her company. She represents something forbidden to him, the freedom to look the way she wants without regard for social convention. It calls to mind his initial fascination with my tail, when we first met.


    ¡°Izanami! I thought I¡¯d find you here.¡±


    Once he¡¯s close enough to make his voice heard, I push myself up off the blanket I was resting on, and wave to him. Sofie and Niko remain seated, the former eyeing him suspiciously, the latter remaining glued to his palm-screen.


    ¡°Well, I wasn¡¯t gonna miss this. Who¡¯s your friend?¡±


    ¡°This is Anand,¡± he says, gracefully stepping aside to let her approach, arm outstretched to shake. Her skeletal wings fold inward as she passes, to avoid smacking him in the back of the head. I take the proffered hand and shake, noting surprising strength in her grip despite her seeming frailty. ¡°She¡¯s one of our unit¡¯s intelligence operatives.¡±


    ¡°A pleasure,¡± the taller woman says, just a hint of a brogue in her voice. Hard to know whether she¡¯s got some genuine cultural connection there, or if it¡¯s all a weird thematic put-on. Not that I¡¯m in any position to comment on that, having taken a Japanese goddess¡¯ name for my own, without a hint of real connection to that culture.


    ¡°Likewise. What¡¯s your take on all this?¡± I ask, gesturing to the screen above us.


    ¡°The Peregrines are in an unenviable situation. Were I in Anton¡¯s position, I¡¯d make eliminating Hark the priority. Cutting the head off of the snake, as it were.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s an assassination specialist,¡± Tellis tells me, with a conspiritorial wink.


    ¡°Of course,¡± I laugh. ¡°Politicians say every problem can be solved with more politics, generals say every problem can be solved by going to war, and assassins say every problem can be solved with an assassination.¡±


    ¡°Nobody wants to talk themselves out of a job,¡± Anand comments wryly.


    ¡°Exactly.¡±


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re lucky to have an assassination expert on-hand,¡± I tell Tellis. ¡°Pretty sure most of my intel people couldn¡¯t kill their way out of a wet paper bag.¡±


    ¡°Hey, I heard that,¡± Sofie chuckles.


    ¡°Not you, dear,¡± I reply reassuringly, grinning.


    ¡°I¡¯m certain your intelligence operatives all have their strengths,¡± Tellis says diplomatically, while Anand hides a smirk behind her hand, though her eyes give her amusement away. Seems like she finds his bafflement and discomfort at our friendly banter endearing, which I guess is probably the best-case scenario for him, since he¡¯s obviously infatuated with her. ¡°In any case, I wouldn¡¯t want to keep you- it seems things are about to kick off.¡±


    He nods in the direction of the screen, which does seem to be indicating that the War Games are beginning shortly.


    ¡°Well, it was good to see you, Telly. And nice to meet you,¡± I tell Anand, inclining my head respectfully. ¡°Apologies in advance for anything that might happen on Might bEighthday.¡±


    ¡°Likewise,¡± she replies with a wicked grin, before turning away with a wave and following Tellis back to the Ox Unit¡¯s side of the agora. I sit back down, noting that Sofie picked up the bag of popcorn from where I left it when I got up, and grab a handful for myself.


    ¡°They seem nice,¡± she comments idly. ¡°Shame what we¡¯re gonna do to ¡®em.¡±


    To anybody listening, it probably sounds like she¡¯s talking about our plans for the War Games, but I know she really means our plot to sow dissent within the ranks of the Oxen by fabricating some footage of Tellis disparaging certain members of the unit who already harbor antipathy towards him. That part of the plan will commence tomorrow, during our final preparations.


    ¡°He knows it¡¯s not personal. Might be a little uptight, but his Founder was as ruthless as they came. If anything, this¡¯ll probably be good for him, it¡¯ll force him to embrace that side.¡±


    But by that point, it won¡¯t be our problem- each unit only faces off against each other unit once, at least within a single semester. There¡¯ll be a rematch in our second year here at the Citadel, assuming I live that long. But considering the odds of my survival, based on historical precedent, are fairly low, it¡¯s best for me not to be making any long-term plans right now.


    A regrettably grim line of thinking to be engaging in, when I¡¯m here spending time with two people I¡¯m quite fond of, on such a lovely day. To distract myself, I return to thoughts of war. The teams haven¡¯t taken the field quite yet, but commentary for the match is beginning now.


    ¡°Laaaaaadies and gentlemen,¡± roars a sonorous voice from speakers stationed all across the agora. ¡°Who¡¯s ready for a fight?¡±


    There are some enthusiastic cheers from around the area, mainly stemming from the Nobles, though a couple faculty members and Citadel staffers join in as well. The commentators can¡¯t hear us, since they¡¯re addressing everybody viewing this match, all over the Imperium, but it¡¯s still a decent effort.


    ¡°My name is Baxter Bryant, I¡¯m your host for the first of this year¡¯s War Games, broadcasting live from the Imperial Broadcasting Guild¡¯s studios on Narada III. My cohost here is Arno Van Horn, Professor of Nobility at New Ottawa University.¡±


    ¡°Erm, yes, thank you, Baxter,¡± comes a thin, reedy voice after a pause.


    ¡°Now, Arno,¡± the bombastic announce continues, ¡°you¡¯re here to give us a historical perspective on today¡¯s match. For instance, this year¡¯s new Citadel class is the first in over five hundred years to have two members of the fabled Nine Titans enrolled at the same time, is that right?¡±


    ¡°Yes indeed,¡± confirms the professor, sounding slightly more confident now that things are getting into his preferred subject matter. ¡°The first is one Lucia Hark, fifty-fourth in the line of the Grim Dragon. Commander of the Komodo Unit, one of the two armies which will be competing today. And the other is an¡­ Izanami, eighty-eighth in the line of the Deceiver Admiral, leader of the Gazelle Unit.¡±


    The way he pronounces my name drips with disdain for the fact that I don¡¯t come from a family with a surname, which implies low status. Nobles come from all sorts of backgrounds, but we¡¯re a tiny minority among the trillions of people who live within the Imperium, and outside of places like the Citadel, the pedigree of one¡¯s name matters. On a resource-rich industrial world, nobody will blink twice if you have no family name, but if you want to be taken seriously in the upper echelons of society, be it politics, corporate industry, or academia, you¡¯d best have a name that fits the part. And especially not one as vulgar as mine, which must reek of the hubris of a baseborn dirt-dweller to them. Who¡¯d name herself after a deity? Someone with no class, no class at all.


    ¡°Look, Izzy, you¡¯re on TV!¡±


    Sofie¡¯s joke snaps me out of my resentful ruminations, and I chuckle. Looking back up, I notice that my face is indeed on the screen, next to Hark¡¯s, with the symbol of our respective units behind each of us.


    ¡°Three cheers for being a statistical anomaly.¡±


    That¡¯s all they expect me to be, no doubt. A footnote to Hark¡¯s legend in the making, not talented enough to make it out of the Citadel, or just another rival crushed underfoot on her way to the top. That¡¯s not how I intend for my story to go.


    ¡°Interesting,¡± Bryant says, in the tones of someone who doesn¡¯t actually find the subject of discussion to be very interesting at all. ¡°Miss Hark¡¯s a bit of a special case herself, isn¡¯t she? The youngest-ever unit commander in Citadel history?¡±


    ¡°Quite so. Child Nobles are rare, but not unheard-of. Child commanders, however, were a mere dream until the beginning of this year¡¯s term. If any Noble line were to justify such a thing, however, it would be the Grim Dragon¡¯s. I wouldn¡¯t call it an exaggeration to say that everybody in the field has their eye on young Lucia.¡±


    Something about how he uses her first name creeps me out. It¡¯s an overly familiar way to refer to somebody he¡¯s never met, much less a child. On the other hand, it¡¯s hardly fair to make any wild speculations, given that I¡¯ve never met him either. More likely than any impropriety is simply that he, being a scholar of Nobles and Founders, feels as though he knows her personally, because he¡¯s read so much about the life of her Founder, and past members of her line. Hark, on the other hand, will probably never so much as register his existence. She¡¯s got a singular focus that I¡¯m not looking forward to being the target of.


    ¡°Okay, well, it looks like we don¡¯t have long until the battle begins,¡± Baxter says. ¡°Make sure to get those final bets in, folks, because this could easily go either way.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t sound like much of a reason to put money on this,¡± I remark with a laugh.


    ¡°Not true, either,¡± Niko replies, without looking up. ¡°Guess they¡¯ve gotta maintain the pretense though.¡±


    As the holo-screen switches back to a view of the battlefield, a hush falls over the crowd in the agora, idle chatter dying out as anticipation for the battle rises. Trying to look less engaged than I actually am, I lean back, yawn softly, and toss a popcorn kernel in my mouth.


    ¡°The teams will be taking the field momentarily. Professor, how much time have these young Nobles had to prepare?¡±


    ¡°Not much,¡± Van Horn replies. I can picture him pushing a pair of glasses up from the bridge of his nose to answer, although nobody wears reading glasses for anything other than aesthetic purposes these days. ¡°The defenders, in this case the Peregrine Unit, will have been given a blueprint of their fortress, so they¡¯ll know which key points need defending in advance, while the attacking Komodo Unit will be going in blind.¡±


    ¡°Interesting,¡± Bryant says again, this time sounding more like he actually means it. ¡°Guess you¡¯ve gotta balance the scales a bit when one of the Titans is on the battlefield.¡±


    ¡°Quite so. Now look- they¡¯re emerging.¡±


    A door in the wall of the Crucible opens. Despite the arena having otherwise been built to look entirely natural, the walls are still drab, industrial grey, reminding the viewers that this is all taking place within an artificial construct. The upper-class units, by contrast, are duking it out in the very real jungles of Akademos right now, contending with wildlife along with their rivals. Given that, I can¡¯t blame anybody for choosing to tune in to that match rather than this one. If I was an ordinary viewer, that would probably be my first choice as well- but obviously, given my position, I can¡¯t pass up the chance to see two of my rivals in action for the first time.


    Emerging first through the door isn¡¯t Hark, but Hector- the burly, bearded, older man who kicked my ass in the sparring ring some weeks ago. He¡¯s also the head of the Komodo combat team, which explains his position as the proverbial tip of the spear. At his side are two others, both holding rifles of the same make and model as him. They halt their advance when he raises a fist, and at his gesture, fan out to secure the immediate area. Perhaps overly cautious, since the Peregrines are entering at the same time as them, and couldn¡¯t possibly have had time to lay any traps. But they¡¯re doing this by the book regardless, which seems entirely in character with Hark¡¯s strategic mindset.


    On the screen, a small text box emerges, with a line linking it to Hector, showing a short list of statistics, including his name, age, and Noble line. The same pops up for the other two moments later. The holo-projection is large and three-dimensional, so the text boxes don¡¯t block much of the actual action, but they disappear shortly after regardless.


    ¡°Looks like that¡¯s Hector Casales,¡± Bryant adds, his confident tones filling the silence of the Komodo team¡¯s slow, careful advance. ¡°Head of the Komodo Unit¡¯s combat team. Forty-first in the line of the Master of Arms, a line with quite the pedigree when it comes to waging war. Up there next to him, that¡¯s William Stoddard, fiftieth in the line of the Warden, and Kimimela Xquenda, sixty-second in the line of the Jade Knight.¡±


    The mention of that Noble line seems to pique the professor¡¯s interest, as he speaks up unprompted for what I think might be the first time.


    ¡°Ahh, now that¡¯s an interesting tale, the Jade Knight. Originally a Warlord¡¯s champion, you see- only to turn on her master and join the Emperor¡¯s cause. Evidently she acquitted herself well enough to earn Founder status, but never quite well enough to gain the Emperor¡¯s trust.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll just have to see if that suspicion is warranted,¡± Baxter finishes smoothly, before falling silent, as Hector signals to the rest of the unit that the coast is clear for them to emerge.


    They¡¯re all wearing body armor and helmets, making it difficult to distinguish individuals beyond the scraps of skin visible. Hark, obviously, is hard to miss, being a good few feet short than everybody else. At her side is a tall, thin man who, based on what I can see of his face, seems like he was the Komodo spy who was watching us during our staged training session. The text box that pops up next to him says his name is simply Petyr, of the line of Shufen, the Fixer. Hark looks to him as they step onto the battlefield, and he gives her a single nod.


    Beyond him, my eyes are immediately drawn to a woman who swaggers onto the battlefield looking like she couldn¡¯t care less that there¡¯s a battle happening, with a sword strapped to her back and a revolver at her hip. Her name, apparently, is Sc¨¢thach, and I immediately want to know more about her. Sadly, the text box disappears a moment before I can get much further into its information on her.


    Advancing several yards, the Komodos eventually stop a few feet away from a small ramp leading up onto a platform, which itself leads towards the front of the Peregrines¡¯ fortress. There isn¡¯t a visible front door, but there are several large windows, presumably reinforced so neither side can simply snipe at each other without having to engage directly. The combat team steps aside, allowing somebody who I assume is from their engineering team to take the front position. His info box pops up to identify him as Uzoma Okorie, of the Steelshaper¡¯s line- a cybernetics and body-modification specialist, which would explain the fact that he¡¯s got enough extra arms grafted onto his back to look like a set of wings. They¡¯re all currently occupied holding a single large device, which Okorie plants in the sand right before the stairs. It looks more or less like a wide metal sheet, but once placed, it expands into a miniature shield wall, tall and thick enough to protect from a barrage of bullets if need be.


    Immediately, Hark hunkers down behind the barrier. Her retainer does the same, and immediately calls up a set of holo-screens for her. They¡¯ve effectively created a makeshift command center for her. Clearly, they¡¯re aware of what Anand mentioned earlier, that taking out Hark would leave the rest of the group in disarray, and they don¡¯t intend to let that happen.


    While all that¡¯s being set up, the combat team hastens to erect a perimeter, deploying several trip-mines and other traps to make sure anybody trying to slip behind the shield-wall and eliminate Hark will have a hard time doing so. My eyes, however, are on someone else entirely- a man who kneels down near where Hark is situated, and removes his armor, then his shirt, to reveal a series of cavities built into his back, sealed mechanically. The seals open, however, to release what looks like a swarm of insects.


    ¡°Professor, who is that, and just what is he doing?¡±


    ¡°That would be¡­¡± Van Horn pauses for a moment, consulting his notes if I had to guess. ¡°Aslaug Vang. Fifty-seventh in the line of Anderson, the Hivemaster. A drone specialist. It looks like Mister Vang has taken his Founder¡¯s specialty to the next level, storing drones within himself for rapid deployment. Those tiny machines will be acting as his eyes, allowing him to scout out the enemy fortress without risking direct contact.¡±


    Indeed, as he speaks, the cloud of insectoid drones disperses, heading towards the fortress from all directions. Vang is immobile, and somebody puts his shirt and body armor back on him while he kneels there, unresponsive, all of his focus on piloting thousands of minuscule flying machines simultaneously.


    For several minutes, he remains like that, while Hark and Petyr consult, and the rest of the unit busies themselves setting up defenses. I can¡¯t imagine they¡¯re planning to stay in that spot and try to wait the enemy out- they¡¯re in a terrible position for a counter-siege. All the enemy would have to do is find a way to launch a few grenades over their wall and it would be over for the Komodos. But right now, their little fortification is giving them time to wait and plan out an attack, which they sorely need, given that they¡¯ve got next to no intel on the enemy¡¯s fortress.


    ¡°That¡¯s a neat trick,¡± remarks Sofie, gesturing to Vang on the screen.


    ¡°Yep,¡± Niko replies, keeping one eye on his palm-screen. ¡°Shame none of our tech people can do anything like that.¡±


    I let out an amused snort.


    ¡°Hey, that¡¯s unfair. None of our people can do that, but can he create a deadly nerve gas designed to maximize suffering before death, and deploy it against civilians? I don¡¯t think so.¡±


    As Sofie bursts into surprised laughter, I feel a little bad for making jokes at Nikitha¡¯s expense. She¡¯s been a little standoffish with me- we haven¡¯t really spoken one-on-one yet, either -but the sins of her Founder don¡¯t necessarily carry over to her. Looking around our side of the Agora, I don¡¯t see her anywhere. Probably in the workshop preparing for our match. She¡¯s certainly not the type to be lazing around her apartment or doing something recreational.


    ¡°While the Komodos are planning their attack, why don¡¯t we take a look at what the Peregrines are getting up to?¡± Bryant asks, as the feed cuts to the inside of the fortress. It looks a lot less ramshackle than the buildings that were built for us during our training sessions in the Crucible- I guess the construction teams put in their best effort for the War Games.


    Inside the compound, Anton is standing at the window, staring down at the Komodos. Evidently the room overlooking the battlefield is their command center. Nobody seems to be paying much attention to him, though. Their eyes are on two people who I presume to be his officers. One of them I recognize as Callum, the tattooed warrior-cryptarch who I fought weeks ago. The other is unfamiliar. She¡¯s got her hair done up in thick braids that seem to be on fire, the ends lit but not burning, with wispy trails of smoke rising off them. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    ¡°You know who that is?¡± I ask Niko.


    ¡°Yeah. Her name¡¯s Singh, Chandra Singh. Peregrines¡¯ combat officer. Real hardass. She¡¯s in my Fireteam Combat Tactics class.¡±


    Nodding, I examine the scene more closely. Rather than collaborating, it seems like the two of them are giving two entirely separate sets of orders to their respective divisions. Singh finishes first, and claps her hands together, signaling her combat unit to take their positions. They spread out in two groups, each presumably headed to the two main entrances to their base, on the west and east sides of the building.


    A moment or two later, Callum gives his people a nod, and they move out, not in groups but as individuals. Several of them follow the combat teams to the main entrances, while others go off in different directions, and a few even stick around the command center, setting up defenses around their commander. One of them simply heads to Anton¡¯s side, resting a hand on his shoulder and whispering something to him. The text box that pops up next to her identifies her as Josefine Naess, of the line of the Oracle. She¡¯s wearing armor, but it¡¯s obvious just from looking at her that her body¡¯s not built for combat. Presumably she¡¯s set herself up in some kind of advisory capacity to Anton, because Callum doesn¡¯t bother trying to get her to do anything other than hang around near him.


    Noticing the drone swarm headed towards the building, Anton turns and says something to a member of his unit who wasn¡¯t listening to either officer- one of his engineers, I¡¯d guess. It looks to be a woman, uncomfortable in heavy armor, with streams of data flowing around her like ethereal blue ribbons. She raises an eyebrow, then nods, and brings up a series of holo-screens, manipulating them like an opera conductor with a baton.


    ¡°Professor, who¡¯s that, and what is it you think they¡¯re up to?¡± Bryant asks.


    ¡°The young woman is Minako Konishi, forty-ninth in the line of the Silent Sage, a researcher whose contributions to the design of the brainband proved critical, as were his later contributions to the Imperial war effort, when he saw how his creation had been misused by the Warlords. He preferred intangible, digital weaponry, a stark contrast to the Peregrine Commander¡¯s material, mechanical expertise.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯d say it¡¯s likely Konishi is trying to disrupt the Komodo Unit¡¯s drones somehow?¡±


    ¡°Yes, it seems so.¡±


    That was more or less my guess as well, although I¡¯d have taken fewer words to say it. Van Horn also seems to have gone out of his way to avoid even saying Anton¡¯s name, as if acknowledging the fact of someone with no family name leading a unit at the Citadel would be distasteful to him. Before I can point that out to either of my companions, however, Baxter speaks again.


    ¡°Let¡¯s talk about the Peregrine Commander for a minute. His Founder¡¯s story is a pretty extraordinary one. A science officer aboard an Imperium cruiser, who was unexpectedly put in a command position after her superiors were incapacitated, but proved herself an incredibly competent strategist.¡±


    ¡°Yes, the Starhammer. Her true genius was, of course, in the realm of engineering, and some suggest that she resented being forced to take on a leadership role. However, the strategists who she replaced had refused to allow the deployment of her experimental weaponry, which eventually turned the tide of the campaign for the Modron System, after she took command.¡±


    ¡°And do you think Anton here has what it takes to pull off a repeat performance of that feat?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s hard to say,¡± the professor replies. ¡°My advice to him would be to dismiss the notion of competing with his fellow commanders on a strategic level, and instead focus all his efforts on developing weapons technology that would account for his tactical deficit.¡±


    Surprisingly sound advice, but it¡¯s coming a little late to help Anton here. From where I¡¯m sitting, it seems pretty obvious to me that he went into this fight without much of a plan, and certainly not any kind of trump card in terms of a secret superweapon. As to why not, well, it¡¯s difficult to say- but I suspect it¡¯s ultimately just a character flaw. He¡¯s not a particularly serious or driven person, because he¡¯s got nothing to fight for. Hark, Starling and I are all highly ambitious, though personally I think I¡¯ve got better reason to be than either of the other two. Anton, however, couldn¡¯t care less about being a unit commander, or even being a Noble at all.


    When the feed cuts back to the Komodos, Hark has taken charge, clearly barking out orders, although not audibly. The broadcast doesn¡¯t include audio for a variety of reasons, not least of which is that people tend to say some very unsavory things when they¡¯ve been shot, which aren¡¯t considered fit for the ears of the Imperium at large. Even if they were broadcasting sound, it wouldn¡¯t matter, because Hark is giving her orders via brainband, the main sign that she¡¯s speaking at all being her sharp, forceful hand gestures. Not for the first time, and likely not the last, I¡¯m struck with a bit of cognitive dissonance over the gap between her apparent age and the way she behaves. I¡¯m a decade older than her, and I can¡¯t help but feel like she looks more like a professional commander than I do.


    Moving with practiced precision, in a stark contrast to the Peregrines, Hark¡¯s people move out. To my surprise, and no doubt to Anton¡¯s, they don¡¯t fan out to the left and right to take the side entrances to the compound. Instead, they head straight up the stairs in front of them, towards the front of the fortress, which has no visible entrances. Hark stays in place, accompanied by one of her intel people, who has a sphere of holo-screens surrounding her that seems to be displaying the visual feeds from every member of the unit, as well as their vitals and other pertinent information.


    Once they¡¯re close enough to the wall that the Peregrines won¡¯t be able to see them through the window, the Komodos do split up. One group heads to the right, one to the left, but one of them stays in place, and starts clearing away sand on a specific spot on the ground. After a few moments, it becomes clear that they¡¯ve uncovered a hatch, which one of them, the effortlessly confident swordswoman called Sc¨¢thach, pries open. She jumps down without hesitating, followed by two others, a woman with brightly-colored hunter¡¯s tattoos on her face, and Vang, the drone specialist.


    ¡°Oho!¡± Bryant cries. ¡°It appears that the Komodos have located a secret route inside of the enemy fort! Seems the Peregrines were unsuccessful in their attempt to disrupt the enemy drones before they could scout out the terrain. Unfortunately, it seems we don¡¯t have cameras in those tunnels, so let¡¯s head to the aerial cam to see where all these Komodo teams are headed.¡±


    At the boisterous announcer¡¯s command, the camera zooms way out, until the individual Nobles on the ground are barely visible. On the screen, colored dots appear to indicate their locations, steel-gray for the Komodos, brown for the Peregrines. Most of Anton¡¯s combat team seems to be posted up near the main entrances to the building, doors which have a limited line of sight to the outdoor paths leading towards them. However, Lucia¡¯s people aren¡¯t taking those paths, on either side. Instead, they appear to be taking hidden routes through the stone walls surrounding the exterior of the building. It won¡¯t get them inside like the hidden tunnel, but it does look like it¡¯ll allow them to get close to the doors without being spotted by Peregrines, so long as they stick close to the walls.


    Casales, predictably, is leading one of the strike teams, taking the east-side entrance. Xquenda, the Jade Knight, appears to be leading the other. The west-side team has a much better route, with the wall providing cover right up until they¡¯re at the door, while the east-side path still leaves several yards of open space with minimal cover where the Peregrines will be able to see them coming. Presumably that¡¯s why Casales is taking point there, along with Stoddard and Okorie, among others.


    Dividing your unit up into teams is more of a challenge for commanders than I¡¯d anticipated, mainly because only about a third of your unit are actually combat specialists. That means the main objective is to balance out the more competent warriors with those who barely know which end of the rifle is meant to point forward. From what I can tell, Hark¡¯s done a pretty good job of it. Anton, on the other hand, doesn¡¯t have to worry about it as much, because he¡¯s got seven combat specialists in his unit, two more than Lucia or I, plus Callum, who¡¯s a competent fighter in his own right. What he lacks in tactical prowess and motivation, he can make up for with sheer force.


    ¡°Is it typical for the design of a War Games battlefield to include hidden passages like this?¡± Baxter asks, as the two strike teams slowly advance towards the doors of the fortress.


    ¡°Very much so,¡± replies Van Horn. ¡°These exercises are meant to reward ingenuity and perceptiveness. Lucia and her unit have done well to identify those pathways, though of course they¡¯d be well-served to remember that such things don¡¯t always exist in the real world.¡±


    Hearing that, I turn to Sofie and raise an eyebrow. She nods, indicating she understands my unspoken implication. We¡¯re gonna need to make sure we can identify those same secret pathways on our own battlefield, when the time comes. There should be plenty of time tomorrow to figure out how we¡¯re gonna do that, even without a swarm of miniature drones hidden inside the body of one of our unit¡¯s members.


    ¡°Contact!¡±


    The exclamation startles me, and I¡¯ve got my sidearm halfway out of its holster before I realize that it was Bryant, exultantly announcing that one of Lucia¡¯s teams has engaged the enemy. To my right, Niko reacted similarly, drawing a knife from an ankle sheath and flipping it up to hold the blade between his fingers, ready to hurl at the nearest enemy.


    Around us, and on the other side of the agora, a number of people appear to have done the same thing as Niko and I. Most of them drew or reached for guns and knives, though I spot a few with stun batons, and even one grenade. Everybody who actually drew has to put their weapons away sheepishly, while I get to play it off a little more casually.


    On the screen, the camera¡¯s zoomed back in to show the west-side Komodo strike team engaging the Peregrines¡¯ defenders, who seem to have been thrown into disarray by the unexpected arrival of an enemy force. Xquenda managed to bring her people around without alerting the Peregrines manning the perimeter, hugging the wall until the very last moment, then kicking open the door and attacking without warning.


    Wisely, the Komodos open with a grenade, waiting until it detonates to enter. One of the brown dots indicating the Peregrines¡¯ positions blinks out, suggesting that they managed to eliminate at least one person with that. However, as they enter, one of them has the misfortune to trigger a hidden mine, which detonates instantly, firing a pressurized blast of liquid nitrogen directly upwards, and freezing the lower half of the unfortunate Komodo¡¯s body solid. A text box appears identifying her as Lori Zainabu, a Noble of the line of Ludolf Steuben, the Lord of the Labyrinth, an architect who designed the Imperial Palace, as well as several major capital cities across the Imperium. Impressive, but evidently also wholly lacking in combat prowess, and there¡¯s only so much that training can provide. The Komodo Unit has, on balance, more top-quality Nobles than my Gazelles, but clearly they¡¯ve got some stinkers as well.


    None of the rest of Xquenda¡¯s team so much as flinches, as Zainabu topples backwards and literally snaps in two, the frozen lower half of her body disconnecting from the upper half. To her credit, she has the presence of mind to pull her own plug immediately, saving herself an excruciating death from blood loss, and her dot disappears from the miniature tracking map in the upper right-hand corner of the screen, marking the first death of this battle for the Komodos.


    ¡°An eye for an eye, but this battle isn¡¯t over yet,¡± Baxter comments. As he speaks, the Komodos push forward into the room, firing on anything that moves. Of course, the Peregrines were hardly just milling around, waiting to be shot. Bloody chunks of flesh are strewn about everywhere from the grenade¡¯s detonation, but behind large metal crates and panels crouch Anton¡¯s combat team, firing on the attacking Komodos. Rather than concentrating fire on a single target, they seem disorganized, each prioritizing whoever first caught their eye, and as a result, failing to take down anybody in the crucial first few seconds of the firefight.


    One of the Peregrines in particular sticks out to me- a guy who appears to have a wide, oversized mouth full of razor-sharp teeth, which he¡¯s got bared at the Komodos who he¡¯s firing at. His profile identifies him as Armel, a Noble in the line of someone known as the Ravenous. Curious, I search the title on the brainband, and discover the charming fact that his Founder was mainly known for ritually consuming the corpses of his enemies after a battle. That seems rather wasteful, considering any edible meat would qualify as viable biomass to be recycled and processed for the purpose of creating more bodies, but then again, the intimidation factor of his enemies knowing he was that sort of person was probably significant.


    As they push forward into the room, some of the Komodos deploy personal shields, the metal barriers absorbing incoming enemy fire while they shoot back from relative safety. It quickly becomes a battle of inches, as the Komodos slowly advance, and the Peregrines find themselves with nowhere to go. Eventually, one of them- a wiry guy who I¡¯m pretty sure is a part of the Peregrine intelligence team, who the holo-screen identifies as Soo-Jin Choi -decides to make a break for it. As soon as he darts out from behind cover, the Komodos all swivel and train their rifles on him, multiple bursts of fire shredding his armor and dropping him in an instant.


    After that, the defensive line essentially breaks. With two of their team down, the Peregrines no longer have the firepower to hold the Komodos back, and those who remain get cut down quickly, inflicting no casualties in return. All told, the Peregrines have lost five of their people, a third of their total force.


    ¡°Very interesting,¡± Bryant comments. ¡°Let¡¯s see what that other team is up to.¡±


    No sooner has the feed cut to Hector¡¯s team, do they make a break for it, bursting out from behind the wall they were hugging, to dead-sprint towards the door to the fort, about fifty yards away. Portable shields are too heavy to hold while making that dash, and advancing in a phalanx would leave them vulnerable to grenades, so they¡¯ve got little choice but to run, even knowing one or more of them is almost certain to get cut down during the charge. Or they would be, if anybody was shooting.


    To my surprise, and clearly that of the Komodos, nobody fires on them. When Casales rams open the doors with a steel-bending shoulder-check, it¡¯s to find an empty room, not a single Peregrine defender to be found. Immediately, they switch to a defensive formation, with Whitehall, the blue-haired rabbit-eared intelligence specialist taking the lead to scan for hidden traps. When she finds none, they advance cautiously, into a narrow corridor.


    ¡°Now this is an unexpected turn of events. Has order broken down completely in the ranks? Have the Peregrines abandoned their posts? Or is something else entirely going on here?¡±


    Moments after Bryant finishes speaking, the answer is revealed, as a pair of force-walls spring up at either end of the hallway. Transparent, the glowing blue barriers prevent the Komodos from advancing any further. From the far end of the hallway, on the other side of the force-wall, emerges Singh, the literally hot-headed Peregrine combat officer. Immediately, the Komodos open fire, only for their bullets to hit the force-wall and freeze in place, their forward momentum drained. Singh laughs, and says something only the people in the room can hear, though context clues suggest it was disparaging, before signaling the rest of her team to enter the hallway. They do so with their rifles raised, and as soon as they¡¯ve got the Komodos in their sights, they open fire as well. This time, however, their bullets pass through the barrier unimpeded, one of them striking Whitehall in the neck and taking her out instantly. A second later, the rest of the team deploys their shields, protecting against the onslaught for now- but that can¡¯t last forever, not while they¡¯ve got no way to retreat and regroup.


    ¡°Wow! What a smart move on the Peregrines¡¯ part! Who do you think is responsible for this, Professor?¡±


    ¡°If I had to hazard a guess, it would have to be¡­ him,¡± Van Horn says, voice dripping with distaste. To indicate who he means, the screen provides a text box on the Noble in question, a guy by the name of Emanoil. His lack of a family name is probably less than half of the reason for the professor¡¯s scorn, though. He¡¯s the least human-looking person I¡¯ve seen in my entire life. His spine is probably twice as long as the average, giving him a hunched-over appearance that fits with his bizarre upper body, from his crooked, spindly arms with elongated, talon-like digits to his face, which has to be fifty percent teeth by volume. Metal plating covers his entire body, and it seems to all be grafted on, not merely armor attached for this particular battle. If I saw him in any other context, I¡¯d assume he was some kind of depraved science experiment, not a Noble- but then again, only a Noble could conceivably get away with looking like that on purpose. Anybody else would be ostracized for daring to deviate from the baseline human biological design so brazenly.


    The file indicates that his Founder was called the Skinshaper, fittingly enough, and a quick brainband search reveals that he was infamous for pushing the limits of the physical form, typically in the creation of specialized task-bodies, designed to be used for one specific purpose or another, generally some form of manual labor. Even he never pushed things quite as far as the latest Noble of his line has done, though.


    ¡°I see,¡± Baxter replies, suddenly seeming eager to change the subject. ¡°Let¡¯s check up on what that other team is doing.¡±


    Once again, they cut away, and once again, it¡¯s right into the action. Xquenda¡¯s team has also encountered some setbacks, this time in the form of one man. He¡¯s massive, wearing no visible armor, though the way that bullets don¡¯t seem to slow him down in the slightest suggests that he¡¯s got extensive subdermal plating beneath his red-and-black patterned skin. The text box that pops up next to him helpfully provides his name as Dragan, his Founder as the Apocalypse Knight, and as he grabs one of the Komodos and tears their head straight off their shoulders, I put him at the very top of my list of people at the Citadel not to piss off.


    ¡°Fuck,¡± Sofie whispers, and all I can do is nod in silent agreement.


    Xquenda shouts something to her team, probably along the lines of ¡®fall back,¡¯ and they comply without complaint, ceasing fire to retreat back down the hallway. She, however, steps up, slinging her rifle over her shoulder and reaching to her hip to draw another weapon- a machete. Pointing it at him, she flicks a switch on the hilt, and the blade¡¯s edge immediately turns white-hot, heating units concealed within bringing it up to incredible temperatures in seconds.


    Dragan laughs, and spreads his arms wide, inviting her to attack. Kimimela complies, lunging forward to slash the machete across his chest, leaving a deep gash that cauterizes almost immediately, revealing the thick metal beneath his skin. If Dragan feels any pain, he doesn¡¯t show it, retaliating with a powerful punch that knocks Xquenda back several feet.


    Before she can get back up, Dragan is on her, ready to bring a foot down, probably with enough force to stomp right through her chest. Instead of attempting to avoid it, the Jade Knight drives her machete through his ankle and twists it around, severing the foot completely. It drops to the ground next to her, and Dragan stumbles back, still showing no sign of feeling pain, but clearly disoriented nonetheless. As Kimimela gets back on her feet, he slams the stump against the ground a few times, getting used to his new, unbalanced gait, then lumbers toward her with frightening speed.


    ¡°This is shaping up to be a real clash of the titans,¡± Baxter notes excitedly.


    ¡°Quite so. Knight versus Knight.¡±


    Kimimela takes a swing at Dragan, but he claps his palms together around the blade and pulls away, trying to yank it out of her hands. She holds firm, and they play tug-of-war for a few moments. Clearly, Dragan is unbothered by holding the searing-hot blade in his hands, but as his flesh starts to liquefy, it lubricates the weapon and allows Xquenda to slip it from his grip, before slashing it out across his face, directly through both his eyes.


    Even without sound, I can hear Dragan¡¯s primal roar of fury, only for it to be abruptly cut short, as Xquenda thrusts the machete through his neck, and swiftly jerks it up, splitting his skull in two. For a few moments, Dragan flails around wildly, before hitting the ground and falling still.


    The Jade Knight goes still for a moment as well, breathing heavily. Then she rallies, turning off the machete¡¯s heating coils and sheathing it, then signaling her team to emerge from hiding.


    ¡°That,¡± Bryant says, as the remaining Komodos step over Dragan¡¯s body and continue to advance through the hallway, ¡°was one of the most impressive displays I¡¯ve ever seen during the War Games. Don¡¯t you think, Professor?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely,¡± Van Horn concurs. ¡°The Apocalypse Knight line is feared across the Imperium, but this is a blow I suspect it won¡¯t soon recover from.¡±


    Inwardly, I groan. Talk like that is just going to get Dragan to become even more brutal and vicious than before, in an attempt to repair the supposedly-damaged prestige of his line, which is already famous exclusively for being vicious and brutal. Worse still, the Peregrines are likely to be our next opponents, meaning we¡¯ll be the ones bearing the full brunt of his fury at a wounded ego.


    ¡°You see that?¡± I ask Niko, who still has one eye on his palm-screen.


    ¡°Sure did. Markets wavered there for a second, but they¡¯re stabilizing as we speak.¡±


    ¡°Oh, put that thing away,¡± Sofie says, sounding a little bit annoyed. ¡°You¡¯re not gonna make any more money by staring at it the whole time.¡±


    ¡°¡­sorry,¡± Niko says after a minute, chastened. He turns the palm-screen off and leans in a little closer to me, focusing his attention on the big screen instead. I drape my tail over his shoulder, glad to have him back with us.


    While we were talking, the feed switched back over to the east-side team, still pinned down in the hallway. They still seem to be holding out, but at least one more of them has gone down since we looked away. Casales and his people have formed a sort of wall around Okorie, the many-armed engineer, who looks to be cooking up a makeshift device that I suspect is meant to pierce the force-wall. However, the shields they¡¯re using to protect him are looking increasingly battered, and not just from bullets. As we watch, Singh lobs an incendiary grenade through the barrier, and it ignites against the shields, not exactly burning through, but stripping away another layer before flaming out.


    Suddenly, salvation for the Komodos appears, in the form of Sc¨¢thach and her infiltration team. They approach from behind the Peregrines, opening with a fragmentation grenade that shreds their armor, and following up with some precise shooting that takes advantage of the confusion to make up for their lack of numbers. It¡¯s three on five, but they¡¯ve got the element of surprise, and within seconds, Singh and her people are lying dead.


    After the dust has settled, Casales has his people drop their shields, and Okorie steps forward, pressing his device to the force-wall with one of his many mechanical arms. It pulses with light for a moment, then shorts the barrier out, allowing the strike team to pass through, where they exchange a few quick words with Sc¨¢thach¡¯s people, before heading deeper into the fortress together.


    Though it was hard to see anything too specific during the chaotic firefight, I did notice some good shooting from the tattooed woman who caught my eye earlier. The info file gives her name as Ea, her Founder known as the Relentless, a hunter who tracked his prey across worlds, sometimes spending years trailing a single target. She seems to be a part of the Komodo Unit¡¯s intelligence team, but not unlike Callum, she can clearly handle herself in a fight quite well.


    ¡°By my count, only four members of the Komodo Unit have been eliminated so far, while the Peregrines have lost eleven,¡± Bryant points out. ¡°Is it common for things to progress so quickly in a battle like this?¡±


    ¡°In my experience, Baxter, the War Games either go quite quickly, or agonizingly slowly. It seems we¡¯re witnessing the former in this case.¡±


    Indeed, as he speaks, the remaining Komodos in both strike teams are advancing on the command center of the fortress, where the remaining few Peregrines are holed up. They must be in contact over the brainband, because both groups stop outside the doors, with Okorie stepping forward on the west side to press a device to it. The screen shows what looks like thermal signatures, allowing them to identify the precise locations of the remaining Peregrines within the command center. Given their advantage in terms of numbers, it seems likely that they could just storm in and shoot anything that moves, but Hark¡¯s far too by-the-book to ever approve that. Getting lax with protocol now would be a good way to end up snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, so to speak.


    Inside of the command center, Anton and his remaining advisors are in a defensive formation. Naess, the unarmoed woman in ill-fitting armor who seems to have Anton¡¯s ear, is literally hiding behind him, as though she plans to use his stock frame as a shield when the Komodos storm in. The Peregrines¡¯ leader looks displeased that things have gone so poorly, but not exactly surprised- judging by the way he¡¯s holding his rifle, he¡¯s already accepted the inevitable, and only plans to put up a fight for the sake of propriety.


    Callum and Konishi, the other two Peregrines still standing, seem a little less discouraged. They can¡¯t possibly be expecting to win, but each of them is covering a different entrance, perhaps hoping to take a few Komodos down with them, and show everybody watching that they¡¯re a force to be reckoned with, despite their commander¡¯s general incompetence. They might actually be able to take out a few enemy soldiers, too, since both entrances to the command center are rigged with traps. Stepping foot through either of those doorways would set off half a dozen different mines and other hidden traps.


    Unfortunately for the Peregrines, the Komodo strike teams seem to be aware of the presence of those traps. Maybe Vang¡¯s drones spotted them earlier, or perhaps they¡¯re just inferring based on common sense. Either way, neither team makes a move to open the doors- instead, one person on each side, Ea on the east side, and Xquenda on the west, pulls out a rifle with an unusual design- one I recognize. These are penetrator rifles, which are designed to shoot straight through walls. Single-shot, with thermal imaging scopes, so as to facilitate acquiring targets you don¡¯t have line-of-sight on.


    The knight and the huntress gesture for their teams to stand back, as they hold the rifle almost straight to the surface of the door on each side. After a silent count of three, both of them fire, an oversized slug round punching a golf ball-sized hole in the door, and through the chests of both Konishi and Callum.


    Looking startled, Anton swivels his rifle between both doors, as if unsure where the next attack will come from. While the shooters on both sides are reloading, Naess whispers something in his ear again, and his expression changes from confusion to resignation. Before Xquenda or Ea can fire again, he drops his rifle, and shouts something I can¡¯t hear- but the meaning is obvious nonetheless.


    Turning around to face the window, overlooking Hark¡¯s miniature command center out on the sand, he shouts it again, banging on the glass in frustration. A bitter declaration of surrender. After a few moments, presumably during which the Komodos ask their leader if they should finish the job or not, they holster their weapons. Casales approaches the door, and shouts something through the hole that the penetrator round left.


    Anton sighs, and brings up his palm-screen, tapping a few buttons that seem to disable the various traps set up around the doors. The possibility that his attempt at surrender is a bluff has already occurred to me, but the Komodos don¡¯t seem very concerned as they kick the doors open and stride through. Anton probably isn¡¯t stupid enough to pull a stunt like that, knowing there¡¯s no way he could turn the tables on such a numerically superior force all by himself. All it would accomplish is making him look like a petty, spiteful liar in front of the entire Imperium. And while he might not care much about that, I suspect Naess is canny enough to have told him not to do it.


    Indeed, as the two Komodo teams enter the command center, not a single one of the traps surrounding the doors activate. Casales strides toward the center of the room, and pulls a small baton from his belt, which expands when he presses a button on the side, a sharp spike emerging from one end. The Komodo combat chief drives that spike into the ground, and a moment later, a holographic flag featuring the Komodo Unit¡¯s emblem appears on the other end, fluttering in a nonexistent breeze.


    At the same time, Xquenda walks over to Anton and puts her hand on his shoulder from behind, marching him out of the room, followed by her team. Naess follows, looking displeased, as they bring the Peregrine commander all the way through the fortress, and out to where Hark is encamped.


    Lucia steps out from behind the barrier that protected her throughout the match, and folds her arms behind her back when Anton approaches, looking like he¡¯d prefer to be anywhere else. This isn¡¯t exactly standard procedure, as I understand it- Hark probably told her people to bring him out here like this. It¡¯s meant as a statement, showing people that she didn¡¯t just win decisively, but that she¡¯s capable of humbling the enemy before her.


    All the remaining Komodos form up around Hark, looking stern, standing at attention. She extends a hand straight out, as if pretending to be unaware of the fact that Anton is a good foot or two taller than her. He stares at it, confused, for a few moments. Then, after closing his eyes momentarily, he bends down until he¡¯s practically on one knee, to shake Hark¡¯s hand. The symbolism is hard to miss.


    ¡°There you have it, everybody,¡± Bryant says, breaking a long silence. ¡°The first round of this year¡¯s War Games is over. A decisive victory for the Komodo Unit, led by Lucia Hark, proving that no matter her age, she¡¯s not to be underestimated.¡±

 Chapter Twenty

    It¡¯s the day before our turn at the War Games, and I¡¯m finally nervous. Not in the sense of being paralyzed with fear, cowering in my room biting my nails, but rather filled with a frantic energy, driven to distraction by the fact that I simply can¡¯t think of anything to do.


    That doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m actually doing nothing. As a matter of fact, I¡¯m on my way to do something at the moment, striding briskly down a Citadel street, trying to avoid meeting the eyes of anybody I pass. But there really isn¡¯t anything productive left for me to be doing personally.


    Gaming out possible strategies for tomorrow¡¯s battle was my main task, and with my copyclan¡¯s help, in addition to some input from Kat, I¡¯ve got that handled. No less than dozen different plans are filed away in the back of my head, constructed based on the different possible forms our confrontation with the Oxen will take. The odds of it being a siege match are strikingly low, not only because the gap between us is nowhere near as large as the gap between the Peregrines and Komodos, but because the Citadel almost never does the same match format twice in a row. It¡¯s terrible for viewership numbers- the people want to see something fresh, if they¡¯re tuning in for the second time in three days.


    Instead, we focused on the possibilities for deathmatch and zone control battles, then made plans for each type based on the different possible battlefield arrangements, focusing on certain general ¡®archetypes¡¯ used in the construction of Crucible battlefields. Heavy cover, minimal cover, hazardous environment, shifting terrain, et cetera. And then, within those archetypes, three different kinds of strategies. Offensive, defensive, and hybrid. Kat mainly helped me with the latter two, though she flatly refused when I suggested she handle some of the defensive strategies on her own. One day, maybe.


    All that being said, it¡¯s not as though these plans are point-by-point itineraries of how to win. Maybe that¡¯s how Hark does things, but it¡¯s not my style. Locking yourself into a single path to victory is the single worst decision you can make as a tactician. It doesn¡¯t work in chess, and that¡¯s a game that, while complex, has infinitely fewer variables than anything happening in the real world. Instead, these plans are more like decision trees, meant to give an idea of how to respond to as many possible events as we could think of, all of which are meant to lead towards a single outcome- victory.


    It¡¯s an achievement, yeah. Hours spent in the afternoons and evenings, after training, after watching yesterday¡¯s match, after my date with Sofie and Niko- not to mention during all of that, since my copyclan is more than capable of working while Iza Prime is physically occupied. But now that it¡¯s done, I¡¯m almost at a loss. With about a day to go before the fight, I don¡¯t have anything I should be doing. So, to prevent boredom-induced insanity, I¡¯m gonna see what everybody else is up to.


    First stop: disinformation central. That is to say, the building where most of my intelligence group, plus Grant, are currently holed up, working on the long-awaited doctored recording of Tellis, the Ox Unit¡¯s chief strategists, privately disparaging members of the unit who are already inclined to dislike him. With a bit of a push from us, we intend to turn that dislike into full-on hatred, powerful enough to sow dissent in the ranks of the Oxen at a critical moment.


    Now, the Oxen aren¡¯t stupid. Given the timing, and the rather convenient nature of the recording, their intelligence people- specifically Valentin Gardinier, their chief intelligence officer, who specializes in counterintelligence -will realize it¡¯s a fake the minute they see it. What we¡¯re counting on is that they aren¡¯t gonna see it until it¡¯s too late. If our targets bring the video to Tellis immediately, the deception will be exposed, but if they choose to sit on it, to stew in their resentment but not speak out, it¡¯ll have the intended effect.


    The Oxen are the ones with an intelligence agent who specializes in analysis, not us. But my people aren¡¯t stupid, and in order for this not to be a total waste of time, we studied the video¡¯s intended recipients pretty extensively. Not just them, but their Founders, too. In this case, that¡¯s Fabian Vasile and Hudson, two members of the Ox Unit¡¯s combat team. The former, an ambitious type who very clearly thinks he should be the one in charge of the unit¡¯s strategy, not Tellis, is almost certain not to bring the video forward. He¡¯ll see it first and foremost as a weapon, something to get people on his side- namely Hudson, the other person who ¡®Tellis¡¯ will be talking shit about in the video. He¡¯ll be angry, too, because he¡¯s not exactly a brilliant, calculating type, which is why we¡¯re expecting him to be abrasive and uncooperative after he¡¯s seen it, instead of doing what I¡¯d do in his shoes, which is to say play the role of a perfect soldier, gain Tellis¡¯ trust, and then stab him in the back when he least expected it.


    Anyway. Hudson is the wildcard. His Founder was called Djoser, the Peacekeeper. He became famous throughout the Imperium for maintaining law and order on a far-off frontier world after it was cut off from the teleportal network and resurrection system, meaning he was effectively the only representative of the Imperium¡¯s authority for years. You¡¯d think that someone like that would take a suspicious, conveniently-timed video directly to his superiors, even if its contents upset him. But this isn¡¯t a by-the-book police officer we¡¯re talking about. All of those people got killed within weeks of that frontier planet being cut off. Djoser was the type to play by nobody¡¯s rules but his own, even if he was enforcing laws he hadn¡¯t written. And he was known to be a pretty angry guy. You¡¯ve gotta have something to keep you going if you¡¯re the only cop on an entire planet, and anger¡¯s as good as anything.


    So our best guess says Hudson sits on it, same as Vasile- and that his anger makes him do something stupid. Maybe that comes in the form of him shooting Tellis in the back when nobody¡¯s looking, or letting himself get killed without putting up a fight, or even refusing to step onto the battlefield in the first place. But so long as they don¡¯t take it to Tellis, Starling, and Gardinier, we¡¯re in the clear.


    Those facts are what I turn over in my head, over and over, as I head to disinformation central. We decided at our last War Council session, yesterday evening, that our dormitory, the Hyperion Building, wasn¡¯t secure enough for a project like this. That might seem ridiculous, considering how much work Sander and I went to making sure it was secure, but that¡¯s basically like setting up a giant neon sign that says ¡®we¡¯re doing important secret stuff in here, it¡¯s worth trying to get a look.¡¯


    Instead, we decided they¡¯d have to set up shop somewhere that, if we¡¯ve done everything right, the enemy will have no idea ever existed. Specifically, a building in one of the abandoned areas of the Citadel, which would ordinarily be housing for the staff, were more of them required this year. They sit empty for the time being, locked tight, but not tight enough to keep us out. And inside one of those buildings, behind about a dozen layers of privacy filters and anti-surveillance tech, is the disinformation team, hard at work crafting our little psyop.


    Strictly speaking, I shouldn¡¯t even be visiting them like this. They headed over in staggered shifts, hours ago, to make sure nobody saw them. Going there now raises the risk of the whole project being discovered. But I¡¯m doing it anyway, because I need something to do, and because I know I¡¯m good enough not to get followed.


    The walk takes more than twice as long as it should, accounting for all the times I double back and stop in the shadows to lose anybody who might be trailing me. Based on my knowledge of the enemy, there¡¯s only one person in the entire Citadel who could have managed to stay on me after all of that- Ea, the Komodo Unit¡¯s tracker. But she¡¯s almost certainly resting up after yesterday¡¯s match, and warning the Oxen about our plan wouldn¡¯t even necessarily suit the Komodos¡¯ interests either. So if she is following me, I¡¯m not especially worried. We aren¡¯t gonna use this place more than once anyway.


    Checking my surroundings one more time- left, right, and finally up -I push open a door that should be bolted shut, and to all appearances is. Stepping through, and closing the door firmly behind me, I cough, waving away the dust kicked up into the air by my movement. It would probably be too dark for me to see in here, if I didn¡¯t have the standard set of genetic modifications that gives every Imperium citizen the equivalent of an owl¡¯s night vision. It¡¯s a pretty new splice, new enough that they don¡¯t yet have it in the Meritocracy, though they¡¯re certainly trying to crack it, and simultaneously trying to bargain for the information, not that they¡¯ve got a ton to trade that the Imperium wants right now.


    If the team here, up on the fourth floor, hears me coming, I¡¯ll probably be greeted with a bullet on entrance. Instead, I creep up the stairs, exerting as little force with each footstep as I can. Fortunately, there are no floorboards to creak, because the building is hewn from the same white stone as most of the rest of the Citadel. Besides that, however, it bears little similarity to the other buildings I¡¯ve been inside while here- in the sense that it hasn¡¯t been carefully curated to look ancient and majestic. It¡¯s just bland and functional.


    At some point on my way up the stairs, I feel myself pass through the privacy field. It¡¯s subtle, just a barely-perceptible shift in the ¡®sixth sense¡¯ that is my connection to the brainband, but it¡¯s there. Listening devices, hidden cameras, even remote microphones, all will fail within a certain radius of this spot. The anti-surveillance tech is a useful tool, but also expensive, and time-consuming to set up, which is why we don¡¯t use it too often. Particularly not when we can have secure conversations over the brainband at any time.


    There¡¯s no known way to listen in on a brainband conversation, since the communication vector is an omnipresent cloud of nanotechnology that suffuses every breath of air that every human in the Imperium breathes. In theory, one could intercept a long-distance message from across an interplanetary distance, if they somehow hijacked one of the relay satellites, but not only are those satellites encrypted beyond all measure, the vast majority of them are cloaked and hardened in ghost orbits, with their locations a tightly-kept secret, revealed to only a select few if one of them ever needs repair. The idea of building them as space stations with a dedicated, permanent crew was floated, but eventually scrapped when somebody pointed out that it would give that crew a hold over the satellite, and the opportunity to exploit its function for their own gain. Letting a heavily-supervised repair crew in once every few decades for repairs or maintenance is a lot safer.


    Finally, I reach the fourth floor, and approach the door to the apartment where my team is working. Not that there¡¯s any indication that anybody is inside- the privacy screen filters out all sound, so even if somebody was poking around this building for an entirely unrelated reason, they¡¯d have no reason to check this particular room.


    Raising my hand gingerly, I tap out a three-two-three sequence on the door, simultaneously sending out a local brainband ping to let them all know it¡¯s a friendly knocking. A couple moments later, the door opens slowly- on hinges, rather than the automatic sliding doors in our dormitory building. Valent greets me with a serious nod, probably assuming that I¡¯m here to deliver some bad news or something. He ushers me inside, glances up and down the hallway to make sure I wasn¡¯t followed, and closes the door behind me, re-engaging the locks as he does so.


    ¡°What¡¯s up, Izzy?¡± asks my intelligence officer, as I enter the apartment, looking over her shoulder at me. There¡¯s a undercurrent of anxiety in her tone, as though my mere presence portends doom. I suppose that in their shoes, the only good reason I¡¯d have to be here is to call the whole project off, or something equally dramatic.


    ¡°Just wanted to check in, see how everything was going,¡± I tell her, trying to keep my own nerves out of my voice. The air of tension in the room decreases slightly, as they realize I¡¯m not about to make them drop everything they¡¯re doing and change focus.


    Though nobody¡¯s currently living in this apartment, it¡¯s not totally unfurnished. A thin layer of plastic covers most of the furniture, to keep it from accumulating dust or otherwise degrading while not in use. Sofie and Grant are sitting on one such piece of furniture, a beige couch, in the apartment¡¯s living room, intently examining a three-dimensional projection in the middle of the room, which features Tellis and Starling, the Ox Unit¡¯s commander, in conversation. Sitting on an armchair to their right is Tai, who¡¯s got a holo-screen open in front of him, controlling the projection itself.


    It¡¯s not exactly visible to me, but I know that the software they¡¯re using to model Starling and Tellis is drawing on data I recorded of both men, to create a rendering of their facial movements while speaking that should be completely indistinguishable from the real thing. Indeed, the projection looks completely real to me, but then again, I haven¡¯t seen it in motion yet. The uncanny valley between perfectly lifelike and uncomfortably alien is vast, and even the slightest imperfection could cast our fabricated recording into its depths.


    ¡°Everything¡¯s on-schedule,¡± Grant informs me, in that smooth, casual tone of his, the one that makes me instinctually distrust him. He¡¯s a canny political operator by nature, a fact he can¡¯t change by virtue of who his Founder was. And in much the same way, I can¡¯t change the fact that people who talk like he does make me wary. The Deceiver Admiral knew how to play politics when it was necessary, but he didn¡¯t care in the slightest for people who made it their way of living.


    ¡°Glad to hear it,¡± I tell him, not letting a shred of that distaste show. He¡¯s done nothing to warrant my suspicions- in fact, quite the opposite. I¡¯m not about to let my Founder¡¯s opinions determine how I treat somebody who¡¯s been nothing but loyal to me.


    ¡°We¡¯re close to having the latest version ready,¡± Tai says, without looking away from his screen. Frowning, he makes a minute adjustment to some slider, and a few errant hairs on Starling¡¯s face appear, giving the impression of a not-quite-finished shave job. After a second spent examining that, he shakes his head and reverts the change.


    Watching him, I think back to our first conversation, during our first week here at the Citadel, where he expressed his disapproval of my jokes about Bret. How does he feel about participating in a smear campaign against Tellis, I wonder? Not badly enough that he won¡¯t help, evidently. But this is directly relevant to our success as a unit, and our individual ambitions as Nobles, so maybe he finds it easier to justify in his own head.


    Before I can sit down, Valent settles into the other available armchair, leaving me momentarily bereft. Rolling my eyes, I mutter something sarcastic about getting no respect as their commander, and drag in a chair from the dining room. It¡¯s got no plastic cover, so a layer of dust comes off as I move it, and I waft it away with one hand, hoping none of it is clinging to my pants.


    Putting the chair down in-between the sofa and Valent¡¯s armchair, I turn my attention to the projection, which everybody else is watching in silence. Presumably they¡¯ve been iterating on the same basic theme for the past few hours since they got started, with none seeming quite right. Maybe I¡¯ll be able to help them get a bit closer while I¡¯m here. That would be justification enough for this unannounced, inadvisable visit.


    ¡°Okay,¡± Tai says, after a minute or two of making changes so small I didn¡¯t even register their effects. ¡°Let¡¯s give it a whirl.¡±


    He taps the screen, and the projections of Starling and Tellis come alive.


    ¡°What about the combat team?¡± Starling asks, businesslike.


    ¡°A promising group,¡± Tellis replies. ¡°For the most part.¡±


    The cadence of his speech is almost pitch-perfect. If I didn¡¯t know it was doctored, I¡¯m sure I¡¯d be unable to tell. His posture is more stiff and formal than it¡¯s been in our few conversations, but that¡¯s probably a good thing- the context of this recording is supposed to be a meeting between Tellis and his commander. It¡¯s perfectly in-character for him to be as rigid and uptight as possible in that setting.


    ¡°Anybody in particular stick out?¡±


    ¡°Dalgaard looks to be highly competent. Unsuitable for a leadership role, but he¡¯ll be quite the asset, if utilized correctly.¡±


    I don¡¯t recognize the name, but presumably it¡¯s a member of the Oxen who my intelligence people are familiar with. They¡¯re trying to make this seem more like an actual conversation, rather than having them say the important part immediately, which would make it pretty obvious to anybody that the whole thing¡¯s a fake.


    ¡°Chen Lu seems reliable, but clearly a follower, not a leader. For the time being, I¡¯ve decided to reserve judgement on Bedrosian. He possesses the requisite skills, but seems to lack commitment.¡±


    Starling nods along, offering no disagreement. If there are any flaws in this fabricated recording that might give it away, I can¡¯t detect them. Tai¡¯s expression is inscrutable, though, and it wouldn¡¯t surprise me if his more discerning eye has seen some nearly-imperceptible imperfection that will require hours more work to correct.


    ¡°I see. Is there anybody we need to watch out for, then?¡±


    ¡°Vasile,¡± Tellis replies, his lips curling into a sneer. ¡°He¡¯s ambitious, but lacks the cunning to pursue that ambition properly. Given a command, he would prioritize his own personal glory at the expense of all else. And, if you¡¯ll permit me to editorialize, that ¡®flyboy¡¯ costume of his makes him look ridiculous.¡±


    The simulacrum of Starling lets out a surprised laugh, as though taken by surprise by Tellis¡¯ unexpected bit of cutting humor. They¡¯re referring to Vasile¡¯s tendency to wear a bomber jacket and flight goggles at virtually all times, despite being nowhere near an air or spacecraft. Sprinkling in some personal insults along with the dismissal of his capabilities is a sure-fire way to get him furious.


    ¡°Stojanov has a temper, but that could easily become an asset if directed properly. Hudson, on the other hand¡­ It¡¯s clear he doesn¡¯t want to be here. Frankly, I have little patience for any Noble who won¡¯t do their duty to the Imperium. He¡¯s going to require¡­ discipline.¡±


    Finding a way to have him insult Hudson that wouldn¡¯t immediately be dismissed has to have been a challenge. According to Sander, he particularly dislikes people like Tellis, who are obsessed with Nobility as a virtue, rather than actually doing anything ¡®truly noble.¡¯ But this hit all the right notes, in my book. Condescending enough to incite anger, without being so exaggerated that it could simply be ignored.


    ¡°Understood,¡± Starling replies. ¡°I¡¯ll speak to Valentin about the two of them, make sure he knows they¡¯re likely to be trouble. Perhaps if we have Lauren open a file on them, we¡¯ll be able to gain some insight into what makes them so¡­ problematic.¡±


    ¡°Excellent thinking, Commander.¡±


    ¡°Thank you. But, to return to the topic at hand- if not any of them, who would you recommend serve as combat officer?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Tellis says, with a carefully-controlled expression that shows only a hint of satisfaction beneath the facade. ¡°I¡¯m afraid it seems that the best-qualified candidate is me.¡±


    The projection freezes, sequence complete. Valent, Sofie, and Tai turn to look at me. Silence falls over the room for a moment- until I start clapping. Relief shows on all three of their faces- although only briefly for Tai, before he goes back to his screen. Sofie relaxes visibly, and though Valent hides it a little better, I can tell he feels the same.


    ¡°That was great. Seriously, incredible stuff. You got their voices exactly right. And that bit at the end about having Gardinier keep an eye on them? Perfect. Practically ensures they¡¯ll never go to him about any of this.¡±


    ¡°Her idea,¡± Tai informs me, jerking a thumb in Sofie¡¯s direction while he continues to tinker with the projection.


    ¡°Thanks,¡± Sofie says, with a cute smile that makes me want to plant a kiss on her cheek. Doing that in front of our subordinates would be unprofessional, though. We haven¡¯t exactly tried to hide our relationship, but neither have we made any kind of formal announcement.


    ¡°Far as I¡¯m concerned, you¡¯re good to go,¡± I tell the group, practically thrumming with excitement. This is so good it almost makes me regret not beginning a disinformation campaign against the other units much earlier- but playing our hand too early might have meant a diminished effect in a critical moment like this. ¡°Or make whatever tweaks you need to make first, you¡¯re the experts. But once you¡¯re done, there¡¯s something else I want you to do.¡±


    Sofie raises an eyebrow at me.


    ¡°Start preparing a plan to protect us from getting hit with attacks like this in the future. We¡¯re lucky that nobody¡¯s targeted us like this yet, but that¡¯s not gonna last forever. And who better to help inoculate us than the three of you?¡±


    Of course, I don¡¯t exactly have anybody else to turn to, so if they end up being terrible at counterintelligence, I¡¯ll be shit out of luck. But there¡¯s no need to tell them that now, when their spirits are high.


    ¡°Absolutely, boss. Good idea.¡±


    ¡°I do have those occasionally. But with that, I¡¯m gonna leave the three of you to it. Got the whole rest of the unit to check up on.¡±


    <hr>


    Sander looks relieved to see my face when we meet back up. He didn¡¯t argue, but I could tell he was less than thrilled when I told him I¡¯d have to go solo when I went to meet up with the intelligence team. Making sure I got there undetected was difficult enough without a shadow the size and shape of a silverback gorilla following me.


    ¡°Was your meeting productive?¡±


    ¡°Yup. Hope you weren¡¯t too bored while I was gone.¡±


    ¡°I was not.¡±


    Honestly, I don¡¯t know if Sander is capable of boredom. The two of us have spent a lot of time together over the past month or so, and I¡¯ve never seen him look distracted or disinterested. He¡¯s got this sort of constant-alertness mode that he never seems to leave, like someone could burst in through a window and start shooting, and he wouldn¡¯t be surprised for a second, just respond as though he¡¯d known the attack was coming. He probably would know it was coming- or at least process what was happening twice as fast as anybody else in the room. I¡¯ve got pretty solid reflexes, even accounting for the fact that Imperium bioengineering means that everybody¡¯s got hyper-efficient fast-twitch muscle fibers and all of that, but reflexes are useless if you¡¯re not paying attention. And I have a bad habit of getting lost in my own head.


    One of the nice things about having Sander as my constant companion is that he doesn¡¯t complain when I fall silent for a long stretch while thinking. If it happens while I¡¯m around Niko or Sofie, they¡¯re liable to ask what¡¯s in my mind, or in the case of the latter, poke me to get my attention. Sander simply remains silent, waiting for my next command.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go see the engineers.¡±


    Ada, Nikitha, and Bret have reserved a workshop inside of Gofannon¡¯s Forge for the day. Apparently the other units¡¯ little pact to reserve all the empty spots in the Crucible to keep us from training also extended to the workshops as well, but the Forge staff refused to allow them to book all those spots if nobody was actually going to show up and use it. For a day or so, they all sent people to occupy the workshops just to deny them to us, but after our staged training session, most of them decided it wasn¡¯t worth the effort and stopped, which is why my people are in there now. Not to mention, a few upperclassmen got upset that they weren¡¯t able to use the Forge either, and apparently forcibly evicted a few Peregrines who refused to vacate a workshop.


    Naturally, I had Ada and her people sweep for bugs first, since the very first thing I would have done if I had a person inside of every workshop in the building would be to place hidden cameras and mics, in order to get a sneak preview of whatever the enemy would build next. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    The Forge is an imposing building, all steel, no stone. It sticks out like a sore thumb compared to the rest of the Citadel surrounding it. As we approach, Sander steps forward and holds the door open for me, as he usually does whenever we encounter a non-automatic door. I incline my head gratefully and enter.


    Immediately upon walking into the Forge, I feel out of place. The lighting is harsh and bright, the design stark and minimalist. Functional is perhaps the best word for it. Whoever designed this building- maybe Gofannon himself -had little interest in aesthetics. That¡¯s not a uniform trait among ¡®builder Nobles,¡¯ as they¡¯re sometimes called. Plenty of them think that everything they create should be a work of art, in addition to its primary functions. But most of them are of the opinion that appearances are irrelevant, that results are all that matter.


    The Fractalsmith wasn¡¯t a traditional builder. His area of expertise was quantum physics, and there aren¡¯t many physicist Founders. Sure, there were plenty of groundbreaking physicists in the Founding Era, but none of them contributed to the war effort in the way that the Fractalsmith did. Of particular note was his work with fixed quantum states, something I can¡¯t begin to understand, let alone describe beyond the most basic level, but it made the man a legend.


    Much like the tacticians and leaders among the Founders are exemplified by the Nine Titans, the engineers and scientists among them are exemplified by a group known as the Four Masters. Fewer in number, and lacking in fame, but their contributions were just as significant, if not more. Of course, the breakthroughs they made would have been useless without competent strategists to apply them on the battlefield. But then again, there would have been no use for those brilliant strategies without the scientific and technological achievements that enabled them. Round and round the argument goes, perpetuated by generation after generation of Nobles who think they¡¯ll be the ones to finally strike the decisive blow for their side.


    In much the same way, I¡¯m told the spies and warriors have their own feud, arguing endlessly about which group¡¯s contributions were more vital to the war effort. Not that I¡¯d ever let Sofie hear me say it, but I think the soldiers have the better of that debate. It wouldn¡¯t be easy, but you could win a war with no intelligence apparatus. Winning a war without soldiers is pretty much definitionally impossible. On the other hand, if you had no soldiers but the best spies imaginable, you might never end up going to war- you could cripple your enemies without ever firing a bullet. The cyclical nature of these arguments is, frankly, tiresome to me. I¡¯ve made a point not to get caught up in any of them.


    ¡°Can I help you?¡± asks the Forge¡¯s front desk attendant, seeming slightly perturbed by the way I spent the last several seconds staring off into the middle distance, lost in thought in the middle of the lobby. There isn¡¯t even anything I could claim to have been distracted by, just empty steel walls.


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m just here to see some people in¡­¡± A brief pause as I call the information to mind from the brainband, where my memories are backed up for easy retrieval. ¡°Workshop 202. They¡¯ll be expecting me.¡±


    Not strictly true. It would be more accurate to say that they won¡¯t complain about me interrupting them unexpectedly, because I¡¯m their commander. But we¡¯re supposed to maintain certain polite fictions, instead of actually saying stuff like that, and I¡¯m not interested in breaking the social contract right now.


    ¡°Go on in, then,¡± the receptionist, a bored-looking guy who¡¯s kept the same body for so long his hair¡¯s actually starting to thin, says, before returning to his palm-screen, where he appears to be playing some kind of game. He¡¯d be having a better time if he was playing something immersive, I¡¯m sure, but that would require entering the brainband fully, effectively leaving his physical body vacant for the duration of the session, which would make doing his job here impossible. So instead he has to while the hours away on an inferior, two-dimensional game, until his shift ends. A pretty miserable existence. If I was in his shoes, being surrounded by future leaders of the Imperium would make me want to better myself in some way, by studying government or reading history. But then again, I¡¯m a Noble- ambition is written into my cognitive architecture. For better or for worse, he lacks that.


    Sander places a gigantic hand on my shoulder, and I let him guide me down the hall, towards Workshop 202. Apparently my anxiety about tomorrow¡¯s battle is so bad that I¡¯m now getting completely lost in thought for long stretches, multiple times over the course of just a few minutes. That can¡¯t be a good sign. Hopefully whatever projects the tech team is working on will be able to hold my attention the way Sofie¡¯s little presentation did.


    To keep focused, I press the tip of my tail into my back, just enough to be slightly painful. It works surprisingly well, providing a little something to concentrate on as we walk. Eventually Sander removes his hand. The fact that he was willing to do that at all is a good sign, I think. A sign that he¡¯s becoming a little more comfortable with me.


    The hallway almost resembles a cell block in a traditional prison- rows of thick metal doors on either side of us. From behind almost every one of them comes music blasting at top volume, all of it blending together into an awful cacophony. Everybody¡¯s trying to drown out the sounds of machinery while they work. My people seem to be no exception to that. I knock several times, hard as I can, and get no response, completely inaudible beneath the sound of some ultrametal singer blowing his lungs out into a mic. Sighing, I step back and gesture for Sander to take over.


    With a solemn nod, he approaches, draws his hand back, and slams it against the metal door like a battering ram, once, twice, three times. The music stops. A moment later, I hear Ada¡¯s wary voice.


    ¡°Who is it?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s me,¡± I shout back, to ensure they can hear me through the door, and over the sound of the music still coming from every other workshop. After a pause, the door slides open, and Ada greets us, wiping a sheen of sweat off her brow.


    The inside of the workshop is hot, cramped, and cluttered. Evidently this isn¡¯t one of the luxury suites- the three of them didn¡¯t have much space to move to begin with, but with all five of us here, we¡¯ll be like sardines in a can. I gesture for Sander to wait outside, and he nods.


    Nikitha¡¯s off in one corner, messing around with some dangerous-looking chemicals. Bret seems to be adjusting the scope for a rifle, periodically holding it up to his eye to check the magnification, then fine-tuning the dial slightly. Ada¡¯s workstation is covered in gun parts, a few prototypes half-built, the rest completely in pieces.


    ¡°Iza, it¡¯s good to see you,¡± she says, looking slightly perplexed by my presence.


    ¡°Thanks. This is a surprise inspection. Lemme see what you¡¯ve been working on.¡±


    ¡°Oh! I, uh¡ª we haven¡¯t really finished¡ª¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s fine. I just want to see what you¡¯ve been doing.¡±


    We only discussed her plans for the day briefly, and she was pretty vague about the ideas she¡¯d been toying with. The impression I get is that if I leave her to her creative process, she¡¯ll get caught up in whatever she¡¯s doing, start something overly ambitious, and not have anything useful ready for us by tomorrow.


    ¡°Well, uh, I¡¯ve told you about my Founder, right? He was a gunsmith, mainly. So I figured I¡¯d see if I could maybe make some improvements to our guns, give us an edge on the competition, you know?¡±


    ¡°Mm.¡±


    ¡°At first, I wasn¡¯t sure what I could actually do to improve these guns, though- people have been making them for a while, and it¡¯s not like we really leave much on the table in terms of efficiency. But then I had this idea. Instead of a standard laser sight, what if we used a focused radiation tightbeam that could paint targets from a distance, then modified a scope to detect the radiation sig so we could track them through walls?¡±


    While she talks, Ada gesticulates nervously, clearly concerned that her efforts might not to be my satisfaction. To be fair to her, I did demand this little status report pretty aggressively. I figure it¡¯s about time for a little confidence boost. Besides, that¡¯s pretty clever.


    ¡°Pretty clever,¡± I tell her. ¡°Anything else?¡±


    ¡°Well, we spent some time trying to figure out how pierce the armor on that one Ox girl, the one who¡¯s got the armor grafted onto her body.¡±


    ¡°Heinonen,¡± I supply.


    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s the one. I took a scan of her armor yesterday, while she was watching the match, but it¡¯s made from some weird metamaterial. We¡¯ve got a few different bullet prototypes fabricating right now, and once they¡¯re done, we¡¯re gonna test ¡®em on a replica of the armor material, and see if any of them can actually puncture it.¡±


    ¡°I see. What are you working on right now, the?¡±


    Ada draws breath, tensing as though she expects a reprimand for what she¡¯s going to say next.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been trying to get the radiation dosage right, while Bret¡¯s been calibrating the scopes to target the signature. Nikitha¡¯s, uh, she¡¯s kinda been doing her own thing.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I can see that,¡± I reply with a smirk, glancing over to the corner, where Nikitha¡¯s still messing around with her chemicals. ¡°You got any idea what she¡¯s actually working on?¡±


    ¡°Um, hallucinogens, I think,¡± Ada answers, brushing a sweat-matted strand of blue-yellow hair out of her eyes.


    ¡°Will she be ready before tomorrow? Will you?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ I think so.¡±


    My tail flicks back and forth, providing a visual indication of my frustration while I work to keep my expression neutral.


    ¡°Ada, I can¡¯t make plans around maybes. I know this is a small group, but I put you in charge of it. Take a break and take stock. Work out the timetable for these projects. If it looks like you¡¯re not gonna be able to finish all of them in time, put one on pause and prioritize finishing the others. And make sure to factor in time for testing. I¡¯m not sending people into the field with untested prototypes.¡±


    Part of me worries I¡¯m being too harsh on her, but the intensity in my tone actually seems to be reinvigorating her a little.


    ¡°Okay. I can do that. We¡¯ll have something useful ready by tomorrow, I promise.¡±


    ¡°Good. Get to it.¡±


    Ada gives me a two-finger salute, and I return it with a nod, before turning to leave.


    ¡°Is everything alright?¡± Sander asks, as I emerge from the workshop, running a hand through my own sweat-damp hair.


    ¡°Yeah. It¡¯s hot in there. You wanna get something to eat?¡±


    <hr>


    The next stop on our little check-up tour of my Gazelles is the gymnasium, where Niko is putting the combat unit through their paces, so we decide to find somewhere to eat near there.


    It takes a little while, but eventually we settle on a Ganymedean dumpling stall that seems rather out of place on the streets of the Citadel. It, and the proprietor, an older guy with a weathered, craggy face, look like they¡¯d be more at home in a megalopolis somewhere on a world like Naraka or Zhongquan.


    Ganymedean dumplings are a rare delicacy, mainly because they¡¯re supposed to be quite difficult to make correctly. Conventional wisdom is that only people with genuine Ganymedean heritage can make them right, although of course that¡¯s not entirely true. Like anything, it¡¯s easier to learn if you start young, but given sufficient time and dedication, anybody¡¯s capable of learning it.


    This stall¡¯s proprietor, though, looks like an actual Ganymedean to me. Not because of any physiognomic traits- those, of course, are irrelevant in a world where anybody can look any way they want. It¡¯s the way he prepares the dumplings, with such expert confidence and ease.


    You won¡¯t meet many Ganymedean these days, unless you go out of your way to find them. They¡¯re a cultural group that originated in the relatively brief period after the development of commercially-viable space travel, but before the Exodus, where the various celestial bodies of humanity¡¯s original solar system were colonized, and inhabited long enough to develop distinct cultures, many of which which have survived in some form until today. However, those traditions are much less prevalent in the overall culture of the Imperium than ones that are associated with specific regions on Earth. The reason why is simple- they only had about two hundred years or so to develop, and far fewer people to do so with. Sure, they had a lot more land to work with, but far less time to develop that land, particularly without access to modern terraforming technology.


    For the most part, you¡¯ll find Ganymedeans, Charonians, and other groups of the same type in small, generally insular communities within large cities on heavily industrialized planets. They¡¯ve gotta stay insular too, if they want to maintain their cultural traditions in any meaningful sense, instead of just being absorbed into the culture at large, as has happened with so many other groups over the course of human history.


    The dumplings taste exactly like I was always told they¡¯re supposed to- savory, and just a little bit sweet. If Sander is enjoying his, he gives no indication, nor does he react to my moans of delight as the dumpling¡¯s juices gush out into my mouth.


    ¡°Wow, you¡¯re really lovin¡¯ those, huh?¡±


    Startled, I nearly drop the dumpling held in my chopsticks, which would have spilled the precious liquid inside. Fresh out of the fryer, they¡¯re too hot to eat whole, so you¡¯ve gotta tear out an opening with your teeth and sip at the soup inside until it¡¯s cooled off enough to eat properly. Best of all, though, is the chunk of meat marinating inside, absorbing the flavor from the soup so that it¡¯s mouth-wateringly delicious when you finally bite into it.


    Tightening my grip on the dumpling with my chopsticks, I turn to face the woman who commented on my enjoyment of the Ganymedean delicacy. She¡¯s tall, with a lanky, muscular build, her hair done up in a sort of dreadlocks-ponytail thing that I don¡¯t know the exact name of. Her face isn¡¯t familiar, but I do recognize her self-assured smirk, and her confident gait as she approaches the stall and sits down right next to me.


    ¡°Sc¨¤thatch, right?¡±


    ¡°Yup,¡± she replies, popping the ¡®p¡¯ as she regards me critically. ¡°I¡¯ll have whatever she¡¯s having, by the way.¡±


    The stall¡¯s proprietor gives no indication that her addressing him without so much glancing his way bothers him at all, just nods and sets to work preparing another round of dumplings.


    ¡°Saw you during the War Games yesterday,¡± I say uselessly, a little disconcerted by her presence. Sander is staring a hole into her, his dumplings forgotten, but she pays him no mind.


    ¡°Yeah? You like what you saw?¡±


    ¡°Uh.¡±


    It¡¯s rare that words actually fail me, but something about her seems to be having that effect on me. The barest hint of teeth revealed by her smirk, the shape of which seems to suggest that she¡¯s got abnormally-sharp canines. Sharp enough to tear out my throat like I tore a hole in my soup dumpling, to drink of the warm juices inside.


    ¡°Relax, I¡¯m not gonna bite,¡± she says, as if she knows exactly what¡¯s on my mind.


    ¡°Not sure I¡¯d mind if you did,¡± I reply, without spending even a second to consider the words before they leave my lips. For a moment, I regret it, then her lips curl up into a predatory grin.


    ¡°Now you¡¯re talking my language. So, Commander Izanami, what is it you¡¯re up to?¡±


    ¡°Just making the rounds, checking up on my people. Most of ¡®em are in there, getting in some last-minute training.¡± I jerk my thumb towards the gymnasium. ¡°And you?¡±


    ¡°Ah, nothing much. Skipping out on Hark¡¯s debrief session. I¡¯ll get the memory off of somebody later.¡±


    Interesting. The Komodo Unit¡¯s commander doesn¡¯t seem like the type to tolerate that sort of thing, and I can¡¯t imagine she would hesitate to employ discipline to discourage it in the future.


    ¡°Bet she¡¯s thrilled about that.¡±


    ¡°What are you implying? That they wouldn¡¯t be devastated not to have someone as charming as me around?¡±


    Sc¨¢thatch places a hand over her heart, making an expression of mock sorrow at the thought.


    ¡°Maybe. But if you were there with them, you wouldn¡¯t be here with me, and that¡¯d be the greater tragedy.¡±


    My fairly shameless flirting makes her laugh, surprised.


    ¡°Can¡¯t argue with that.¡±


    ¡°I take it you¡¯re not a fan of Hark¡¯s management style, then?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± she replies bluntly. ¡°But don¡¯t go getting any ideas about turning me against her. It would really put a damper on things.¡±


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t dream of it,¡± I assure her, meaning it completely. There¡¯s zero chance we could pull the same trick on the Komodos that we¡¯re trying to pull on the Oxen. Hark runs too tight a ship for that.


    ¡°Good.¡± Sc¨¢thatch pauses, studying my face for a moment. ¡°You still haven¡¯t answered my question, you know. About whether you liked what you saw yesterday.¡±


    Again, my brain momentarily short-circuits, but luckily I¡¯m able to recover much faster this time.


    ¡°Absolutely. Some very sharp shooting on your part. And excellent timing with that hallway ambush. Casales¡¯ whole squad coulda been wiped out if not for you.¡±


    ¡°Well, it was Hark¡¯s plan,¡± she says dismissively. ¡°We¡¯re all just instruments of her will. Or at least that¡¯s the idea.¡±


    ¡°Every soldier has to sacrifice some autonomy, that¡¯s just the way it works. But there is an argument to be made for letting soldiers who show initiative make their own decisions when it counts.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never been great at following orders. They called my Founder the Ronin- masterless.¡±


    ¡°Explains the sword, I guess. And the revolver too.¡±


    She nods, pleased to see that I understand.


    ¡°Exactly. Samurai and gunslinger. The same archetype, mirrored on opposite sides of the world. He embodied both of them at once.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re following in his footsteps, naturally.¡±


    ¡°Naturally,¡± she echoes. ¡°What about you? Planning on going the same route as those who came before?¡±


    She¡¯s asking, essentially, if I plan on going crazy and killing a lot of people, or defecting to the Meritocracy, as many past Nobles in my line have done. A fair concern for somebody who doesn¡¯t know me.


    ¡°I¡¯m supposed to be unpredictable, aren¡¯t I? What do you think?¡±


    Sc¨¢thatch laughs again.


    ¡°Good answer.¡±


    Before either of us can speak again, the stall¡¯s proprietor puts a plate of dumplings down in front of her. She nods appreciatively and picks up her chopsticks. The message is clear- we¡¯ve spent enough time talking, let¡¯s eat.


    <hr>


    After a few minutes, Sc¨¢thatch departs without a word, leaving me a little bit disoriented. Though he doesn¡¯t say so outright, I can tell Sander doesn¡¯t like her, by the way the tension in his shoulders releases slightly after she¡¯s gone.


    I¡¯d be lying if I said that her whole persona wasn¡¯t appealing to me. Gotta be careful not to get drawn too far in, though. She¡¯s still the enemy. Leaving the stall after settling up with the proprietor, I try to put her, and that predatory grin of hers, out of my mind. It doesn¡¯t really work.


    Inside the gymnasium, Niko is overseeing the other members of the combat unit as they practice specific maneuvers- when I come in, they¡¯re running drills on how to disarm somebody in close quarters. As I watch, Colleen snaps her hand out, grasping the barrel of the gun in Mars¡¯ hand and shoving it to the side a second before it discharges. It¡¯s just a blank, but still dangerous in close quarters. Simultaneously, she uses her other hand to drive two fingers into his solar plexus, and his grip on the gun falters, allowing her to wrench it out of his grasp and turn it on him.


    ¡°Good. Very good,¡± Niko says approvingly. ¡°Take five, I¡¯m gonna talk to the boss.¡±


    Kat, Mars, Colleen, and Ibrahim all step out of their respective rings to grab their water bottles, towel off, or just sit down and catch their breath. Hopping off his little soapbox, Niko waves to me as I approach.


    ¡°What¡¯s up, Iza? You get bored of sitting on your ass and decide to go around checking up on everybody?¡±


    The incisive guess makes me laugh, surprised by how easily he was able to suss out my exact reason for being here.


    ¡°Pretty much, yeah. So how¡¯s it going?¡±


    Niko shrugs.


    ¡°S¡¯alright. Kat¡¯s¡­ struggling a bit, but she seems determined to keep up with everybody else.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s good to hear,¡± I reply, turning my gaze towards the woman in question, who¡¯s talking animatedly with Mars, who seems slightly bemused by her enthusiasm, but not exactly bothered by it. ¡°You think we¡¯re gonna be in good shape for tomorrow?¡±


    ¡°My people will be,¡± he answers without hesitation. ¡°Can¡¯t speak to the others. Or you, for that matter.¡±


    That makes me raise an eyebrow.


    ¡°Oh? You saying I¡¯m not ready for a fight?¡±


    ¡°Not exactly. But if you¡¯ve got nothing better to do, there¡¯s worse ways to kill some time than training. And I¡¯ve been so busy corralling these clowns that I haven¡¯t gotten a chance to go a round or two in the ring myself.¡±


    That sounds like a challenge. And I¡¯m not in the habit of backing down from those.


    ¡°Sure, you¡¯re on. I still owe you for putting me on my ass that one time.¡±


    Shrugging off my puffy golden jacket, which has a patch on the left breast featuring the insignia of the Imperial Pioneer Corps, I stretch, loosening up my muscles a bit. The stress inside my head has translated to a bit of tension in the rest of my body, but I¡¯m able to work most of that out quickly enough, while Niko goes through a similar routine, using some of the Inner Flame techniques he had us run through while we were training the other day.


    Once we¡¯re both prepared, we head for the nearest sparring ring. Once inside, Niko turns to the others assembled here, and pitches up his voice to make sure they can all hear him.


    ¡°Listen up, people! Iza and I are going to show you all how it¡¯s done!¡±


    Great. Now the pressure¡¯s on. I shoot a quick glance at Sander, hoping for a bit of emotional support or something, but he¡¯s as stony-faced as ever.


    Based on what I can remember from the last time I fought Niko, plus how I¡¯ve seen him fight against other people since then, he¡¯s going to be a tough opponent to take down. He fights like a wolf, going straight for the throat at the first opportunity. So I just have to make sure I don¡¯t give him that opportunity.


    ¡°Ready?¡± he asks, taking his position on the far side of the ring. I do the same, then nod.


    Not a moment later, he strikes like lightning, moving fast enough I can barely track him. Weaving from right to left like he¡¯s dancing through a hail of bullets, he draws a fist back, perfectly timed to connect with my face as he extends it. Only I¡¯m not there when he swings- I¡¯m a few inches to the right and smirking. Niko threw a ton of momentum and power into that strike, with the assumption that he¡¯d be able to slow himself down by transferring it into me via his fist. Instead, he goes careening into the ropes, and when he bounces back, I sweep out a leg to make sure he falls.


    He¡¯s too quick for me to get an attack of opportunity while he¡¯s on the ground- one swift roll later and he¡¯s back on his feet, looking none the worse for wear. But hey- at least he hasn¡¯t hit me yet.


    A probably-tasteless domestic abuse joke comes to mind, but before I can even gauge whether it would be too crass to say aloud, Niko¡¯s already moving in for another attack, this time more cautious than before. He still pushes my reflexes to the limit, as I struggle to guard against his flurry of blows, just barely managing to block or deflect them. Naturally, Niko doesn¡¯t let up, and he¡¯ll overwhelm me eventually, so I flick my tail out, dangerously close to his throat, though of course I¡¯ve got no intention of actually killing him. Still, he jerks back instinctively, giving me the opening I need to go on the offensive.


    One quick punch to the kidney on his left side softens him up, then I throw an overhand swing to jackhammer my fist into his face, hard enough to hurt, but not quite enough to break anything. Niko staggers back, but I press the advantage, knowing that he¡¯d do exactly the same if our positions were reversed.


    Exploiting the greater distance between us, I pivot on one heel to deliver two quick kicks to his ribs. The first one, he absorbs with a grunt, but the second he intercepts, yanking my leg to try and toss me to the ground. Instead, I roll with it, closing the gap between us while I wrench my ankle from his grip, then surging upwards once I¡¯m close enough and delivering a devastating uppercut.


    The blow doesn¡¯t hit with nearly enough force to knock him down again, since I¡¯m not trying to break his jaw, but it does clearly hurt quite a bit. As I hop back into a combat stance, he raises his arms in the universal declaration of surrender.


    ¡°Okay, okay. That¡¯s enough.¡± He laughs wearily, massaging his jaw, and turns to the rest of the combat unit, our audience. ¡°In case any of you were wondering, that¡¯s why she¡¯s the boss and I¡¯m not.¡±


    ¡°Is it also how you decide which one of you tops?¡± Mars calls out, provoking a lot of laughter, and at least one scandalized expression from Kat. She calms down a bit when she sees Niko and I are laughing too.


    ¡°No, that process is significantly bloodier,¡± I call back, to even more laughter.


    The two of us step out of the ring, and Niko tosses me a towel, while instructing the others to get back to their own training. We collapse onto a bench together, both exhausted, though at least in my case, actually feeling a bit better than before. Niko doesn¡¯t complain as I scoot closer to him and rest my head on his shoulder- a display of vulnerability and affection I¡¯d usually avoid making in front of my subordinates, but I figure I¡¯ve earned enough badass points by kicking Niko¡¯s ass that I can afford to.


    ¡°Nervous about tomorrow, huh?¡± he asks quietly. I don¡¯t bother asking how he can tell.


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t blame you, honestly. The other guys have been training just as hard, and they¡¯re probably starting from a better position than us. But I think we¡¯re gonna win anyway. You know why?¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± I ask, without moving my head from where it rests on his shoulder.


    ¡°Because we¡¯ve got you running the show. And that little twerp Tellis just can¡¯t compete.¡±


    There¡¯s a brief pause. In one of the sparring rings, Kat ducks a swing from Ibrahim and delivers a surprisingly vicious strike to his knee that makes it buckle. I tilt my head up slightly to look at Niko, who¡¯s now holding a small ice pack to the part of his jaw where I hit him.


    ¡°You know that¡¯s not making me any less nervous, right?¡±


    He laughs softly.


    ¡°Yeah. I know.¡±

 Chapter Twenty-One

    ¡°Wake up,¡± one of my copies tells me firmly. ¡°It¡¯s zone control.¡±


    Immediately, I¡¯m awake. Flailing around in a rather undignified manner, I kick the covers off and roll out of bed, taking a moment to steady myself before attempting to walk. Heading straight into the bathroom, my copy follows me, unperturbed as I peel off my clothes and step into the shower, hot water pouring immediately from the faucet.


    ¡°We have eyes on the field yet?¡±


    The construction of a Crucible arena for the War Games is under heavy security, to prevent anybody from getting an unfair advantage by seeing what it¡¯ll look like early. I didn¡¯t bother sending anybody to try and get in yesterday, figuring their time was better spent on other projects. But now that it¡¯s complete, and we know that it was designed for zone control, it¡¯s possible one of my intelligence agents will have been able to sneak a peek.


    ¡°Yeah. Take a look.¡±


    As I¡¯m letting the water soak through my hair, the other me, holographic body shimmering slightly in the stream, transmits an image to me over the brainband. It¡¯s a perfectly symmetrical design, that- unlike the map provided for the Peregrines and Komodos -appears to be entirely manmade, without any of the false appearance of nature that other arenas have provided. It¡¯s a testament to the skill of the Crucible construction team, and the power of their machinery, that they were able to make something that looks so real in just under a day.


    The arena seems to be designed to look like a city street, or rather two sets of streets on opposite sides of a divide. There¡¯s a vertical lane bisecting them, with ample cover provided on both sides by some buildings that look to have had their exteriors painted on entirely, concealing the fact that they¡¯re really just building-shaped barriers meant to prevent us from sniping each other from across the map.


    Both of the streets have identical alleyways stretching down to the south, which connect to a central courtyard at the very bottom of the map, at the endpoint of the dividing lane. There¡¯s very little cover there, meaning it would probably be smart to have somebody post up on one of the balconies overlooking it, ready to shoot anybody who emerges from the other side¡¯s alleyway.


    What really draws my attention from this aerial picture, however, is a pair of buildings on each side, mirroring each others¡¯ positions. Actual buildings, not empty facades, with multiple points of entrance- one from the courtyard, one from the alleyway behind, and one from a bridge above the street. Those buildings have got to be two of the three designated zones to control. The map was clearly designed so each team would easily be able to claim one of the buildings, by entering from the access points on their side, inevitably forcing us to fight over the third point.


    Having just woken up, I¡¯m not quite confident enough to guess where that third point is going to me. The courtyard seems like the obvious spot, but then again, both of the buildings have excellent vantage points from which to cover it, so either we¡¯d end up shooting at each other from cover, nobody stupid enough to rush the objective and get gunned down, or one of us would get their first, and that momentum would allow them to capture all three points in short order, an unsatisfyingly quick end to the match. That seems like the kind of thing the Citadel staff would be looking to avoid, considering how decisive the Peregrine-Komodo battle was.


    The other obvious spot is at the intersection between the two streets and the dividing lane, which can basically only be entered through a pair of narrow choke-points on either side. But, like with the hidden tunnel into the fortress from last time, I suspect there are probably some secret passages that would allow a clever commander to bypass the enemy¡¯s defenses and deliver a killing blow. Hopefully I¡¯m clever enough to figure it out in time.


    ¡°We discussed which plan to use,¡± my copy informs me, after I¡¯ve processed that information, and started to rub some lotion into my skin. ¡°Consensus was Codename: Threnody.¡±


    The codename triggers my recollection of which plan she¡¯s talking about. We made too many of them for me to commit them all to memory, so instead I saved the plans in the brainband, and set up a series of keywords to trigger me to recall the specifics. This one is a zone control strategy designed for a map with heavy cover, but a non-hazardous and stable environment, and a hybrid plan of attack that neither commits fully to offense nor defense. Exactly what I would have chosen- because I did choose to. Ten of me did, in fact.


    ¡°Got it. What about the others?¡±


    ¡°Most of ¡®em are still asleep. War Council is waiting for you downstairs, though. Well, Sofie¡¯s still getting dressed, I think, but she¡¯ll be ready by the time you¡¯re done.¡±


    Nodding, I squirt some conditioner into my palm and mush it into my hair, digging fingers into my scalp to make sure it really gets in there. Her work complete, my copy steps straight through the shower door and disappears, leaving me alone with my thoughts.


    Fifteen minutes later, I step out of the elevator into the lobby of the Hyperion Building, where my War Council awaits. That includes Ada, despite not being an official member, because her technological contributions to today¡¯s battle will require some preparation.


    ¡°You¡¯re looking serious, Izzy,¡± Sofie jokes. ¡°Is there something going on?¡±


    ¡°Very funny. Let¡¯s move out.¡±


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    The streets are empty when we arrive at the Crucible. It¡¯s too early for anybody to be out and about. I got a solid night of sleep, knowing I¡¯d have to be up as soon as the Crucible doors opened, but despite that, I can already feel that I¡¯m gonna have to crash later. Fortunately, I¡¯ve got some stimulant patches ready to make sure I don¡¯t collapse before the fight¡¯s over.


    My companions fall into formation around me as we walk, Niko and Sofie on either side, Grant and Ada on their left and right respectively, with Sander right behind me, like a shadow nearly twice my size. It¡¯s a shame there¡¯s nobody around to see it, really.


    A single Crucible staffer is waiting outside the side door when we get there, looking distinctly unimpressed by our whole power-formation thing.


    ¡°You¡¯re the Gazelle commander?¡± he asks disinterestedly.


    ¡°That¡¯s me.¡±


    ¡°Locker room¡¯s open,¡± he says, gesturing to the door beside him. ¡°We already brought in all the equipment you requisitioned.¡±


    ¡°With the modifications I specified?¡± Ada asks, a note of urgency in her voice. She spent quite a bit of time yesterday developing her radiation-targeting laser-sight thing, and it would be a shame if we didn¡¯t get to take advantage of her hard work because the armory people got lazy.


    ¡°Yup. You can go see for yourself.¡±


    Again, he nods towards the door, clearly done with the conversation. I grab the handle and hold the door open, allowing the rest of my people to head in before me.


    It¡¯s a pretty extensive facility, with enough lockers to accommodate more than twice as many people as comprise my unit. I guess they didn¡¯t want to find themselves lacking for space if there ever comes a time when significantly more Nobles than usual are in attendance here. We¡¯ve been in these facilities before, while using the Crucible for training exercises, but never had cause to use all of the amenities available. A large cart laden with weapons, ammunition, explosives, and other devices we requisitioned is sitting in the middle of the room, waiting to be unloaded. But before my people can get to work on that, I clear my throat.


    ¡°Just one thing. I¡¯m gonna share the game-plan with you all now, so you¡¯ve got a little extra time to go over it in your heads.¡±


    As I speak, I¡¯m transferring the contents of the strategy Kat and I devised called Threnody, which my copyclan concluded was the most appropriate for this particular battlefield configuration. The information transfer is immediate, but it takes a few seconds for everybody to process it. Once they do, I give them all a nod.


    ¡°You know what your jobs are. Get to it.¡±


    No sooner have I spoken does Ada head straight for the cart, pulling a rifle off the rack and examining the laser sight and scope carefully. Once satisfied that it was calibrated and installed correctly, she slots it back in place and moves on to the next one.


    Niko heads over to a wall-mounted console to bring up a three-dimensional holo-map of the battlefield, with significantly more detail that the memory-snapshot I received this morning. Toying with the controls, he rotates the projection, zooms in and out on different spots, and eventually pulls back for a distant overview, as Sofie and I walk over to examine it with him.


    While we¡¯re doing that, Grant heads over to begin unloading the items off the cart that Ada isn¡¯t examining, moving a single set of armor, several magazines, and various other pieces of equipment over to each locker, so that everybody will have theirs waiting for them when they arrive. Sander, after finishing his routine bug-sweep, joins him.


    ¡°You figure the second point¡¯s gonna be here?¡± Niko asks, gesturing to the southern courtyard. ¡°Or here?¡± He points to the northern intersection. No point in mentioning that the two buildings will be points one and three respectively, that much is obvious to all three of us.


    ¡°Probably the latter. Courtyard is too exposed for it to be properly defensible. We¡¯d end up just shooting at each other from here and here.¡± I point to the two balconies overlooking the courtyard from the sides of the buildings, and Niko nods, understanding.


    ¡°Makes sense,¡± Sofie says, but her eyes are elsewhere on the map.


    ¡°You seeing something?¡±


    ¡°Not sure yet. I¡¯ll have somebody check it out once we¡¯re in the field, won¡¯t take a minute.¡±


    No need for me to push her on it- if her hunch turns out to be worthwhile, she¡¯ll let me know, and if not, best I focus my attention elsewhere entirely.


    ¡°Guess we should have expected something like this,¡± Niko muses. ¡°Last match was so one-sided they had to tip the scales and it was still a blowout. But they¡¯re expecting this one to be a toss-up, so they give us a battlefield that¡¯s identical on both sides.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s your assessment?¡± I ask. ¡°This good for us, or not?¡±


    ¡°Neither,¡± my Combat Officer replies, without a trace of doubt. ¡°It¡¯s perfectly neutral. Meaning we win or lose on our own merits.¡±


    There¡¯s a long pause.


    ¡°Okay. I can work with that.¡±


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    Over the course of the next two hours or so, the rest of the unit trickles in. Most of them look well-rested and ready to fight. Those that don¡¯t, I pass a stim patch and tell them to slap it on before we hit the battlefield.


    Slowly, everybody equips themselves, donning Citadel-approved body armor, for the most part over our own clothes. Just about everybody had the presence of mind to wear something comfortable and ergonomic, but for those that didn¡¯t, there are some bodysuits provided in the locker room that they change into.


    After that comes their equipment. Everybody takes a rifle, and most people bring along at least one other gun, though for most it¡¯s a simple sidearm. Sander straps on his usual roomsweeper shotgun, Colleen opts for a compact SMG, and I take a case containing a collapsible sniper rifle too large for me to carry comfortably except contained like so. In addition, everybody takes three grenades to be strapped o their belts- two standard frags, and one containing Nikitha¡¯s latest creation, a potent psychoactive agent that should take effect quickly enough to incapacitate the enemy within seconds of coming into contact with it. Naturally, everybody gets a quick shot to inoculate their bodies to it, lest they end up incapacitating themselves as well.


    Along with several ordinary magazines, we pass out to everybody a single mag marked with a bright red stripe, containing Ada¡¯s specialized armor-piercing ammunition, calibrated to punch through the armor of the Oxen¡¯s juggernaut engineer, Heinonen. Then some goggles equipped with thermal imaging lenses, in case the enemy tries to use smoke against us. Red phosphorus smoke makes thermals useless, of course, but it¡¯s not exactly standard-issue. Besides that, I don¡¯t assign anything else, just let everybody take whatever they think might be useful, reminding them to be cognizant of the weight it¡¯ll add to their kit.


    However, there¡¯s a great deal more I think we might need, and my personal philosophy is that it¡¯s better to have something you don¡¯t need than to need something you don¡¯t have. So I pile up a bunch of stuff I think could be useful, stick it in a duffel bag, and ask Sander to bring it with us when we head out.


    Finally, the time comes for me to talk to everybody. Not that I¡¯ve been silent thus far in the preparations- quite the opposite, really. But that¡¯s hardly the same as what I¡¯m about to do.


    ¡°Look, you all know speeches aren¡¯t my strong suit,¡± I say, as the Gazelles assemble into a loose semicircle in front of me.


    ¡°That¡¯s for sure,¡± Bret ¡®quips¡¯ from somewhere in the crowd. Not a single person laughs. For a moment, I consider saying something cutting in response, but decide against it. Now¡¯s not the time for me to be petty, no matter how much I might want to.


    ¡°So I¡¯m not gonna belabor the point here. You all are the finest group of warriors I¡¯ve ever had the pleasure of serving with. Also, the only group, but that¡¯s beside the point.¡±


    A few snickers, but I think the seriousness with which I started this whole thing kinda killed the potential comedic effect that line might have had. Plus, Bret¡¯s ill-fated attempt at humor can¡¯t have helped.


    ¡°We¡¯ve got what it takes to win this, but don¡¯t fool yourself into believing it¡¯s a done deal. You know all the cliches by now- believe in yourself, trust your instincts, blah blah. So I¡¯ll tell you all something you might not have heard before. Be unpredictable.¡±


    That elicits a few nods, and a couple confused looks.


    ¡°Not saying you need to try and get tricky with your shooting, or whatever. But if you¡¯re planning on hiding, don¡¯t pick the obvious spot, because what¡¯s obvious to you is probably gonna be obvious to them, too. Assume the enemy has a brain, and that they¡¯re at least as good as you at using it.¡±


    Trying to model somebody who¡¯s significantly smarter than you is usually not worthwhile, because you can¡¯t actually imagine yourself into superior competency. Besides, raw intelligence isn¡¯t usually what¡¯s important in this context, it¡¯s experience and instinct, which are even more difficult to model if you lack them. So if you¡¯re facing somebody you know is actually much more experienced than you, you¡¯re probably screwed. That¡¯s not the case with me today, thankfully, but I¡¯m sure I¡¯ll have to go up against people who have decades or more of practical experience on me. And if I want to see my plans through, I¡¯ll have to beat them. Tellis is just a warm-up.


    ¡°With that said, let¡¯s talk strategy.¡±


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    Not too long after, an announcement comes over the brainband, informing us that we¡¯ve got fifteen minutes until the doors to the arena open. Immediately, everybody falls silent, and looks to me. Which isn¡¯t much of a change, because they were already mostly silent and mostly looking at me, while I explained our plan for this exercise.


    Obviously, I shared the details with them via the brainband, but having some of the finer points laid out more clearly was- hopefully -illuminating, for the less tactically-inclined members of the unit. What matters is that they all know their roles, and I¡¯m fairly confident that¡¯s the case. If anybody¡¯s still confused, they¡¯ll just have to figure it out once we¡¯re on the field, because there¡¯s no more time for talking.


    The last few minutes are gone before I know it, and before our eyes, the doors to the Crucible open, allowing us to enter, and exposing us to the eyes of the world.


    It¡¯s impossible not to think about, of course. As soon as I pass through the door, tens of thousands of people- maybe more -are watching me from across the Imperium. My family, of course, is among them, but I¡¯m more concerned about everybody else. The last Noble in my line was a virtual nonentity, not even commanding his own unit, nor surviving past the first six months of his time at the Citadel. As such, my presence here is somewhat noteworthy. Just about everybody watching- everybody whose opinion matters, at least -will already have an idea of how they¡¯re expecting me to act. And I¡¯d be lying if I said I wasn¡¯t a little bit worried about whether I¡¯ll be able to meet those expectations.


    A moment later, though, I feel a cold clarity come over me. Not the effects of Midnight, though I¡¯m prepared to use that when necessary, but a more natural substitute. This battlefield is where I belong, and there¡¯s no place for distractions here.


    We enter straight into the lane on our side of the battlefield, about two hundred yards in length, with the narrow archway leading into the central control point visible at the far end. Between there and here are several stacks of metal crates, fastened together with straps, to act as cover, so that they can¡¯t gun us down from all the way over there, and vice versa.


    Directly above us, at the very back of the lane, is a raised walkway, leading into the building on our right, where ¡®our¡¯ control point is located. We know those locations for sure, now- they appeared on our map a few minutes before the doors opened, exactly where I thought they¡¯d be. On the left side, hidden behind a thick wall, is a flight of stairs leading up to the walkway, which is where I head.


    Not everybody follows me. In keeping with the plan, Niko leads the combat team straight down the lane, not charging for the control point, but setting up behind cover and preparing for an eventual push forward. A few of them, carrying proximity charges and trip-mines, set up traps all down the lane, but not very many of them. We¡¯ve got a limited supply, and they¡¯re better placed elsewhere, for the most part.


    Those who do follow me up the stairs, mostly continue along as I cross that walkway and head into the building. Amalia, however, hops onto a balcony on the left-hand building, and heads towards the center point, in accordance with my instructions. She¡¯s our scout, and I need eyes on that point, so I¡¯ll know whether or not to send my people in.


    Once I¡¯m inside the building, accompanied by the rest of the intel team, and Ada¡¯s tech people, I take stock of my surroundings. It¡¯s actually a reasonably large building, bigger than it looked on the map, with a ground-floor area that¡¯s got a few more of those stacks of crates to provide cover, as well as the most important item, the zone beacon. It¡¯s a stout, wide cylindrical device with four crab-like legs hooked into the ground, meaning it can¡¯t be removed, and a holographic readout displayed from the top, currently sitting at 0%. There¡¯s a hand-scanner on the side, and as soon as I see the device, I drop down from the upper level to put my palm against it.


    Immediately, the display ticks up to 1%, and swiftly begins increasing from there. As long as one member of our unit is in proximity of the device, it¡¯ll continue increasing until it hits 100%, at which point we¡¯ll be considered to have captured the point. The enemy will be able to capture it even after we¡¯ve done that, and the match won¡¯t end even if we or they capture all the points- so long as at least one member of each unit is alive, the match will continue until time runs out, at which point the victor will be calculated based on who controlled the most zones for the longest amount of time.


    While I activate the device, my team disperses through the building, securing entrances with traps and hiding cameras in corners, which we¡¯ll be able to patch into directly via the brainband. Those mainly go outside of the building, giving us good angles on any potential approaching enemies. Heading back up the stairs to the ¡®upper floor,¡¯ which is really just a wide ledge that overlooks the ground floor of the building, I open up the duffel bag Sander was carrying, and signal Valent over, once he¡¯s set up all his trip-mines around the lower doors.


    ¡°Stuff¡¯s in here. You know what to do.¡±


    He nods, and grabs the satchel I point to, taking it and slipping out through the east-side door of the building, which leads into the alleyway on the right side. He¡¯ll be taking that directly to the enemy¡¯s side of the map, through the courtyard, and towards their building, positioned and presumably designed exactly like ours.


    ¡®malia, what¡¯s the word?


    Nothing yet, the scout replies. I¡¯ll keep you posted.


    Sending a pulse of wordless acknowledgement, I put down the case containing my sniper rifle, crack it open, and begin rapidly assembling the powerful weapon, the precise motions not the result of practice, but of information downloaded into my short-term memory from the brainband. If I intended to use this more frequently, I¡¯d have taken the time to learn it the hard way, but I¡¯m not sure if I want to make it a regular part of my kit or not. This is more of a trial run- perhaps dangerous to be doing in the middle of the War Games, but proper combat lets you learn things that you simply can¡¯t during training.


    Once I¡¯ve put the rifle together, and slotted a magazine in, I hoist it up over my shoulders in a fireman carry, and head out towards the other upper-level exit to the building. Not the one that leads to the walkway overlooking the lane, but the one that connects to a balcony facing the courtyard.


    Passing through a small alcove area on my way, I emerge back into daylight, aware that the camera may just have shifted to me, depending on whether they¡¯ve got camera feeds inside of the buildings or not. I did consider having some kind of holo-banner to activate once we entered the arena, but ultimately, there didn¡¯t seem to be anything worth saying that would justify such a crass stunt. Unpredictability is one thing, but being random for random¡¯s sake veers more into Bret territory, which is somewhere I¡¯d much rather avoid.


    As soon as I peer down the rifle¡¯s scope, the feeling of all those eyes on me disappears. With magnification at minimum, I scan the courtyard, less looking for enemies and more getting a sense of the terrain. When I look up, however, it¡¯s to see a small, keyhole view into the enemy¡¯s building, straight through the same doorway that I just walked out of, in our building. The lighting is poor, but the rifle¡¯s scope can pick up heat signatures, and I see flashes of movement- too far away for me to hit anybody, and firing would only give me away. Instead, I just watch.


    By the look of things- and admittedly, I¡¯m not seeing very much -members of the Ox Unit appear to be having some sort of argument. Without a remote mic, I can¡¯t hear anything, but I see somebody walk past the doorway and throw their hands up in frustration. The thermal silhouette is blurry, and I¡¯m probably just seeing what I want to see, but based on their gait, it looks like it might be Tellis. Which means, if I¡¯m right, that our little psyop plan worked. At least one person seems to be refusing outright to cooperate in whatever his plan for this battle is, and if we¡¯re lucky, that could be enough to turn the odds in our favor. Or, if not, at least provide us with a bit of an edge.


    While I¡¯m watching, though, I see somebody start to head through the doorway, towards me, and hurriedly flip down the cap on my scope, to prevent the glint of the sun off its reflective lens from giving me away. Not that I¡¯m exactly hidden, here, crouched on an exposed balcony. Whoever it is, they¡¯re probably just looking to get the lay of the land, but if they see me, I¡¯m sure they won¡¯t be able to resist taking a shot at the enemy commander. And, clever as I might be, there¡¯s really nothing preventing a lucky shot from taking me out before the battle has really even started. So I grab the rifle by its center, and hurry back inside the building before they spot me.


    Thankfully, the traps my team set up are calibrated only to activate when they detect someone who isn¡¯t a member of our unit, else I¡¯d have tripped several of them just on my way back in. When I get in, though, most of the other Gazelles are already gone. Several of them are going to be playing defense, helping keep this point secure, while others are going to scope out the enemy base. Sofie, however, has struck out on her own, intending to run down her hunch from earlier, which I suspect involves some of the secret passages we¡¯re assuming must exist around this battlefield. Finding them will be harder without tech like what Hark¡¯s unit used, but if anybody among my Gazelles can do it, I¡¯m sure it¡¯s her.


    Accessing my tactical suite, I cycle rapidly through several different perspectives. Ada is in the back corner at the end of our alleyway, ready to gun down anybody she spots trying to sneak into our base, with a gravity snare positioned to trap them so she won¡¯t have to worry about hitting a moving target, something she¡¯s struggled with in training before. Kat, her heartbeat slightly erratic, is on our side of a narrow passageway at the north side of the courtyard, beneath where the middle control point is located, which provides a perfect avenue for crossing the divide between their side and ours, and infiltrating our base from the front-facing side, without having to cross the highly exposed courtyard. There beside her is Grant, providing both fire support, and a calming presence, which I suspect is the main reason why she hasn¡¯t worked herself up into a panic attack yet.


    Movement, Amalia informs me, voice sharp, and I snap to her perspective immediately. She¡¯s looking through binoculars at the enemy¡¯s lane, from a vantage point above our own, which gives her a narrow angle on the other side through a gap in the barrier to the control point.


    Through that gap, she- and I through her -sees an enemy force, moving fast. A quick headcount gives me five, and though I can¡¯t immediately identify four of them, I know who they are. All the members of the Ox Unit¡¯s combat team, save for Fabian Vasile and Hudson, who must have refused to participate in this frontal assault because of the fabricated tape we ¡®leaked¡¯ to them. The fifth is easily, immediately identifiable by her cherry-read armor, which unlike what the others wear, covers her entire body, because it¡¯s quite literally attached. Emilia Heinonen. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    I run a cost-benefit calculus in my head, but it¡¯s a quick one. They¡¯re making a play for the central control point, ownership of which will likely determine the outcome of this entire fight. If we let them take it now, it¡¯ll only become harder to wrest from them. Our best bet is to meet them head-on and hope that we can win. Losing Hudson and Vasile hurts them somewhat, but clearly not enough to call the whole attack off. Still, I don¡¯t really see any option except to meet them in kind.


    Niko. Go for it.


    As I transmit that order- on the public channel, so everybody knows what¡¯s going on -Amalia asks me permission to do something, not with words, but rather by simply sending me the image of what she wants to do, with the mental equivalent of a question mark attached. I reply with immediate confirmation.


    Still watching from her perspective, I see her put the binoculars down, pull one of Nikitha¡¯s psychoactive grenades from her belt, and lob it through the gap she was peering through, to land directly in the center of the control point. It detonates just as the Oxen are entering, and appears to hit at least one of them head-on, though it¡¯s not easy to see through the haze of iridescent, multicolored gas. Through the indistinct shouting, I hear an order to pull back, and it seems as though the rest of them are able to escape the brunt of the effects.


    Inoculated from the drug¡¯s effects, Niko¡¯s team moves in, and doesn¡¯t hesitate to fire on the unfortunate Ox who got hit with the full force of the drug. Being shot to death while tripping balls has to be an intensely weird experience, and I almost regret that his last moments won¡¯t be recorded by the brainband, because- trauma aside -it would probably be a fascinating memory.


    I swap to Niko¡¯s perspective just in time to see him slap his hand to the beacon, activating it, and beginning the countdown to our total control of the zone. Which reminds me- I drop his perspective for a second, and glance at the counter in our main zone. It¡¯s already in the seventies and swiftly climbing.


    A lot can happen on the battlefield in a few moments, as I¡¯m reminded the moment I switch back to Niko¡¯s point of view. The gas cloud is already almost entirely dispersed, and the Oxen are shooting their way into the control point. Naturally, my people are shooting back, but the strange thing is, their bullets don¡¯t seem to be nearly as effective. None of them had time to swap in armor-piercing rounds, so their ordinary bullets are barely scratching Heinonen¡¯s smooth metal chassis, but even the ones that hit the other Oxen and penetrate their weaker body armor seem to barely register.


    As I watch, Colleen sprays a larger Ox, who I think might be Chen Lu, with a hail of bullets from her SMG. Several of them clearly hit weak points in his armor and go through, but he doesn¡¯t even flinch, just rushes her, ramming the blade attached to his rifle straight through her gut, then pulling the trigger, nearly cutting her in half with the resulting discharge.


    ¡°Fall back!¡± Niko shouts. Out loud, not over the brainband- a deliberate choice, to make sure the Oxen hear him. They won¡¯t follow my people as we retreat, not because of honor or anything like that, but because they know we¡¯ve got to have our lane well-defended with traps, and pursuit would mean incurring needless losses, when they could instead fortify their position around the control point.


    Indeed, that¡¯s what they immediately begin to do, as my Gazelles flee from the point, leaving behind not one but two bodies. The other must have fallen elsewhere during the skirmish- judging by the number of gas grenades on her belt, it seems to have been Nikitha. Unfortunate, but better to have lost her than one of our heavy hitters.


    What the fuck was that? Ibrahim asks the unit at large, as he limps back behind cover, bleeding from a gunshot wound to the leg. He¡¯s close enough to where Kat and Grant are stationed that I decide to send the latter a silent order to go see to Ibrahim¡¯s wounds, leaving the former alone for the time being. She¡¯ll be fine- the Oxen don¡¯t have enough people available for a second frontal assault right now.


    I don¡¯t know, I answer honestly. Not the kind of thing you want to hear your commander saying under any circumstances, but it¡¯s the truth. Seemed like they weren¡¯t feeling any pain at all. And I don¡¯t think they would have all shelled out for pain-editing bioware. Definitely not without us hearing about it.


    Surprisingly, it¡¯s Sofie who pipes up, as the remains of the combat team tend to their wounded and head back down the lane, towards our building, to regroup. Niko must be directing them on a private channel, so as not to clog the main line while we work to figure out what the Oxen are up to.


    MacKenzie. Thea MacKenzie. One of their techies. They don¡¯t seem to have a designated officer for that group, since it¡¯s basically just her and Heinonen. Her specialty is drugs. Combat drugs, I mean. Could be that she whipped up a top-shelf painkiller, maybe with some other effects thrown in, so that they¡¯d be able to take whatever we could dish out.


    Makes sense, Mars concurs. They seemed¡­ unusually aggressive, too. Not enough that they acted stupid, just enough to give them a boost.


    Sounds like the most likely explanation. The upshot is, you all probably hurt them pretty badly back there, even if it didn¡¯t seem like it. Couple of them could keel over in a minute or two, after their brain realizes their body is dying. Downside, we¡¯re not gonna be able to take the point head-on with them juiced up like that, even if some of them do die. Tellis will already be sending in reinforcements to secure it as we speak.


    Silence reigns for a few moments after that. Back to using my own eyes, I pace back and forth inside of our building, alone save for Sander, who remains stoic and still.


    Okay, so what¡¯s the plan? Bret asks, despite not having moved from his position ¡®guarding¡¯ the lower level of the building. He¡¯s really more there to serve as a canary in the coal mine, alerting me to the enemy¡¯s presence via his death.


    If he¡¯s reinforcing the central point, it means their building is undefended right now. Niko, bring your team back in here, take a few minutes to patch up anybody who needs it, then get ready to mobilize for a stealth strike on their base from the alleyway.


    That seems to garner some enthusiasm. Slowly, the remaining members of the combat team pick themselves up and begin to head towards our building, while I continue to pace. My mind drifts to the commentators who, even now, must be discussing the events of this battle. Baxter Bryant, brimming with excitement over every victory and defeat. Arno Van Horn, dripping with contempt over every member of my unit, for their ignoble backgrounds or the disreputable line from which they come.


    Upon thinking about that, I find myself growing more motivated to win this fight. Not that I was particularly lacking in motivation before, but that was of the cold, calculating kind, not the burning-hot desire to prove wrong everybody who thinks I can¡¯t succeed, shouldn¡¯t succeed, because of where I come from. Who thinks that they¡¯re better, or more important, than my parents, because they have some prestigious academic title, rather than being an ordinary farmer.


    My righteous anger is interrupted by Ada¡¯s urgent call from over the brainband.


    I got someone! I got¡ª


    The transmission cuts off abruptly, in the way that can only happen under one condition- if the person talking dies mid-sentence. Dropping my rifle, I run for the door leading to the small balcony overlooking the alleyway where Ada was stationed. As I run, I slide my combat knife out of its sheath, flipping the blade in my hand to point downwards.


    Two things jump out at me as I look down onto the alleyway. First, Ada¡¯s corpse, blood and brains splattered across the floor of the arena. Second, her killer, still trapped in her gravity snare, holding a rifle with smoke still streaming from the barrel. He hasn¡¯t noticed me, but my footsteps weren¡¯t exactly silent as I tore through the hall connecting our building to this balcony. I¡¯ve got seconds before Hudson swivels that gun up and shoots me too. So I vault over the railing and land directly atop him.


    With the help of the gravity snare, I tackle him to the ground, knocking the gun from his hands, and pinning one arm with my free hand, the other with my knee, as I plant a foot on his chest. He struggles, but the mine means he can barely lift his head off the ground, much less get out from underneath me. And before he can even make much of an effort, I jam my knife straight into his throat, and twist it to the side, blood spraying out as I sever the artery.


    In his death throes, Hudson spasms violently, nearly dislodging me despite the gravity mine, but it doesn¡¯t take long before those spasms turn to twitches, which then turns to nothing as the life drains from his body. Rationally, we might know that dying is only temporary, but the animal in all of us is still terrified of it, and that part of the brain tends to take over in a situation like this.


    My guess is that being asked to take MacKenzie¡¯s combat drug was the final straw for Hudson, after the recording we sent him, and he decided to strike out on his own instead of joining the charge. Unfortunately, he was able to take out one of my people in the process, but I think it was a worthwhile trade-off, considering his death has weakened the Oxen significantly more than losing Ada weakened us. That might be harsh, but it¡¯s a simple fact. Her contribution to the battle was already made, for the most part, with her tech. Having her on the field or not isn¡¯t gonna make much of a difference.


    Only after the gravity mine shuts off, battery exhausted, do I stand, wiping blood off my helmet¡¯s visor. Suddenly aware that Hudson might not have come alone, I glance around for any sign of a second attacker, but find nothing. A moment later, I realize that Sander appeared behind me at some point, having dropped everything to follow me the moment I took off running. Good thing, too, because if there was someone else, they¡¯d have had a solid window to shoot me- were it not for Sander covering my back.


    Ada¡¯s down, I inform everybody, as I head back inside the building, wiping off the blade of my knife. Tai, I need you to cover the alleyway.


    It¡¯s pretty unlikely there¡¯ll be another attack there- Hudson seems to have been on an unauthorized solo mission -but I would be remiss not to plan for the possibility regardless. Besides, Tai isn¡¯t doing much holed up inside of the building watching the cameras, which failed to see Hudson coming, so he may as well take up that post. And if crouching next to the corpse of his friend and colleague bothers him, it¡¯ll be an incentive to position his cameras somewhere with fewer blind spots next time.


    When I return to the main room of our building, I see the combat unit gathered, those who were injured being tended to. My bloodsoaked armor draws their eyes, and I get a few approving nods from some of them. Our beacon now shows a nice, round 100%, meaning we officially control this zone. That means the Oxen control their corresponding one, while they can¡¯t be much more than fifty percent to controlling the central zone. Still, they¡¯re likely to have control of it for a decent chunk of time before my plan is complete and we¡¯re ready to move on it again.


    ¡°How soon til you can move out?¡± I ask Niko, removing my helmet for a moment to catch my breath.


    ¡°Two, three minutes. Most of us aren¡¯t hurt too bad.¡±


    The exception appears to be Ibrahim, but he looks determined not to let the tourniquet on his leg slow him down too much, judging by the way he grips his rifle, and the defiant look in his eyes when he meets mine.


    ¡°Good. Tell me when you get going, I¡¯ll cover you from the balcony.¡±


    Niko nods gratefully, and I head back up the stairs, opening a channel to Sofie.


    Any progress?


    Yeah. There¡¯s this little alcove set up to look like a market on the left side of our lane, towards the entrance to the control point. Found a hidden door that leads to a narrow passage, which looks like it lets out at the very top of the map. Long story short, it¡¯s got a perfect angle on the point. Probably not gonna fit more than two people through, though- the rest will have to go in the normal way.


    Got it. Thanks. Send me the exact location and head back, I need you here.


    Need me, huh? Sofie responds playfully, but she cuts the connection before I can respond. This isn¡¯t the time for flirting, much as I might like it to be.


    While the combat team is gearing up for their mission, I pick my rifle back up and fiddle with the scope idly, waiting for them to be ready. In addition to the thermal filter, it¡¯s got Ada¡¯s radiation scanner built in, which I suspect should come in handy in the near future, as Niko¡¯s team painted most of the enemy¡¯s combat unit with their own rifles before they fled. So, should I feel the need, I¡¯ll be able to see them through walls over a reasonably long distance, although this rifle isn¡¯t quite powerful enough to shoot them through those walls, unless the Crucible team used much shoddier construction materials than usual.


    Before I can ponder that much further, though, I get another frantic transmission from one of my subordinates- Kat¡¯s panicked voice is unmistakable.


    Um, I can see somebody coming down the hallway¡­ they¡¯re getting closer¡­


    What¡¯s he look like? I ask sharply. It¡¯s not Kat who responds but Grant, who maintains his composure as he describes the oncoming enemy.


    Lighting¡¯s not great, so I didn¡¯t see much, and he¡¯s wearing armor, but he was definitely carrying two guns. SMGs, looked like.


    Definitely Vasile, then. He¡¯s been trying to make the dual SMGs his ¡®thing¡¯ for weeks now- highly embarrassing.


    Okay. We can¡¯t get anybody over there in time, so you two are gonna have to take him out on your own. Follow my instructions carefully and you¡¯ll be fine.


    Both of them send me wordless pulses of confirmation, Kat¡¯s a little less confident.


    First off, one of you needs to paint him with your targeting laser. It¡¯s invisible, he won¡¯t notice. Then, toss one of Nikitha¡¯s ¡®nades. It¡¯ll disorient him. After that, you can use the scopes to ID him in the gas, and take him down. Got it?


    Got it, Grant replies firmly, before Kat has a chance to protest.


    Good. Report back when it¡¯s done.


    It¡¯s not inconceivable that Vasile could shoot his way out of an ambush like that, but not without getting hit at least once, and combined with the effects of Nikitha¡¯s drug, he¡¯ll likely be no threat even if he does make it past Grant and Kat. If he¡¯s smart, he¡¯d limp back to base, but if he decided to push on, he¡¯d probably run afoul of one of the traps positioned around the entrances to our building, and blow himself up.


    None of that is especially likely, though. I have faith that Kat and Grant will be able to take him out, considering how many advantages they have- numbers, equipment, and the element of surprise. For now, I put that all out of my mind, rest the rifle on my shoulder, and head back out to the balcony overlooking the courtyard.


    As I do so, Niko and his team gets moving as well. Surprisingly, Ibrahim takes the lead, despite- or perhaps because of -his injury. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. He knows he¡¯s a liability in his current state, so he volunteered to be the first person to get shot, so as to prevent anybody else from becoming incapacitated before him. Having to follow behind someone with a limp will slow them down, but that might actually be a good thing, since the idea is for them to enter unnoticed.


    It¡¯s only after they¡¯ve passed through the alley, past Tai, past the bodies of Ada and Hudson, that they slow down and keep low, using the minimal cover available to keep out of sight as they advance through the courtyard. Nobody¡¯s watching on the other side right now- their attention is most likely focused on the central point, assuming we¡¯re planning to mount an attack to recapture it, rather than striking at their well-defended home base. However, that assumption is about to be challenged.


    Um, we got him, Kat informs me nervously, without any of the pride you might expect to hear from someone who just took down an enemy soldier.


    Great work. Stay put for now.


    Gazing down the scope of my rifle, I turn my attention to the keyhole viewport through which I can see into the enemy¡¯s building. Switching to thermals, I see one large, stout signature pop up, belonging to somebody who clearly doesn¡¯t belong on the battlefield. Though I can¡¯t be certain, seeing only a vague outline, I feel fairly confident in guessing that it¡¯s Sovann Keo, a member of the Oxen with virtually no useful skills in terms of what we do here at the Citadel.


    Keo¡¯s Founder was the Imperium¡¯s first Education Secretary, an important figure whose basic curriculum is still in use to this day, albeit with some significant modifications to accommodate for the times we now live in. However, he¡¯s among a relatively small group of Founders who had no role of note in the War of Conquest whatsoever, and therefore no useful skills to pass down in that field. So I almost feel bad for lining Keo¡¯s head up in my sights, and blowing his brains out.


    The gunshot rings out with an unmistakable crack, and I see the stout body crumple, suddenly headless. Several members of Niko¡¯s team look around, startled, assuming the shot came from the other side. Moments later, someone comes running down the hallway to the balcony on the other side of the courtyard- one of the Oxen, a woman, who glances around wildly. She¡¯s not wearing her helmet, which is rather foolish considering I just shot somebody¡¯s head off, but based on her expression, she¡¯s in shock, not thinking straight. I recognize her as Lauren, the Ox Unit¡¯s analyst.


    As Lauren scans the courtyard frantically, the first thing she sees is me, smirking as smoke pours from my rifle¡¯s barrel. The second thing she sees is Ibrahim, halfway between two cover points, moving slowly thanks to his limp. As soon as he realizes he¡¯s been spotted, he turns and points his rifle at her, letting loose a spray of bullets, most of which are absorbed by the balcony, the rest of which go wild. Hardly his fault- he was in a bad position, and she was some distance away. but it galvanizes the rest of the team, all of whom follow suit, a moment too late to hit her as she turns to flee back into the building, but early enough that she knows they¡¯re all there.


    Shit! They made us! What the hell did you do that for? Mars asks of me, incensed. He¡¯s got every right to be. I did just deliberately give them away, after all.


    Part of the plan, I reply coolly. Just keep moving, you¡¯ll understand soon.


    Though they don¡¯t exactly seem thrilled, the team does as I instruct, continuing hastily through the courtyard and into the alleyway on the other side, now unconcerned about being spotted.


    As my Gazelles do that, the Ox combat team is in motion as well. I can see them through my scope, a cluster of distant radiation signatures, only distinct enough to be visible because they¡¯re all bunched together, hurrying across the battlefield to return to their unit¡¯s home base. As soon as she saw that we had our people sneaking towards their building, Lauren must have alerted Tellis, who then ordered his people to return and defend the point. Exactly as I expected they would.


    Um, Kat says, I just saw a bunch of people run past on the other end of the hall¡­ should we have tried to stop them?


    Nah, don¡¯t worry about it, I answer, unable to keep some amusement out of my tone, even over the brainband. The rifle¡¯s weight in my hands feels solid, balanced. It feels right. I feel right, as the satisfying rush of putting a plan into motion runs through my veins.


    It takes a long several seconds for the Ox team to get back to their base, and I actually have to send Niko¡¯s team a wordless message to slow down, lest they get closer to the building than they actually need to be for this to work. If they get spotted actually retreating, it¡¯ll fuck the whole thing up, but I don¡¯t want them inside either.


    Finally, I see the radiation signatures of the combat team- now close enough that I can count four of them -enter the building where the control point is located. A grin creeps across my face, as I open a brainband channel to Valent.


    Bring the house down.


    Four seconds later, the entire building collapses.


    The Crucible construction team is a talented group, there¡¯s no doubt about that. They set this whole arena up in just one day. And the tech they use to make that possible is certainly impressive. But it¡¯s just not possible to pull something like that off without cutting a few corners. And the obvious spot to do that is in the buildings themselves, because it takes far too long to establish solid foundations for even a relatively small building. The kind of foundations you¡¯d need, say, to prevent a couple of shaped charges, positioned in the exact right spots, from bringing the entire thing down.


    When I told Valent about the plan- and only him, because I love me a good reveal -all he said was that he could pull it off. No details, no elaboration, just total confidence. His Noble line¡¯s title is Conjuror, because he makes magic happen. And right now, I¡¯m more than happy not to question how he does it.


    In an instant, all four of those radiation signatures go dark, bodies buried under several tons of concrete and metal. The building itself was well-constructed, but if you build something on a bad foundation, it¡¯s bound to fall apart on you. There¡¯s a metaphor in there somewhere, but right now I¡¯m too high on my own success to draw it out properly.


    Though my plan might have worked, it doesn¡¯t mean we¡¯re guaranteed to win. The Ox Unit¡¯s primary control beacon is still active, even buried under all that rubble, and now we¡¯ve got no way of claiming it. Now everything hinges on us being able to capture the central beacon and hold it for longer than they have. But with their forces largely wiped out, and their leadership eliminated as well, I¡¯d say our odds are pretty good.


    All of you, double-time it to the central point, now, I order the combat team, shouldering the rifle and standing up to head back into the building. Grant, Kat, I want you to take Sofie¡¯s secret passage and sneak around to flank them. She¡¯ll give you the coordinAAAHFUCK¡ª


    The connection ends automatically, as it¡¯s programmed to do when one party loses control of their ability to regulate the transfer, so as to avoid someone screaming in pain over the brainband, in shock and unable to stop, psychically deafening everybody they were connected to. And that¡¯s most definitely the state I¡¯m in right now, as a knife from out of nowhere slides between my ribs.


    A second later, the cold, sharp pain becomes almost an afterthought, as an unfathomably loud screech begins emitting from the handle of the very knife stuck in me. I feel my eardrums burst, and my entire world goes white, pure pain lighting up every nerve ending. The rifle clatters from my hands, and I drop to my knees. Hands flying to my ears as I scream inaudibly, drowned out entirely by the sonic assault.


    Distantly, already in shock, I feel the knife slide back out of me, in preparation for a killing blow. Digging my nails into my palm, I force my eyes open, unwilling to face death blind. Looking up, I see the cold black eyes of Anand, the assassination specialist. There¡¯s none of the warmth or friendliness from when we met the other day in her expression, just determination to get the job done. It might be too late- Tellis and the majority of her unit¡¯s best fighters are dead. But she can still cut the head off of the snake- or the Gazelle, as the case may be.


    Stupid as it sounds, that ¡®joke¡¯ clears my head just slightly, and as she draws the knife back to cut my throat, I jam the tip of my tail into her gut, as deep as it will go. Anand gasps with pain, but her grip on the knife doesn¡¯t falter, and I resign myself to failure, feeling just a bit better for having fought back before the end.


    With the force of a freight train, Sander charges into the assassin, shoulder-checking her straight into the wall of the narrow corridor. Hefting his shotgun, he blows a massive hole through her chest, spraying the wall with blood and viscera. Then, showing no signs of discomfort despite the ear-splitting noise, he grabs the knife out of her hand and crushes the handle in one massive fist, mercifully ending the sonic assault.


    If he says anything, I don¡¯t hear it. My eyes close, and I feel him lifting me up. As an afterthought before I black out completely, I yank the tip of my tail out of Anand¡¯s gut, and let darkness take me.


    Unfortunately, my respite lasts about a minute before the pain returns, and awareness with it. When I open my eyes, Sander and Sofie are peering down at me, looking concerned. or at least Sofie is. Sander looks as impassive as ever, as he applies healing gel to my chest wound.


    Don¡¯t try to move, Sofie tells me, not bothering to speak out loud, since I wouldn¡¯t be able to hear a word of it.


    Did she get anybody else? I ask weakly


    Just Bret.


    Good.


    We share a chuckle at that, but I do so out loud, too delirious from the pain to stop myself, and the process makes the pain flare up, causing me to wince and close my eyes. Sofie places a hand on my cheek, and in the back of my head, alarm bells go off, as I realize there could be cameras in here- the entire Imperium could be watching this. But I¡¯m in too much pain to protest, so I let her caress me gently and hope that my line¡¯s reputation as fearsome and deadly isn¡¯t going straight down the drain.


    Thinking about that brings my mind back to the plan to take the enemy¡¯s base down, and then to the attack, at which point I abruptly realize it must be commencing while I lie here. Filled with a sudden sense of anxiety, I try to sit up, and pain wracks my body again, forcing me to lie back down, cursing my own weakness. I¡¯m supposed to be better than this, aren¡¯t I? What good am I as a leader if I can get laid out by a single stab wound and some burst eardrums?


    For a moment, I consider activating my Midnight implant, so that it might dull the pain, but I dismiss the idea. There¡¯s not much I could do to impact the outcome of the fight either way right now, so all the drug would accomplish is burying the tender feeling of being in Sofie¡¯s arms.


    The attack, I ask eventually. Is it¡ª


    Going fine, Sofie assures me. Just rest.


    Instead of heeding her advice, I close my eyes and access the tactical suite. Nobody seems to have died since I last checked, which seems like a good sign, so I access Mars¡¯ feed.


    Instantly, I¡¯m grateful that I don¡¯t share pain with whoever I¡¯m looking through the eyes of, because feeling like I¡¯ve got a spear through my shoulder on top of everything else would be too much.


    The spear seems to belong to a member of the Ox combat team I immediately recognize by his distinctive braided teal beard. Geghard Bedrosian. His Founder was first famous for being a pioneering explorer, though he made a name for himself during the war, as well. Whether or not that fully explains the spear, I¡¯m not sure, but he¡¯s clearly good with the thing, considering he¡¯s got it rammed through Mars¡¯ shoulder right now.


    As I watch, Mars, who seems to have lost his gun at some point, grabs the shaft of the spear with both hands, and snaps it in half. How he could have achieved that, when it¡¯s clearly metal, escapes me for a moment. Then I look closer, and realize it must have been a collapsible spear, which is really the only way Bedrosian could have carried it around while also carrying a gun. That means he snapped off one of the hollow parts that extended out when the spear was fully deployed.


    With one of his hands still on the end of the spear that¡¯s not lodged in him, Mars wrenches it from Bedrosian¡¯s grip, flips it around, and with a single deadly thrust, rams the jagged end into his throat. The bearded man staggers back, crimson staining his striking teal facial hair, then collapses.


    Mars grasps the spear-point stuck in his shoulder and pushes it out, bringing the narrow shaft through his wound, rather than risking it widening by pulling the tip back out. Nevertheless, it¡¯s clearly painful, and he¡¯s probably got metal fragments inside of him now. Casting the broken weapon aside, he grabs a gun, and heads straight back into the fight.


    Satisfied with his performance, I change to Grant¡¯s perspective. He¡¯s in the hidden passage Sofie found, right behind a corner that seems to lead out into the open, where he and Kat will have the perfect angle to open fire on the Oxen. Just as I¡¯m getting ready to open a line to them and give the order, they do exactly that, bursting out with rifles at the ready.


    The two of them don¡¯t just open fire indiscriminately, though. They target one Oxen in particular- Heinonen, who seems to be fighting off both Niko and Ibrahim at once, in close quarters, their blades glancing off of her sleek red armor. Using Ada¡¯s armor-piercing rounds, Grant and Kat punch through that armor and drop her in a matter of seconds, narrowly avoiding hitting their own allies in the process. Niko glances back, waves to them, and then picks his next target and charges.


    After that, the battle doesn¡¯t last much longer. Bedrosian and Heinonen were the only real fighters left who didn¡¯t get caught in my trap with the collapsing building, and everybody else reinforcing the point seems to have been from the Ox Unit¡¯s intelligence team. I see Nandor Pal, his blue skin marred by splotches of deep red. Even Valentin Gardinier, their intelligence officer, goes down when Amalia, Valent, and Tai gang up on him.


    The presence of those three means that our base is now undefended save for Sofie and Sander, but I¡¯m not worried about it. Even if there are any Oxen left alive, they must be scattered, with no commander to give orders. Any attempt to retake either point for them would be suicide. As Niko claims the central beacon, all we have to do now is wait.


    So wait we do. The combat team sets up some basic fortifications around the point, which mainly consists of taking the defenses the Oxen had already established, and flipping them around to face the other direction. A few of them split off and head back to base, just in case, but a second attack never comes.


    There must be at least one Ox left alive, because the match doesn¡¯t end immediately. They must have realized their chances of victory are nil and surrendered, though, because the moment that the display on the central beacon hits 100%, an announcement goes out over the brainband, the voice of the Dean. All he says is:


    Victory goes to the Gazelle Unit, and Commander Izanami!


    Lying on my back with a stab wound, in the arms of a woman I think I¡¯m starting to fall for, I smile.

 Chapter Twenty-Two

    Things change after the first round of War Games is over. For one, any hope of maintaining the fiction that my Gazelle Unit is horribly disorganized is gone. Not much of a loss- the ruse served its purpose for a brief period, but maintaining it for longer than necessary would have been more trouble than it was worth.


    Based on the chatter I catch on the public brainband, between Hark¡¯s performance and my own, people are taking a lot more interest in the lower-year units than they were before. I even get a couple of interview requests, all of which I turn down on principle. The media is a propaganda machine, and I¡¯ve got no interest in participating unless I¡¯m the one operating it. On the prediction markets, our odds of winning the overall competition as a unit this year rise significantly, though we¡¯re still a ways behind the Komodos, whose lead only grew larger after utterly dominating the Peregrines.


    Winning our battle earned us a sizable payout, enough to offset the costs we incurred preparing for the War Games and then some. But there are other, more personal changes too. Specifically, it turns out that the ¡®touching¡¯ moment between me and Sofie after I got stabbed was indeed broadcast to the entire Imperium. Including my parents.


    The video call that followed the battle featured more discussion of the way Sofie held me and caressed my cheek after I got stabbed, than the fact that I got stabbed in the first place. Foolishly, I¡¯d thought that watching me get hurt and even killed would be distressing to my parents, to the point that they¡¯d even try to talk me out of participating directly in the War Games- hiding out somewhere safe like Hark did. But no, what they wanted to talk about was whether I¡¯d be giving them grandkids anytime soon.


    Thankfully, I was able to avoid actually introducing them to Sofie, or even mentioning Niko. I suspect they¡¯d be a lot less thrilled to know I¡¯m also dating someone with a past like his, or someone who¡¯s covered in tattoos, for that matter. But I¡¯m on a clock for that stuff now. Not the worst price to pay for winning, but it¡¯s all quite embarrassing nonetheless. And for every one person gushing about how sweet and tender it was, there are ten making memes or telling jokes about it on the brainband, or on comedy shows, or a million other places. We¡¯re pretty insulated from the outside world here at the Citadel, at least to the point that I don¡¯t have to worry about gossip writers following me around, but there are still plenty of eyes on us.


    What really frustrates me about the whole affair is that the discussion of my relationship with Sofie- whether we might have a third and who it could be, if we¡¯ve been intimate or not yet, and other, even more invasive questions -has totally overshadowed any discussion of the battle itself. People who follow the War Games regularly are talking about all that, but for the casual observer, details about my private life is the only thing of note to come out of the entire match.


    At the very least, the people around me mostly keep their mouths shut about it. According to Grant, rumors do circulate briefly within the unit about whether Sofie and Niko got their positions because of our relationship, but he puts a stop to that pretty quickly by pointing out that neither he nor Ada, who have similar positions, are involved with me in that way.


    For the most part, though, my daily routine stays the same. I¡¯ve got all the same classes in the same order, starting with Tactics. And, perhaps because Hark and I have proven ourselves to be competent strategists in the War Games, Professor Brennan has raised the difficulty level of our battle simulations¡­ significantly.


    ¡°Today¡¯s exercise,¡± he said, in his typical dry tone, ¡°should serve as a reminder that a strategist is rarely afforded favorable conditions under which to operate. The War Games, while challenging, are designed to be fair- a notion which has little place within the calculus of combat.¡±


    It¡¯s pretty evident from the way he speaks that he puts little stock in the War Games as a method of evaluating our talent. If anything, the real point of this exercise is to remind us that winning against our fellow students is no great achievement. It¡¯s certainly dispelled any illusions I might have been harboring about being a great tactical genius.


    Professor Brennan would never put forth a completely unwinnable simulation just to humble us- because there¡¯d be no reason to feel humble for having failed at a task it¡¯s not possible to succeed at. Instead, he likes to throw us into scenarios that have a clear path to victory, but one that¡¯s just a little bit out of reach. To torment us. To torment me in particular, it feels like.


    This simulation fits that mold perfectly. It¡¯s not a historical reconstruction, but a unique scenario Brennan devised himself. He¡¯s placed us in command of a small battalion tasked with holding a large fortress against a significant enemy force. The fortress itself is pretty defensible, but maintaining those defenses with such limited resources is the real challenge. There are simply too many critical points I need to have covered, and not enough people at my disposal to cover them all at once.


    Worse still, the enemy attack commenced almost immediately upon the start of the simulation, meaning I had no time to devise a plan- I¡¯m being forced to devote all my attention to making sure each vulnerable area is defended when it comes under attack. Thankfully, the simulation isn¡¯t quite high-fidelity enough to incorporate the actual feelings of the soldiers I¡¯m ordering around, otherwise at least one of them would probably have collapsed from exhaustion by now.


    There¡¯s no discernible pattern to the attacks, either, so I can¡¯t run things on instinct while devoting most of my attention to coming up with a proper strategy. It almost seems like the enemy is just choosing which spot to strike at random, no method to the madness whatsoever.


    As soon as that thought occurs to me, something clicks in my head. I realize what Brennan is doing. He¡¯s making me fight myself- a completely unpredictable opponent. Sure, I¡¯ve never literally flipped a coin or rolled a die to determine a course of action, but the principle remains the same. Shit, if I was in the position of my simulated opponent, I¡¯d be doing exactly what they are, using a totally random strategy to keep them off-balance and prevent them from striking back.


    I¡¯m not quite arrogant enough to think the professor modeled this enemy AI after my own tactics, but I¡¯m dead certain he modeled it after my Founder, or one of the Nobles before me in my line. Maybe even the Betrayer, whose victories are bitterly recorded in the history books even as his name was expunged entirely.


    The question of why he did this is pushed aside, for the time being. Right now I just need to figure out how to beat myself. And maybe keep an eye on whether anybody around me seems to be having an easy time of it, so I¡¯ll know who to watch out for.


    Perhaps unsurprisingly, figuring out how to outsmart a more competent version of myself isn¡¯t easy, especially not while a significant chunk of my attention is still focused on just keeping the enemy forces at bay. Again, though, something clicks. Almost like deja vu, a thought-pattern that feels familiar even though I know I¡¯ve never actually felt it before.


    This feeling of stress and disorientation created by having to split my attention between so many points is exactly what I would be seeking to create with a strategy like this, if I was on the other side of this conflict. And what I¡¯d be counting on above all else is for the person running defense to be caught inside of a false paradigm that says ¡®keeping the enemy from breaching the fortress walls is paramount.¡¯ Sure, that seems obviously true, but in reality, it¡¯s not the main objective. Worse- it¡¯s not even possible.


    The enemy is numerically superior, and sooner or later, I¡¯m going to slip up. When that happens, they¡¯ll breach one of the entry points, and my forces will be so scattered that we won¡¯t be able to mount an effective defense, meaning we¡¯ll be overrun in short order. But that only happens if I continue to try in vain to keep them out entirely.


    Instead, I strategically withdraw my defenses from one point in particular, and wait for the enemy to target it in response. They¡¯re thinking, as I would be in their position, that I¡¯ve finally slipped, and they¡¯re seizing the opportunity. But in reality, I left that position vulnerable because it would serve as the best choke point.


    When the simulated forces of my false-self breach the fortress, my forces converge on it, and it¡¯s like shooting fish in a barrel. As they come streaming through, we meet them with withering machine gun fire from strategically positioned gun emplacements, moved from the other critical points in anticipation of this moment. And the kicker- as they realize they walked right into a trap and turn to run, I detonate the explosives I left behind before abandoning that position, collapsing the entrance and trapping them inside with us, while neatly preventing any reinforcements they might have from getting back inside.


    It feels more satisfying than usual to see the simulation freeze and the victory screen appear on my display. Despite that, I don¡¯t take more than a few seconds to bask in the glow. Instead, I start looking around the room, searching for any sign that somebody else might have cracked the same code I did. Because, if my hunch is right, Professor Brennan didn¡¯t do this to mess with me- he did it to give everybody else a leg up. Which is flattering, in one way, because it almost suggests that he thinks I¡¯m dangerous enough to warrant such treatment. But it¡¯s also dangerous, because, well¡­ he¡¯s kind of handing all my rivals the key to beating me.


    ¡­that might be a bit of an exaggeration, the more I think about it. This is the most simplistic version of my strategic ethos, and the solution was a lot more straightforward than it would have been in real life. Which is kind of the thing Brennan was complaining about at the start of class, but who am I to judge? So he¡¯s not quite giving them a how-to guide for who to beat me, but it¡¯s still probably providing some insight, at least to anybody who¡¯s clever enough to catch on.


    Looking around, though, it doesn¡¯t seem like many people have solved the puzzle that this simulation presents, or at least not quite as decisively as I did. Some people have had their defenses breached by mistake, but managed to parlay that into success by scrambling to stop the attack, or getting lucky by having people in the area and repelling the invaders. The two people I¡¯m most concerned about, Anton and Lucia, however, are positioned so that their screens aren¡¯t visible to me. And neither of them is emotive enough to give me any sign in their expression or body language to indicate one way or another if they¡¯ve figured out what¡¯s going on with the sim.


    About twenty minutes pass before everybody else is done with the sim. Hark finishes second after me, which is usually how it goes- either she or I finishes first, and the other follows shortly after. She¡¯s finished first more often than me, but I tend to finish first on the harder sims. That might seem strange to anybody else keeping score, but I think I understand why. Lucia is absurdly driven, and gives her best effort every time, while a straightforward task tends to bore me, so I only kick into high gear when something genuinely challenges me. Whether that means I¡¯d always finish first if I tried as hard as she does, I¡¯m not sure- but it¡¯s a flattering idea, so I choose to believe it.


    This week, Brennan saved the sim for the last half of class, so once everybody¡¯s done, people pack up their things and leave. Usually, I¡¯m one of the first among them, but today, I hang back, waiting until the only other person left in the room is the professor. He remains seated behind his desk, presumably waiting for his next class, but that can¡¯t possibly be for another few hours. The Citadel has more than enough lecture halls for nobody to have to share, so I suppose he probably treats this room like his office when he¡¯s not teaching.


    ¡°Is there something I can help you with, Izanami?¡± he asks, a look of quiet amusement on his sharp, narrow features.


    ¡°The enemy AI for today¡¯s simulation- it was based on my Founder, right?¡±


    ¡°How astute,¡± he says by way of answer, not even looking up from his desk¡¯s holo-screen, which seems to be displaying the metrics of this class¡¯s performance in the simulated battle.


    ¡°Is there any particular reason why?¡±


    Brennan rolls his eyes.


    ¡°Every year, leading up to the midterms for this class, I challenge my students with a series of simulations based on the tactics of each of the Nine Titans. This year, I chose to feature your Founder¡¯s simulation first. Ms. Hark¡¯s will come soon enough, rest assured.¡±


    Oh. So it had literally nothing to do with me at all. Just a coincidence that I happened to be here at the Citadel and taking this class. Suddenly, I find myself feeling extraordinarily foolish.


    ¡°I would appreciate it,¡± Brennan continues, still not looking up at me, ¡°if you refrained from sharing this information with anybody. I will reveal it in due time, but past experience has taught me that knowing you¡¯re facing a simulation of one of the Titans, even a highly simplified one, tends to negatively impact morale for the participants.¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ yeah, sure. Okay. I¡¯ll, uh, see you next week, Professor.¡±


    ¡°Indeed you shall.¡±


    <hr>


    Suitably chastened by that horribly embarrassing experience, I pick up some lunch and head back to the Hyperion Building to eat alone. Halfway there, though, I get a brainband connection request from Niko, and accept without hesitating.


    Hey. Can we¡­ talk? In person, preferably.


    It¡¯s unusual for him to be so circumspect in his speech, but I decide not to comment on it, the way I might if I was talking to Sofie. If something¡¯s got him spooked, it¡¯s probably serious.


    Course, so long as you don¡¯t mind me eating at the same time.


    That¡¯s no problem, he says with a silent chuckle, and sends me a location. It¡¯s not too far, but I take a little longer to get there than I otherwise might, because I go out of my way to avoid being followed.


    When I do get to Niko¡¯s chosen meeting point, my burger is lukewarm, which is slightly disappointing, but being around him makes up for it. We haven¡¯t been apart by any means, but I¡¯ve been cognizant of the fact that people are probably searching for any evidence that there might be a third involved in my relationship with Sofie, so they can sell that information to some wretched gossip rag. That means avoiding any blatant public displays of affection with Niko- which, luckily, he wasn¡¯t too big on in the first place.


    Here, though, in a secluded garden spot in the public part of the Subterrane, accessed not through a waterfall, but a simple flight of stairs leading into one of the many caverns beneath the Citadel streets, we don¡¯t have to worry about any of that. Immediately upon seeing him, I can¡¯t help but smile, and when I sit down, I do so right next to him, enjoying the warmth of his body next to mine.


    ¡°Thanks for coming,¡± he says, businesslike, even though he¡¯s pressing against me just as much as I am to him. As always, he smells faintly of sweat and gunmetal.


    ¡°No prob,¡± I reply, unwrapping the burger and digging in immediately, before it gets any colder. With my mouth occupied, I switch seamlessly to the brainband. What¡¯d you wanna talk about?


    Niko sighs, the sigh of someone resigned to discussing an uncomfortable topic. For a moment, I wonder if he¡¯s about to break things off with me, but then I realize he probably wouldn¡¯t have his arm wrapped around my waist if that was the case.


    ¡°It¡¯s my Regalia.¡±


    That¡­ was about the last thing I was expecting him to say, I¡¯ve gotta admit.


    What about it?


    ¡°You know my line has a bad reputation,¡± he begins cautiously. ¡°Lot of us have fallen in with organized crime, because that reputation means nobody in the bureaucracy trusts us. Thing is, not everybody is particularly good at that sort of thing. One guy, he had a gambling problem. A serious one. Managed to graduate the Citadel, got his hands on the Regalia, held down a position in the army, but he was in deep with the Triads on the side.¡±


    The direction this story is headed is pretty obvious, but I don¡¯t interrupt him, just continue with my burger.


    ¡°Stupid bastard gambles away everything of value in his life. Eventually, the only thing he¡¯s got left to raise with is the Regalia. So he does, thinking he¡¯ll win big next time and get it back. Only he doesn¡¯t. He loses, bad. Bad enough to get truekilled. And then the Regalia just¡­ disappears. Everybody assumes it¡¯s sitting on the wall of some triad boss¡¯s office, but nobody¡¯s sure who or where. Eventually, they just¡­ stop looking.¡±


    A story like this is almost unheard of. Not the part about somebody losing so bad at cards they get truekilled- that¡¯s regrettably common, though not as much among Nobles. But a Regalia completely disappearing like that¡­ I can only think of one other example, and even that doesn¡¯t fully apply. After all, everybody knows exactly where the thing is, we just can¡¯t get our hands on it.


    If a Regalia went missing tomorrow, the entire Imperium would get turned upside-down to find it. They aren¡¯t just special, they¡¯re irreplaceable. Unique weapons keyed to the cognitive patterns of certain Founders, only able to be wielded by Nobles of their line. And not just that, they all possess certain distinct qualities, powered by technology that¡¯s never been replicated since their creation.


    The first one that comes to mind is called Voracity, which is associated with Armel, the Peregrine Unit member whose mouth is unusually large and full of rows and rows of razor-sharp teeth. His line¡¯s Regalia was designed to embody the insatiable hunger of his cannibal Foundre, by firing nanotech bullets that ¡®eat¡¯ all matter they come into contact with, consuming it in a matter of seconds. You could be hiding behind a foot of solid concrete and he¡¯d have a dozen holes in it the size of trash can lids in seconds.


    Moreover, the Regalia all share one important quality beyond their uniqueness- they exist in a fixed quantum state, meaning they seemingly can¡¯t be permanently destroyed. So the only way that the chain of succession from a Founder to their Nobles can be broken, is if the Regalia is somehow lost. And allowing that to happen would be a huge sign of weakness from the Imperium, which is why they try so hard to find them if they ever go missing. Honestly, I¡¯m shocked I hadn¡¯t heard about the Stormwolf¡¯s Regalia disappearing before now. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°Let me guess,¡± I respond out loud, after swallowing the last morsel of cold burger. ¡°It turned up?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± he responds flatly, sounding a lot less thrilled than I¡¯d expect. Nobles only receive their Regalia after they graduate from the Citadel and take their position in the Imperial bureaucracy, so if it¡¯s back in Imperium hands, he still won¡¯t be seeing it for a while- but knowing that he¡¯d be seeing it at all would be cause for celebration, if that was indeed the case.


    ¡°And¡­ it wasn¡¯t returned to its rightful owner by a concerned citizen?¡±


    ¡°No. It wasn¡¯t.¡±


    Niko doesn¡¯t seem to want to elaborate immediately, and though I¡¯m now intensely curious what the story is, I force myself to wait. Finally, after several long seconds, he continues.


    ¡°There¡¯s a private collector on Liese who got his hands on it somehow. But he¡¯s run into some money trouble- apparently he¡¯s auctioning it off in five days¡¯ time. That¡¯s the only reason I even know he¡¯s got it. One of my contacts got their hands on the auction inventory and let me know.¡±


    In other words, he¡¯s now got a five day window before the unique weapon only he can use, his by right of Nobility, disappears again, maybe forever, to be a conversation piece in some rich fuck¡¯s house.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got a plan to take it back, right?¡±


    It goes without saying that he¡¯s not gonna try to buy it. Even though it¡¯s useless to anybody but Niko, a Regalia will still go for tens of millions, especially in an illegal auction for the ultra-rich.


    For a moment, I wonder whether it might be possible to just alert the proper authorities to the fact that this guy has the Regalia, and get a Myrmidon team to reclaim it. But doing that would have to reveal how Niko got the information, compromising his contacts, and considering he¡¯s held onto the weapon illegally for a while, this guy probably has a secure spot where he could hide it, if somebody showed up at his door unexpectedly looking for it.


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°And you want, what, my permission to take some time off and get it? Permission granted. We¡¯ll cover for you.¡±


    Niko shakes his head.


    ¡°I¡­ was hoping you¡¯d come with me.¡±


    Huh. Second time today I¡¯ve been blindsided by something that feels like it should have been completely obvious.


    ¡°My contacts will be able to help, but none of them have any idea how to actually plan a break-in like this. The collector¡¯s place is heavily guarded, top of the line security system, the works. You¡¯re the only person I know who¡¯s got even half a chance of pulling it off.¡±


    Concerns immediately spring to mind. How could we possibly cover up both of our absences for so long, when we¡¯re not even allowed to leave the Citadel for a single day to see our families, much less an extended leave to go commit burglary? How are we even going to get off of this moon, when the teleportal network is so heavily restricted? But I put all of those worries out of my mind. If I asked Niko for help, he wouldn¡¯t hesitate, he¡¯d just act. So that¡¯s what I do too.


    ¡°I¡¯m in. When do we leave?¡±


    <hr>


    Leaving the Citadel is significantly more difficult than arriving. Or, to be more precise, leaving Akademos, the moon on which the Citadel is located, is what¡¯s difficult. I can walk straight out of the Citadel walls any time I want, and when I get eaten by the local wildlife, I¡¯ll be resurrected right back inside. But getting off this moon, that¡¯s a challenge.


    Ostensibly for our security, the teleportal network here is highly restricted. The truth is, it¡¯s more meant to keep us in, than keep other people out. It¡¯s embarrassing to the Imperium when a Noble dies, particularly at the Citadel, but there¡¯ll always be more of us. What¡¯s really embarrassing is when one of us tries to flee. Assassinations can be blamed on the Meritocracy, or internal dissidents, but there¡¯s no real way to spin the story of a Noble deciding they don¡¯t want the fate they¡¯ve been handed.


    Now, Niko and I aren¡¯t planning on leaving permanently. But unscheduled trips aren¡¯t allowed either, for obvious reasons. So really, we¡¯ve got two problems. The first is to actually get off the moon, and the second is to prevent anybody from noticing we¡¯re gone.


    In order to figure out how we¡¯re gonna do that, I call an emergency session of the War Council. The others need to be looped in on this, even if they¡¯re not coming along, because their participation will be vital to pulling this off.


    We meet in the evening, as early as possible, because ideally, we¡¯ll be leaving tomorrow. The five-day window available for us to retrieve Niko¡¯s Regalia is narrow, and I don¡¯t intend to waste any of it. That puts us on a clock just for getting off Akademos, but much like with the simulations in Professor Brennan¡¯s class, I do my best work when I¡¯m being challenged.


    ¡°Covering up the fact that you¡¯re gone shouldn¡¯t be too hard,¡± Sofie says, splaying her arms out as she lays on the carpeted floor of my apartment. She likes to make herself at home whenever she¡¯s up here, which is fairly often. I¡¯m stretched out on the couch, laying on my stomach with my feet in the air, kicking idly as I contemplate the problem at hand. ¡°We¡¯ll just pull the same trick we did when we were having our secret training sesh in the cave.¡±


    In other words, we¡¯d use holo-projectors to have a member of our copyclan impersonate us while we¡¯re off-world. Since the copies are, well, copies, they won¡¯t behave strangely in a way that might alert anybody to the fact that they aren¡¯t ;really¡¯ us. Problem is, they¡¯ll still only be holograms, meaning they won¡¯t be able to so much as open a door on their own. That¡­ might present a bit of a problem.


    ¡°Maintaining that deception for a protracted period poses some issues,¡± Grant points out diplomatically. He¡¯s sitting in one of my armchairs, a mug of hot tea in his hands. ¡°Those of us remaining behind would have to keep close to the copies, in order to disguise their true nature.¡±


    ¡°For sure,¡± Sofie responds. ¡°Sandman can watch out for Izzy, and I¡¯ll cover Nicky.¡±


    Standing in the corner with his arms folded, Sander says nothing. He doesn¡¯t seem thrilled that I¡¯ll be off-world for five days without his protection, but covering up two absences will be hard enough- adding in a third would be next to impossible. Besides, I¡¯ll probably be in less danger once I leave the Citadel, since nobody outside of this room will know I¡¯m gone, and all of the people who want me dead will be targeting me here, not on the other side of the Imperium.


    ¡°Okay, fine,¡± Niko says, pacing back and forth around my living room. Impatient, he taps his fingernails against the counter of my little kitchen area, which I almost never actually use. ¡°We¡¯ve still got no idea how to actually get out of here.¡±


    If we didn¡¯t care about not getting noticed or coming back, this would be a lot easier. There¡¯s no shortage of people willing to risk incurring the wrath of the Imperium for a big payday, and if we offered enough money, they¡¯d have no problem bringing down a ship to extract us. The issue is, that wouldn¡¯t go unnoticed, and even if it did, there¡¯s little chance we could get to where we need to go within the five day deadline. Plus, we don¡¯t actually have the necessary resources- even if we had a way to convert the Gazelle Unit¡¯s funds into proper currency, it wouldn¡¯t be enough to hire anybody except the bottom-dollar of foolhardy smugglers.


    Using the teleportals is our best bet, if we can find a way to bypass the restrictions on the local network. And of course, there¡¯s the issue of getting back, which could end up being even harder, because the access codes for the Citadel are tightly controlled, and change on a daily basis. But if we figure out a way to access them now, we could just have Sofie access them again when we¡¯re ready to come back. Which brings us right back around to the main question- how are we gonna get that access in the first place?


    ¡°If I¡¯m not mistaken, the staff has their own teleportal hub,¡± Grant says, before raising the mug to his lips and taking a ginger sip of his still-steaming tea. ¡°It should be less heavily-monitored than the one we all used to get here. For the most part, they don¡¯t leave, but they¡¯re not strictly forbidden from doing so like we are.¡±


    ¡°So getting those codes should be a bit easier,¡± Sofie nods. ¡°Huh. Good thinking.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± Grant replies with a wry smile, suggesting that he didn¡¯t really need to be told it was a good thought.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t actually get us any closer to leaving,¡± Niko says sharply. Clearly, the stress of this whole situation is getting to him, and it¡¯s making him difficult to be around right now. Hopefully he¡¯ll mellow out a little once we¡¯ve left the moon, otherwise our little impromptu vacation is going to be unbearable. ¡°Not like we can ask a professor or a member of the staff to give us the codes.¡±


    ¡°Ehh, I dunno about that. We could bribe someone on staff¡­ but then they¡¯d have dirt on us, which I¡¯d rather avoid. Sof, you don¡¯t happen to have any blackmail on hand that we could use?¡±


    ¡°Fresh out, sorry.¡±


    With a sigh, I roll onto my back and fold my hands behind my head, staring up at the ceiling.


    ¡°And there¡¯s no professors you guys think would be willing to keep a secret like this?¡±


    Grant blows gently on the surface of his mug before replying.


    ¡°None I¡¯d trust without reservation. Though perhaps if we spun a story about needing to leave to visit a family member nearing retirement, or something of that nature, it might be an easier sell.¡±


    All four of us muse on that in silence for a few moments, before Niko draws breath to speak, his voice a little less tight than before.


    ¡°There¡­ might be somebody who¡¯d do it. Not if we lied, she¡¯d see right through that, but if I explained the real reason why we need to leave. You remember¡ª I told you about Professor Kore, right?¡±


    ¡°The Crane Unit¡¯s advisor? Close with the Heir?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. She teaches my Fireteam Tactics class. I don¡¯t know if I could even put my finger on why, but I feel like I could trust her with this. Even if she refused to help, I don¡¯t think she¡¯s report us.¡±


    That¡¯s not exactly the most concrete, or encouraging, sales pitch. But I trust Niko, and if he says we can trust this woman, I believe him.


    ¡°Okay, so what¡¯s the verdict?¡± I ask, sitting upright and facing the others. Niko stops pacing, and Sofie gets to her feet, before plopping down on the couch next to me. ¡°We find someone gullible and tell a tall tale, or we put our faith in Niko¡¯s teacher-crush and hope she doesn¡¯t rat on us?¡±


    Honestly, I¡¯m not sure what the punishment for trying to leave the Citadel would be. Maybe we¡¯d just get a fine and have security tightened for a few weeks- or maybe we¡¯d be sent to an early retirement. The latter seems unlikely, considering we¡¯re not planning on fleeing forever, but I¡¯d still rather not have to find out.


    ¡°Teacher-crush,¡± Sofie says.


    ¡°Sob story,¡± counters Grant.


    Niko and I share a look. There¡¯s no tie to be broken here, but the final decision does ultimately fall to me, assuming the normal chain of command still applies.


    ¡°We¡¯ll go with Professor Kore,¡± I conclude. ¡°Sof, see if you can find out where she lives- I wanna talk to her tonight. If she decides to rat us out and we¡¯ve gotta kill her, it¡¯ll be easier to do while it¡¯s dark out.¡±


    <hr>


    The professors¡¯ quarters at the Citadel are surprisingly lavish. A long avenue located some distance away from our dormitory building contains a row of mid-sized townhouses, most of which still have the lights on, even at this hour. A lot of professors have their families here, but according to Sofie, Professor Kore lives alone.


    Niko, Sander and I head to her home alone, leaving Grant and Sofie back at my apartment, ready to spring into action for crisis response if this goes badly. Despite my misgivings, I trust Niko¡¯s instincts on this, and he seems quite confident that Kore won¡¯t screw us over, even if he can¡¯t exactly explain why he feels that way.


    The native trees of Akademos, with their iridescent purple leaves glittering in the light of another moon, line this street, making it feel more like a typical suburban neighborhood than it really is. Which makes our presence here, late at night, feel rather strange. Especially since we came prepared for violence.


    Obviously truekilling her is off the table- we lack the means for that, and it would be immoral to boot. But if need be, we can stun her, drug her, take her somewhere secluded, disable her suicide button, and ¡®convince¡¯ her to keep her mouth shut about our plans. Plus we could get the teleportal codes out of her in the process. Would that be immoral too? Assuredly. But less so than killing her permanently, which is the highest crime under Imperium law, for obvious reasons. All wounds heal with time, medicine, and judicious memory-editing to erase trauma. But ending a life irreversibly is beyond the pale.


    Naturally, I hope it doesn¡¯t come to that. But hope doesn¡¯t get you very far in this world, which is why Sander is carrying a bag full of some very unsavory equipment with him right now.


    ¡°Okay, this should be her place,¡± Niko says, suddenly back to being nervous. Not that he¡¯s exactly quaking in his boots. The casual observer would probably have no idea he was any less confident than usual, but I¡¯ve gotten to know him well enough by now that I can tell he¡¯s a bit intimidated by the prospect of showing up at his professor¡¯s door unannounced like this. It¡¯s in the slight hunch of his shoulders, the way his lips tighten as he speaks.


    Without saying anything, I sidestep him and walk straight up to the door, drawing my finger back dramatically before pressing it against the doorbell. Giving Niko a playful wink, I step back and let him take the lead again.


    About a minute later, the door swings open, and Professor Kore greets us. She¡¯s a younger-looking woman, but with a more modest frame, the kind that tells me she¡¯s not an old woman trying to recapture her lost youth with a new body. Our hair is a similar shade, but hers is long where mine is short, and straight where mine is curly. The outfit she¡¯s wearing seems way too stylish for eveningwear, even if it¡¯s just a pair of black tights and a tight purple shirt with an embroidered floral pattern.


    ¡°Niko,¡± she says coolly. ¡°This is a surprise.¡±


    ¡°Evening, Professor,¡± he responds, clearly perturbed by the fact that she¡¯s just pretending Sander and I aren¡¯t here. ¡°This is¡ª¡±


    ¡°I know who they are.¡±


    Kore cuts him off smoothly, and her gaze shifts from Niko to me. Meeting her eyes makes me shiver slightly, though I do my best to hide it.


    ¡°A fine performance the other week. I¡¯d offer you some pointers, but something tells me you¡¯re not here just looking for advice.¡±


    As she speaks, her lips twitch like she¡¯s suppressing laughter, though exactly what she finds funny about this situation escapes me.


    ¡°Thanks. And yeah, you¡¯re not wrong. But it¡¯s Niko¡¯s story, not mine.¡±


    Raising an eyebrow, she looks back to him, leaning slightly against the doorframe, her head cocked curiously.


    ¡°In that case, you¡¯d better come in.¡±


    Hip-length hair swaying behind her as she walks, Kore leads us into her home, and Sander closes the door behind him as he enters last. The minute it¡¯s shut, I can see him scanning the area, looking for any hidden dangers, plotting an alternate exit route, trying to figure out where the obvious ambush points are. Sometimes I wonder if it¡¯s exhausting for him to be thinking like that constantly. I do something similar when I look at battlefield maps and the like, but to have it happen automatically whenever I enter a new place would be overwhelming for me.


    Niko follows close behind his professor, Sander and I trailing him, to take seats in her drawing room. It¡¯s well put-together, with wood paneling, a soft black and gold carpet, and a handful of neo-post-classical paintings on the walls. Still, something about the decor seems a little off, like it¡¯s not really been lived in properly.


    All three of us sit down on the same couch, not much distance between us, while Kore lowers herself into an armchair, folding her legs and tenting her fingers.


    ¡°Tell your story, then. And don¡¯t worry about taking too long, I¡¯m hardly eager to return to grading papers.¡±


    At that, Niko starts to speak. He tells her the same story that he told me, only a little more confident, and without breaking eye contact with her the entire time. I¡¯ve heard the whole thing already, so I start out trying to study her reactions, hoping to gain some insight into whether she¡¯ll be sympathetic to our cause or not. As it turns out, though, she¡¯s not easy to read- her expression stays perfectly neutral the entire time, the only time she so much as moves is to nod along when Niko pauses to make sure she¡¯s following. So instead, I watch him.


    Maybe it¡¯s ridiculous, maybe I¡¯m just going crazy because this is my first real romantic relationship, but I can¡¯t help but envy the way he¡¯s clearly under her spell. Even the minute details of how he speaks are clearly carefully chosen to impress her, with his diction and pronunciation more refined and formal than I¡¯ve ever seen before. Most of the time, he puts on this aura of being the street-smart bad-boy type, which I¡¯ll admit is half the reason I¡¯m into him. But talking to her, he becomes an entirely different kind of person. And, as stupid as it might be, I wish I had that kind of effect on him.


    By the time he¡¯s done talking, I¡¯ve managed to rein in my own emotions, for the most part. She¡¯s never laid a finger on him, and I¡¯ve done significantly more than that, so the way he looks at her doesn¡¯t matter. But still, I¡¯m glad when he stops talking and waits for her to respond.


    ¡°You¡¯ve certainly found yourselves in a dilemma,¡± she says, with a smug look on her face that makes me irrationally upset. We¡¯re putting a lot of trust in her, coming to her with this, and she can¡¯t just give us a straight yes or no answer to the question Niko posed?


    ¡°Yeah, no shit,¡± I shoot back, and Niko gives me a look that screams ¡®shut up.¡¯


    ¡°Ordinarily,¡± she continues, as if I hadn¡¯t spoken at all, ¡°I¡¯d ask if you had some proof of this whole auction business, so I could be confident that you weren¡¯t spinning some story to get my teleportal access codes and flee the Citadel entirely. But that doesn¡¯t seem like the kind of thing you would do, does it, Niko?¡±


    He shakes his head obediently, and I get the sudden urge to shake him by his shoulders to try and break whatever trance he¡¯s in. Even worse is the fact that she¡¯s right- Niko wants more than almost anything to disprove his line¡¯s reputation as untrustworthy. He¡¯d never run away from this place, because in his mind, that would be validating every smug look or disapproving sigh he¡¯s ever gotten when he¡¯s told somebody what Noble line he¡¯s from.


    ¡°No, it¡¯s you I¡¯m concerned about,¡± she says, looking right at me. This time I don¡¯t shiver. Instead, my blood boils, and I clench a fist, but she keeps talking, looking amused by my reaction. ¡°After all, your line has a reputation for defection, does it not? And the Meritocracy must seem a more welcoming place than this, where Nobles of your line have met more mysterious ends than have graduated.¡±


    Again, the worst part is that she¡¯s right. Any sane person in my position would be trying as hard as possible to get off this moon, and once they were off, they¡¯d never look back. Unfortunately for me, I¡¯ve got more ambition than common sense, so I¡¯m willing to risk permanent death for a chance to achieve my ultimate goals. But telling that to somebody will make me sound like I¡¯m insane, or like I¡¯m a liar.


    ¡°However,¡± Kore continues, smirking, ¡°I¡¯m going to trust you. Because I trust Niko, and if he says that you¡¯re on the level, I believe him.¡±


    Niko breathes a sigh of relief, but I only get angrier. What keeps me from snapping and wiping that smug look off her face, consequences be damned, is Sander of all people, putting a hand on my shoulder. Sighing, I force the tension to drain from my body, and just nod, accepting her ¡®gracious¡¯ offer.


    ¡°Thank you, Professor,¡± Niko says politely, not looking anywhere near me. She blinks twice, transferring the codes to him, and smiles.


    ¡°The best time to access the portal hub will be about four in the morning, so I suggest you all get some rest before then.¡± Kore pauses, then chuckles. ¡°Oh, and if you get the chance, do bring me back something nice from this collection you¡¯ll be raiding. Nothing too extravagant, just something to properly demonstrate your gratitude.¡±


    ¡°Of course, Professor.¡±


    Standing up, Niko heads for the door, and I follow right behind him, not giving the professor a second glance. Behind me, she laughs.


    ¡°Have a good night, you three.¡±


    Once we¡¯re outside, Niko turns to face me, looking annoyed. The light refracted through the purple leaves casts odd shadows on his face, his jagged metal horns drawing long streaks across his eyes.


    ¡°What the fuck was that?¡±


    Casting my mind back, I try to find something concrete I can point to, that might justify my behavior. Predictably, I come up short, and sigh.


    ¡°I have no idea. Let¡¯s just do what she said and get some sleep.¡±

 Chapter Twenty-Three

    Things are a bit weird between Niko and I the next morning. By usual unspoken agreement, we don¡¯t discuss how either of us acted last night- neither of us would come out of that conversation looking particularly good. But it hangs over us like a cloud, as we creep through the Citadel¡¯s streets, early enough that the sun is barely beginning to crest over the horizon by the time we reach the Ivory Tower.


    Neither of us has had cause to visit the imposing, pure-white monolith that sits in the center of the Citadel. It¡¯s the hub around which everything here turns, ostensibly, but students don¡¯t actually spend much time there under normal circumstances. The administrative staff is located within, as well as the Dean, who occupies the uppermost office. And at the very bottom lies the staff¡¯s private teleportal hub.


    Thanks to Professor Kore¡¯s unexpected generosity, we¡¯ve not only got the access codes for the portal network itself, but for the security system surrounding it, which would have been quite the challenge to bypass otherwise. A challenge I was more than willing to undertake, with Sofie¡¯s help, but it¡¯s probably a good thing we don¡¯t have to do all that. Kore also agreed to give Sofie the updated codes so she can help us get back after our trip, since it would be a weeks-long trip by conventional space travel otherwise, not to mention the fact that we¡¯d have to be dropped into the jungle on the other side of the planet and fight our way back, to avoid the unauthorized presence of a spacecraft in the moon¡¯s atmosphere from being detected.


    Still, I can¡¯t help but feel a little frustrated by the way the professor just handed us the codes without a fight. It contradicts my every instinct and impulse, which say that expecting good things and relying on generosity or luck is the stupidest thing you can do in life. Yet here we are.


    Rather than enter through the front door, we head in via a side entrance, which slides open without issue as we approach, thanks to the codes Niko now carries. Beyond is a maintenance corridor, surfaces all polished steel, empty now, but not for long. We¡¯ve got about twenty minutes before the first shift of the janitorial staff arrives for the day. That ought to be plenty of time, but neither of us is inclined to push our luck right now.


    So, I ask silently, as we head down the hall, our shoes clacking against the metal floors. What does your Regalia actually do?


    The information is publicly available, there¡¯s a registry out there somewhere on the brainband. I could have just downloaded it the moment I got curious, and Niko knows that. Which means he¡¯s probably- hopefully -aware that I¡¯m trying to make conversation, and ease some of the tension between us.


    Shoots lightning, he responds tersely.


    Like, electrified rounds? Or¡­?


    Actual lightning.


    After that, he doesn¡¯t cut the connection, but neither of us speaks. If he doesn¡¯t wanna talk, that¡¯s fine by me. Except it¡¯s not, really. I don¡¯t want him to be upset with me- I don¡¯t even want to be upset with him. But I don¡¯t feel like I actually did anything wrong last night, and a significant part of me still thinks that he¡¯s just upset because I mouthed off at his teacher-crush, which I only said before as a joke, but now seems like it might actually be true. And that means I¡¯m probably just mad because I¡¯m jealous, even though that feels absurd, because obviously I¡¯m far too clever and smart to be ruled by such a petty, base emotion.


    Dating is terrible, apparently.


    The worst part is, despite all of this, I still couldn¡¯t stop my heart from skipping a beat when I first saw Niko this morning, decked out in black camouflage, all stuff he bought at that little tactical clothing stall in the market we went to the other week, a few days before the War Games. Shoulder holsters, a utility belt, and all of it paired with that jacket he wears like a cape, sleeves hanging loose and empty. Somehow, he manages to make it work.


    Neither of us brought luggage for this trip- it¡¯s only a couple of days, and his contacts will apparently be providing our basic necessities while we¡¯re there. I considered wearing a crop-top, but those are probably off the menu for me until I get a new body, thanks to the nasty scar I¡¯m now sporting from where Anand stabbed me. Thankfully, my ears have fully healed- the days where I could barely hear anybody without them having to shout at me were exceedingly frustrating. Instead, I¡¯m wearing a double-breasted black coat, with the collar turned up. More conservative, more guarded, than how I usually dress, but it feels appropriate.


    The Citadel is the only place besides Demeter VII that I¡¯ve been in my entire life- in person, at least. And I¡¯d like to think I¡¯ve adapted pretty well. But it¡¯s not a real city, it¡¯s a miniature replica, a fantasy camp for the Nobility. Where we¡¯re headed is decidedly¡­ not that.


    Niko¡¯s Regalia, which a quick search tells me is called the Hurricane Howl, is in the private collection of one Anselm Salzwedel, on the planet Liese. That¡¯s not where we¡¯re headed, though. Not yet. Liese is a largely uninhabited world, with most of its surface area serving as a massive nature preserve, owing to its unique wildlife and fragile ecosystem. For the ultra-wealthy, however, it¡¯s their private paradise. Salzwedel has a mountainside estate on one of the planet¡¯s highest peaks, with an unparalleled view of the savannahs surrounding it. When he¡¯s not busy buying up rare, priceless artifacts and items like a lost Regalia, he¡¯ll get together with his rich friends and go on illegal hunts in the planet¡¯s wilderness, hoping to snag a trophy from one of Liese¡¯s more exotic animals.


    Naturally, Niko doesn¡¯t have any contacts on a planet like that. In fact, he doesn¡¯t have very many contacts at all. Noble or no, he was pretty small-time back before he came to the Citadel. So we¡¯re headed to the place he grew up. Limbo City. A massive, grungy metropolis on the planet Vi?saule, ruled by corporations at the highest level, and criminal organizations like the triads, yakuza, bratva, and others. Despite being of Russian heritage from several of his parents, Niko ended up falling in with the triads, specifically the Red Sun Syndicate, a relatively small organization that¡¯s yet to spread beyond this planet. Of course, relatively is the operative word- they¡¯ve got about fifty thousand members across Vi?saule, mainly concentrated in its major population centers.


    Limbo City is a megalopolis, spanning some hundred and sixty thousand kilometers, with multiple distinct urban core, where you¡¯ll find the gigantic, towering buildings that house interplanetary corporations, not just their offices, but the homes of many of their employees, whose lives are tied so deeply to their employers that everything they eat, drink, and quite literally breathe- filtered air being a hot commodity in a city like this -comes from them.


    In addition, there are the housing blocks, tall but compact in order to take up as little surface area as possible, gigantic, rigid, brutalist rectangles where thousands of people live in apartments little bigger than prison cells.


    That¡¯s not where Niko grew up. He was born in the Kerberos Cluster, a small collection of asteroids literally tied together to form a free-floating community in the depths of Imperium space. About a year after he was born- by which I mean, after his consciousness was instantiated, years before he¡¯d get his first body -his family moved to Vi?saule. Exactly why, he¡¯s never shared, but I get the sense that it wasn¡¯t by choice, because they ended up becoming indentured employees of the Polemarch Conglomerate, a massive interplanetary arms manufacturer. According to Niko, most of his parents haven¡¯t stepped foot outside the Conglomerate¡¯s headquarters in years. And under the terms of their contracts, he would have been forced into that same situation, were he not a Noble.


    Obviously, nobody wants to have kids in a situation like that. Some corporations make their employees sign contracts saying they¡¯ll have a certain number of kids who will go straight to work for the corp, but Niko¡¯s parents weren¡¯t in a situation quite as bad as that. Still, since he was already a part of the family, he would have had to abide by the terms of their contract, if he wasn¡¯t a Noble. That status supersedes even the authority of a massive corporation like Polemarch, meaning they couldn¡¯t force him to live within their facility. So he didn¡¯t.


    As soon as he was able, Niko fled, leaving behind his family and the Conglomerate to live on the streets of Limbo City. Without a Noble¡¯s instincts, he wouldn¡¯t have lasted a day. But unlike most of the other unfortunates who end up on those streets, he survived. Thrived, even- by becoming an enforcer for the triad.


    Niko doesn¡¯t like talking about his past. It¡¯s taken a long time for Sofie and I to pry even this much out of him. And right now, he doesn¡¯t seem inclined to answer any idle questions. But I still have to ask, because heading into a place like Limbo City blind seems like a good way to get killed.


    Rounding a corner, we follow wall-mounted signs to the teleportal hub, which doesn¡¯t seem to be far now. Tentatively, I prod at our brainband connection, the psychic equivalent of tapping him on the shoulder.


    Yeah?


    ¡­what¡¯s it like there? I ask gingerly, not wanting to set him off again.


    What do you mean? he asks back, still a little bit of an edge to his voice, but not as sharp as before.


    In the city, I mean.


    Initially, he doesn¡¯t answer, remaining silent for an uncomfortably long stretch while creeping down the hall, both of us careful not to make any sounds that might alert anybody who could be down here.


    It¡¯s big. Noisy. Smells bad. You know.


    Frustrated, I flick my tail back and forth, but accidentally smack the barb against the wall, making a surprisingly loud sound. Freezing in place, mortified, I pull the prehensile appendage back under my shirt, wrapping it around my upper body. Niko doesn¡¯t say anything, but glances over his shoulder, and I look away, trying not to meet his eyes.


    I really don¡¯t know, I retort, less firmly than I might have if I hadn¡¯t just embarrassed myself like that. Usually he¡¯d just have made a joke about it, but the fact that he didn¡¯t suggests we¡¯re still not entirely cool. Up until, like, a month and a half ago, I lived on a fucking farm. Give me something to work with here.


    Out loud, Niko sighs. We turn another corner, and at the end of the hall, I can see a large, reinforced metal door, which is pretty obviously the one protecting the hub. Or, more accurately, protecting us for anybody who might come out of it. Hijacking a teleportal is, while difficult, not impossible, and they¡¯ve been used before to insert kill-teams, and even entire armies, into the heart of enemy territory without warning.


    It really is big. There¡¯s buildings there with more people in them than some entire cities. I¡¯d look out at them at night and feel like an ant. That was before I left.


    Left the Conglomerate¡¯s towering headquarters, he must mean.


    Down on the street, it¡¯s different. The neighborhood became my entire world. I knew people, and they knew me. Most of the people in the LC are anonymous. Either they live in a corporate building, where they¡¯re just a number, or they live in a block, and they¡¯re just a face in the crowd to everybody that sees them. But the triads, they¡¯ve got an actual community.


    Another pause. We¡¯re almost to the door now.


    I mean, they aren¡¯t¡­ good people, I guess. They do bad things. I did bad things. But they made me feel like a person for the first time in my life.


    That¡­ might be the most vulnerable he¡¯s ever gotten with me. Before I can respond, though, he stops right in front of the heavy metal door, secured with some giant mechanical lock that, as he transmits the codes, begins to shift and move.


    While we watch, the door basically unfolds before us, not swinging on any hinges, but retracting into the surrounding walls. After several seconds, it stops moving, and Niko walks straight through. I follow close after, not lingering in the doorway for fear of what might happen to my body if it suddenly closed up around me.


    ¡°Okay, this is it,¡± he says, with a relieved sigh. The teleportal just looks like an empty doorframe standing in the middle of a large, circular room, with a control panel nearby. Niko walks over to it and transmits the code, causing the screen to light up.


    Tapping a set of coordinates into the control panel, Niko sets our destination, and pauses for a moment before pressing his finger against the button to confirm. The teleportal hums to life, a shimmering white veil appearing inside of the doorframe.


    Rather than walking through, I lean against the side of the teleportal, feeling it vibrate slightly, and gesture to it with a dramatic flourish.


    ¡°After you, my prince.¡±


    Niko cracks a smile, for the first time since last night, and I do my best not to start celebrating. Still, after he steps through the veil, I do allow myself a sigh of relief. We¡¯ll probably have to unpack that whole thing with Professor Kore eventually, but for now, it feels like things between us might be okay.


    <hr>


    The first thing that hits me is the smell. It¡¯s not raw sewage like I was half expecting, but it¡¯s still strong. Smog, sweat, urine, and the acrid scent of nuclear fuel intermingle in the air, invading my lungs. Before I can take two steps, I start coughing, and Niko turns, puts an arm around my shoulder, and helps me move away from the teleportal.


    Any city of this size has hundreds of public teleportals, more than enough to accommodate all daily traffic without becoming clogged. As a result, they aren¡¯t really monitored or guarded, aside from a few security cameras. The traffic isn¡¯t logged either, thankfully, else the two of us transiting in from the Citadel would probably have raised some red flags.


    This particular public portal hub is in what seems to pass for a public park in Limbo City- a tiny scrap of greenery with a lone swing set, the swings themselves long since removed, no doubt for the chairs to be used as weapons or to restrain somebody. With Niko¡¯s arm still around my shoulder, I let him guide me away, out onto the streets.


    ¡°C¡¯mon, we gotta get out of here.¡±


    We¡¯re not even on the actual streets of ¡®the LC,¡¯ as Niko called it. Looking around, I realize we¡¯re on a massive walkway between two huge megabuildings. On both sides of the walkway are structures that look like they started as temporary street stalls, but grew and expanded over the years, large and more successful ones muscling out their competitors until they¡¯ve grown into permanent installations. One of them seems to be a pub, with a semitransparent curtain ringing around the bar to give the illusion of privacy. Another looks like it¡¯s a gun store, with assault weapons on racks behind the counter, and a grizzled guy with a cheap prosthetic arm hawking his wares in six different languages. ¡®The streets aren¡¯t safe,¡¯ he says. ¡®Protect yourself.¡¯


    The ¡®park¡¯ we¡¯re stepping out of is the only hint of greenery in sight. Nobody pays us any mind, and not a minute after we¡¯ve emerged from the portal, somebody else comes out, a harried-looking woman in a sari who rushes off in the opposite direction of us.


    ¡°It reeks,¡± I complain quietly, before going into another coughing fit from having to breathe in to speak.


    ¡°You¡¯ll get used to it,¡± Niko assures me, with a pat on the back for good measure. ¡°Now get moving, we¡¯re meeting Saffi nearby.¡±


    That name isn¡¯t one I recognize- he¡¯s only referred to the people who¡¯ll be helping us with this as ¡®my contacts¡¯ before now.


    Quickly blending into the crowd of people crossing the walkway, we head towards the nearer of the two massive buildings it spans between. As promised, I begin to adjust to the air quality, but as soon as that starts, the sound begins to bother me. So many voices surround me, I feel like I¡¯m lost at sea. Vendors promoting their merchandise in so many languages that I can¡¯t tell what¡¯s even being sold, people haggling, arguing, chatting, or just rambling out loud to nobody. Niko takes his arm from my shoulder as I stand up straight and start breathing normally, but I grab his hand and hold tight, suddenly afraid we¡¯ll be separated. There are more people. around us than I¡¯ve ever seen in one place in my entire life. Seeing crowd shots in movies doesn¡¯t do it justice, at all.


    You doing okay? Niko asks, seeming to sense my discomfort. All of his earlier standoffishness seems to have dissipated upon seeing me acting vulnerable. Some shitty, cynical part of me files that information away for later use.


    Getting by. It¡¯s not too far?


    Nah. She should be in the atrium of this mega. Eighty-third floor.


    Not long after that, we reach the end of the walkway, which leads directly into the megabuilding, no doors, just a hangar-like opening that we pass through. The buildings interior is a huge atrium with a triangular design, ringed by walkways that are connected by staircases, stretching up and down to such distances that it looks practically infinite.


    The walkways inside of the building are vast, to the point where I guess that¡¯s what each floor of the building consists of, a bunch of apartments and suites with a tiny community consisting of stalls, shops, and even restaurants right outside your door. All designed so you don¡¯t ever have to leave if you don¡¯t want to. These aren¡¯t like the ¡®blocks,¡¯ housing designed for those who can barely afford to sleep indoors at all. Nor is it luxury apartments, either. This is housing for the semi-comfortable middle class, the kind of people who, on another world, might actually be able to afford a home, even if they wouldn¡¯t own it outright. Here, the idea of owning property at all is a joke- but if you can afford a reasonably nice apartment in a building like this, you¡¯re doing pretty good for yourself.


    Thanks to the bridges connecting many of Limbo City¡¯s largest buildings, like this one, you could probably go your entire life without setting foot on the planet¡¯s surface. Walk- or take a hovercab -from your apartment to where you work, then back again. Maybe visit another megabuilding to see a friend on the one day off you get every week. That¡¯s all there is to life for a lot of these people. And they don¡¯t even seem that unhappy about it. Certainly, there are worse fates to meet in a city like this.


    Whoever this ¡®Saffi¡¯ is, I¡¯m sure she doesn¡¯t live here. Depending on how high up she is in the ranks of the Red Sun Syndicate, it¡¯s conceivable she could afford one of these apartments, but the triad would never allow that. They like to keep their people close, and they primarily operate on the ground, not up here in these buildings. Protection from the gangs is a big selling point for buildings like this, so they take security seriously. I see turrets hanging from the ceiling, inactive but undisguised, as a clear warning to anybody looking to start extorting the stall owners and restaurateurs around here- more than the megabuilding already is, at least.


    ¡°Three floors up,¡± Niko says, pointing to a boldface yellow sign painted onto a nearby wall, reading ¡®80.¡¯ Makes sense that the floors connected to the skybridges would be at even intervals. Easier to coordinate construction that way.


    We head for the nearest stairwell, passing by a stall where somebody¡¯s selling knockoff fieldball jerseys for players I¡¯m pretty sure don¡¯t exist. Though part of me would like to hang around and explore for a few hours, I keep pace with Niko, who moves with purpose through the building, weaving his way in and out of the crowds. According to my internal clock, it¡¯s about midday here, and there are probably a few hundred people on every floor, based on what I see from glances across the center of the atrium to the other side. The building is big enough that it doesn¡¯t feel too crowded, which makes me feel a little less claustrophobic.


    Though we¡¯re moving fast, I try to take in as many of the people we pass as possible. Almost everybody here seems to be sporting some kind of visible body modification, from a woman with fractal, insectoid compound eyes, each facet a different color, to a man with a six-legged lower body. Many of those modifications are pushing up against Imperium law, but in Limbo City, the corporations are the real law, and they don¡¯t care much what you look like, so long as you do what they pay you to do. That doesn¡¯t extend to their executives, of course, who are expected to maintain properly human appearances at all times- but creative types and rule-breakers don¡¯t end up as corporate executives, for the most part.


    It¡¯s not long before we reach the eighty-third floor, which seems to be even more active than the three we¡¯ve already passed through to get here. Doesn¡¯t take a genius to figure out why- all I have to do is look for the source of the pulse-pounding music. A hypno-electric dance number is reverberating throughout the area, emanating from the open doors of Endless, a nightclub that doesn¡¯t seem to put much emphasis on the ¡®night¡¯ part of the name. Why anybody would be willing to pay to live next to a club that never closes its doors, I have no idea, but I suppose some people have no other options. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Even outside of the club, people are dancing, entranced by the beat. I can feel the hypnotic sound tugging at my consciousness, and it takes effort to resist. Obviously, it¡¯s not powerful enough to actually hijack anybody¡¯s mind, but overwhelmed as I am, my mental defenses are weaker than usual. To ground myself, I grip Niko¡¯s hand a little tighter.


    ¡°Who should I be looking for?¡± I ask, leaning close to whisper in his ear, so he can hear me over the music.


    ¡°Friend of mine,¡± he replies, while scanning the atrium for any sign of her. ¡°Safiyyah, but she goes by Sapphire. I call her Saffi. Changes her look every so often, so I can¡¯t promise any description would be totally accurate, but she¡¯s always wearing something pink.¡±


    ¡°Pink, huh?¡± I muse, doing my best to tune out the music while I look around for her. Together, we wander ¡®round the atrium, and I breathe a sigh of relief when we get far enough away from the club that the noise fades to a dull, tolerable hum.


    Though the multitude of modified bodies is rather distracting, I do my best to stay on-task. Eventually, my eyes fall upon a dark-skinned woman with braided blonde hair, wearing a pair of pink-tinted sunglasses, leaning against the railing of the atrium, looking bored. Her outfit is eclectic yet practical, consisting of a shoulders-and-sleeves-only jacket and tactical harness over a black t-shirt emblazoned with a stylistically defaced corporate logo, and tight dark-blue jeans with a holster strapped to her hip.


    ¡°Think I got your girl.¡±


    Niko turns to look where I¡¯m pointing, and when he sees the woman, his face lights up. Releasing my hand, he starts toward her, and I follow close behind.


    ¡°Saffi!¡±


    Hearing her nickname, she looks in our direction, and gives Niko a nod, looking cool as can be. Guess that¡¯s part of the job description when you work for the triad. She looks to be about our age, maybe a few years older, though obviously appearances don¡¯t mean much if you don¡¯t want them to. But if she was really in her sixties, I feel like Niko would have told me.


    ¡°What¡¯s up, pup?¡± she asks, and I chuckle. It¡¯s a clever nickname- Niko¡¯s founder was called Stormwolf, which makes him a wolf pup. But she doesn¡¯t seem to care that I appreciate the joke, just looks me over once and then turns back to him. ¡°This is your new boss? She doesn¡¯t look like much.¡±


    So that¡¯s how it¡¯s going to be. I¡¯m not gonna let this be a repeat of last night- my only option is to assert dominance right now, or she won¡¯t follow my orders when we¡¯re on the job. Lightning-quick, I whip out my tail and press the tip to her throat, turning my expression cold.


    ¡°Looks can be deceiving.¡±


    The two of us lock eyes, and stare each other down in silence for several long seconds. Niko doesn¡¯t say a word, just looks between us, expressionless, but clearly torn. Finally, Saffi laughs.


    ¡°I see why Niko likes you now. He always had a thing for girls who could kick his ass.¡±


    Sounds like a peace offering to me. I pull my tail back and offer my hand for her to shake.


    ¡°Iza.¡±


    ¡°Sapphire. I watched the match the other week. Your little demolitions trick was clever.¡±


    ¡°I do my best,¡± I reply, sardonic.


    Clearing his throat, Niko steps halfway between the two of us, drawing our attention back to him.


    ¡°If the two of you are done with¡­ whatever that was, we should get a move on.¡±


    ¡°Sounds good. Where are we headed?¡±


    ¡°Down,¡± Saffi replies, jerking her thumb in that direction for emphasis. Somehow I don¡¯t think she¡¯s just talking about a lower floor of this building. She means ground level, the grimy surface of the planet. The streets of Limbo City, where Niko came up. By all accounts, it¡¯s one of the worst places in the Imperium to live, but I¡¯d be lying if I said I wasn¡¯t a bit excited to see it.


    ¡°Great. Let¡¯s hit it.¡±


    <hr>


    The streets of Limbo City are¡­ well, nice certainly isn¡¯t the word I¡¯d use. They¡¯re dirty, caked in a layer of filth, trash, blood, and bile that nobody¡¯s bothered to clean up. It smells more like raw fish and urine down here than up there. But it¡¯s nowhere near the nightmare I was expecting.


    For the most part, everything looks ordinary. Rundown storefronts with flickering lights, ramshackle apartment buildings with shoddy ventilation systems and clothes drying on lines between buildings, awnings covering tiny balconies with single, rusting lawn chairs. Many of the buildings are built directly underneath the megabuildings, which are so large that they were built stories off the ground, with massive, sturdy pillars holding them up. They look strong enough that if an earthquake ever hit, I¡¯m sure the megabuildings would still be standing, even if everything else completely collapsed.


    Most striking are the neon signs that seem to be protruding from every building, in any number of different languages, though Chinese characters seem most common, which stands to reason, if this is the triad¡¯s territory. They may not have much sway up in the clouds where the corps rule, but down here, they¡¯re the only real power.


    In the road, I see a couple of hovercars, but for the most part, they seem to be using traditional land-bound vehicles. They still run on nuclear fuel, of course, but they¡¯re much less efficient, and consequently cheaper.


    The sky down here on ground level is somehow less clear than up in the megabuildings. Smog casts a grey pall over everything, which only those who can afford to live beyond the surface can escape. Somehow, it feels appropriate- walking around a place like this with a clear blue sky above us would be incongruous, dissonant.


    Sapphire¡¯s voice cuts through the ambient sound of the streets, capturing my attention immediately.


    ¡°Come on. We¡¯re going to the Bazaar. Mother wants to see you.¡±


    She¡¯s¡­ probably not referring to one of Niko¡¯s actual mothers. More likely a Syndicate higher-up who happens to be an older woman, and adopts a matronly disposition as a cover for her acts of horrific cruelty. Or maybe it really is just some kindly old woman Niko happens to know- but I doubt it. And I¡¯m gonna be on guard either way.


    Niko and I fall in behind Saffi, proceeding briskly down the street. I try not to think of what I¡¯m stepping in as I follow them, doing my best to acclimate to the environment without letting our guide tell how out of place I am.


    It hasn¡¯t taken long for Niko to get comfortable here again- but I guess he hasn¡¯t been away for that long. The way he navigates these streets with such confidence is impressive. All I can really do is emulate him for now, and hope that my false confidence becomes real sooner rather than later.


    A short walk through the streets later, we arrive at a narrow, unassuming alleyway, little more than a gap between two buildings. To pass through, we have to edge by overflowing dumpsters and avoid puddles of what I can only hope is just rainwater. But when we reach the end, all there seems to be is a concrete wall, covered in the tattered remains of some advertisements for a concert that seems to have taken place six years ago.


    ¡°You wanna do the honors?¡± Saffi asks, tilting her head towards the wall.


    With a shrug, Niko steps forward, and feels around on the wall for a few moments, until he touches upon whatever he¡¯s searching for. Activating some hidden mechanism I can¡¯t see in the darkness, he steps back, and watches as the wall slides open, revealing to us the Bazaar.


    Illuminated by neon signs and paper lanterns alike, the Bazaar is a bustling marketplace that seems to have sprung up in the gaps between buildings down here on the streets of the LC, a little haven of unregulated commerce and community unknown to the corporations and what passes for law enforcement here. Some of the vendors are selling ordinary wares, not too different from what we saw up in the megabuilding, albeit significantly cheaper, but many of them are openly promoting things that would be highly restricted contraband just about anywhere else in the Imperium.


    A ¡®pharmacy¡¯ stall has everything in stock from prescription medications that many down here likely can¡¯t afford to get legitimately, to the most dangerous narcotics I¡¯ve ever heard of, and plenty that I¡¯ve never heard of at all. They sell guns up there too, but compared to the ones they have down here, those are practically peashooters. This is a black market in the most literal sense.


    Though I try not to look like a total tourist, I can¡¯t keep myself from looking every which way as we head through the narrow streets, drinking in the atmosphere like I¡¯m dying of thirst. This place feels real, unlike anywhere I¡¯ve ever been before, and I can¡¯t get enough of it.


    ¡°You wanted to see where I grew up?¡± Niko asks me over his shoulder. ¡°This is it.¡±


    Indeed, as we continue through the Bazaar, several of the vendors take notice of his presence, calling out greetings or asking how he can be here, when he¡¯s supposed to be off at the Citadel. Niko returns the greetings and waves off all questions with an easy smile. Considering what his job with the triad was, he¡¯s probably shaken most of these people down for protection money in the past, if not worse, yet still they love him.


    Though it¡¯s probably a component, I can¡¯t attribute that all to Niko¡¯s charisma and good looks. Part of it is probably that the triad, while not exactly nice people, does represent security and stability to these people. If they disappeared one day, they¡¯d be replaced with an even more unpleasant group, who would probably kill half of these people just to make an example. That might sound like an exaggeration, but it¡¯s really not.


    Someone from a different, more insulated world, like where Sofie comes from, would probably question how things got this bad here, and why the Imperium allows it to stay that way. Reasonable questions, though obviously not ones with simple answers. Some would chalk it up to the fact that this system doesn¡¯t have a Noble governor, because it¡¯s in territory that was claimed after the War of Conquest, and thus after all of existing Imperial space was divided between various members of the Nobility. Instead, the system governor is selected by a popular vote, albeit from a group of pre-screened candidates vetted by the Imperial bureaucracy. And given the corruption and nearly-unrestrained corporate power at play, it¡¯s more accurate to say the corporations are the ones choosing who makes the rules.


    My answer would be a little different. Even if there was a Noble in charge around here, things would probably look much the same. Or if they didn¡¯t, it would be because another planet elsewhere in the Imperium would be just as bad instead. It¡¯s necessary for a place like Vi?saule to exist, because it serves as a deterrent. Something to motivate the citizens of the Imperium to work hard, and never stop working, lest they end up with nowhere else to go, and end up like Niko¡¯s parents did, indentured employees of some megacorporation. You don¡¯t need to coerce someone directly with a gun to their head when you can just as easily threaten them indirectly with a life of miserable poverty.


    Needless to say, there are some changes I would make, if I was in charge.


    After a few minutes worth of walking through the Bazaar, we finally end up at our destination, which seems to be a storefront built out of the back of one of the buildings surrounding this hidden market. The sign, in half a dozen different languages, reads ¡®Mother Hen¡¯s Fried Chicken,¡¯ with a cute little graphic of a plump, matronly chicken sitting on some eggs. A bit macabre, considering the implication is that the mother hen is selling her offspring to be eaten, but that could very well be an accurate representation of what this Mother person does. After all, Niko and Saffi are fairly young, and they would have been much younger when they started working for the triad.


    ¡°You ready?¡± Saffi asks, looking genuinely concerned for Niko. All he does is nod, and head in through the doors. I move to follow him, but Saffi puts a hand on my shoulder and shakes her head.


    ¡°You and me, we¡¯re gonna wait outside ¡®til they¡¯re finished.¡± The tone of her voice indicates she¡¯ll brook no dissent, and I¡¯m not inclined to push my luck right now, not on this topic. Worried though I might be for Niko, I¡¯m also in no position to go to war with the Red Sun Syndicate on his behalf. Still, if they hurt him, I fully intend to make destroying them one of my highest priorities.


    Arms folded, I take a seat outside of the chicken joint, one space away from Saffi. Neither of us speaks for a long stretch, and I¡¯m content just to take in the slice of the Bazaar I can see from this spot. At a small stall, surrounded by a swirling circular matrix of holo-screens, stands a large man who seems to be selling his services as an information broker. Next to him is an androgynous individual wearing a nearly transparent plastic robe, whose stall seems to contain boutique, illegal mem recordings- ¡®Beyond Your Wildest Fantasies.¡¯ The likely contents of those recordings makes me shudder just to think about.


    ¡°Neat trick with your tail back there,¡± Saffi says abruptly, perhaps unsure of how else to start a conversation when we began things with such open hostility. For my part, I¡¯m trying to keep an open mind about her. Unlike Kore, she doesn¡¯t seem to set me off just by existing, and it¡¯s nice to know that I¡¯m not so jealous that I¡¯ll go into a frenzy any time another woman looks in Nikos direction. I¡¯d have thought that was obvious, considering I¡¯m already sharing him with Sofie, but the whole incident last night had me genuinely concerned.


    ¡°Thanks. You don¡¯t seem to have any mods- any reason why? Gotta assume it¡¯s not a triad thing, since Niko got away with those cute lil horns of his.¡±


    ¡°More of a chrome girl,¡± she responds, rolling up her sleeve to expose her forearm, which has a visible seam running down its length. As I watch, it splits down that seam, revealing itself to be a cybernetic replacement limb, concealing a wicked-looking gun beneath the false flesh. I give an impressed whistle.


    ¡°Nice piece of hardware you got there. Necessary replacement, or was this a voluntary procedure?¡±


    ¡°Bit of both,¡± Saffi answers, as the arm closes up and she rolls her sleeve back down. ¡°Took a couple bullets, the docs said my arm was ¡®irreparably damaged.¡¯ Up at the Citadel that would probably be grounds for an instant rez, but the wait times down here are absurd, and I figured I¡¯d rather get it cut off and replaced than spend six months waiting to get a whole new body.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re making me wish we had a cyberclinic up there,¡± I confess, with another glance at her arm. ¡°Would love to surprise everybody with a built-in gun come the next War Games.¡±


    ¡°Or some organ mesh, keep you from getting stabbed again,¡± she laughs, and I try not to blush, only now realizing she must have seen what happened between me and Sofie, just like everybody else. Thankfully, she moves on from that pretty quickly. ¡°Could introduce you to our guy while you¡¯re here. Maybe get you a friends-and-family discount, assuming everything goes okay with the pup and Mother.¡±


    When she mentions that, I look over my shoulder, as if expecting some sign from inside the restaurant that things are okay. Nothing reveals itself.


    ¡°What¡¯s her deal, if you don¡¯t mind my asking?¡±


    Saffi purses her lips.


    ¡°She runs this place, for the Syndicate. If you want to set up shop here, you do it with her blessing or not at all. Gotta pay tribute, too. In exchange for protection, of course.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re the ones who provide that protection? You and Niko?¡±


    ¡°Among other things.¡± Saffi sighs. ¡°They call her Mother because she likes collecting kids. Like him, like me. Nothing¡­ creepy, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re thinking. Or at least not in that sense. We¡¯re just easier to work with. Less likely to be spies, more malleable. You¡¯ve seen how the pup operates. Normal people don¡¯t behave that way, even Nobles. All of that is her influence.¡±


    She¡¯d be surprised how many other Nobles act like Niko, I think. But I don¡¯t argue the point.


    ¡°Guessing she wasn¡¯t thrilled about losing him, then.¡±


    ¡°Nope,¡± she answers, popping the ¡®p¡¯ like bubblegum, which I¡¯m kind of surprised she isn¡¯t chewing. It would really complete her whole aesthetic, with the pink and everything. ¡°We all knew it was coming, but it was still a loss. And for him to come back so soon, asking for favors¡­ she could get annoyed. All depends on her mood, really.¡±


    Great- so this entire operation is in the hands of some capricious old triad middle manager. In the back of my head, I start reviewing my memories of how we got here, trying to figure out what the fastest path out of the Bazaar would be, if we needed to leave in a hurry.


    After that, the conversation sort of dies, and Saffi and I go back to sitting in silence. Thankfully, the door to the fried chicken restaurant swings open a few minutes later, and Niko walks out. Physically, he seems fine, but I can tell by the look on his face that he¡¯s been through it.


    ¡°How¡¯d it go?¡± Saffi asks, keeping her tone casual, though I can tell she sees the same thing in Niko¡¯s expression that I do.


    ¡°Fine,¡± he replies flatly. ¡°We¡¯re in business. Let¡¯s head to the Den- I need a drink.¡±


    <hr>


    Niko barely says a word the entire way to the Den, which I gather is the place he, Saffi, and the rest of Mother¡¯s teenage triad enforcer squad live. Much of Niko¡¯s prior enthusiasm about returning to Limbo City has vanished- I guess his interaction with Mother ripped the rose-tinted goggles right off of his face.


    The route we take from the Bazaar is circuitous, almost labyrinthine, passing through back alleys, abandoned buildings, and at one point, even up onto the rooftops and back down. Saffi and Niko navigate it with ease, and I manage to more or less keep pace with them, though it¡¯s a challenge at times.


    Limbo City is nothing like the Citadel- while the latter is in so many ways uniform, this place is more of a patchwork, closer to a natural formation than something planned or designed. The heights of the buildings around us vary wildly, as does the quality of their construction materials. One will be halfway to collapsing, while the one next to it looks like it was erected yesterday. And they¡¯re all in the shadow of the gargantuan megabuildings, which look like they were just dropped onto the city by another species altogether, they¡¯re so far removed from anything that¡¯s happening down here.


    To be honest, I¡¯m starting to like it here. Limbo City feels real, in a way unlike anywhere else I¡¯ve ever been, short as that list is. But I¡¯ve got no intention of telling Niko or Saffi that, if for no other reason than that I¡¯m a tourist, unlikely to experience any of the real hardships while I¡¯m here. Raving about how ¡®authentic¡¯ everything feels, when they¡¯ve had to experience all of that up close for their entire lives, would be pretty insensitive of me.


    Without warning, the two of them stop outside of a nondescript door, which shudders open to reveal a cramped, dingy elevator, which all three of us barely fit into. Instead of putting in a single floor, Niko punches in a seemingly random combination of buttons, after which a chime sounds, and the carriage begins to ascend. It rattles and shakes the whole way, which makes me somewhat uncomfortable- I can count on one hand the number of times I¡¯ve ever been in an elevator, and half of those instances happened today.


    ¡°This is it,¡± Niko says, as the elevator slows to a stop, and the door opens jerkily. ¡°Home sweet home.¡±


    The Den doesn¡¯t look much like what I was expecting the hideout of a bunch of teenage triad enforcers to be. No empty takeout boxes or stains of unknown provenance. It¡¯s a bit messy, but aside from that, pretty nice. Hardwood floors, potted plants that seem to be well-tended, a shelf full of physical books, and even a wall-length false window, the hexagonal tiling telling me that from the outside, it looks like solid concrete, but from in here, we can see out into the city, which suddenly looks a lot more squalid from in here. The walls are brick, with a TV set into it on one side, and a handful of paintings hanging opposite it.


    ¡°Not bad, huh?¡± Saffi asks, noticing me looking around in surprise. ¡°Nobody knows this is here but us, else scavengers would already have been by to take everything not bolted down, then back again with crowbars to take everything that is.¡±


    As soon as we cross the threshold, Niko makes a beeline for the liquor cabinet, pulls out a bottle and pours himself a drink. While he slugs it back, Saffi heads for the couch and drops down onto it, putting her feet up on the coffee table.


    ¡°Mother must really like you, if she puts you up somewhere like this.¡±


    The both of them laugh, not without some bitterness to it.


    ¡°She rewards people who are useful to her. Took us a long time before we earned a place this nice. You remember that rathole we used to squat in, pup?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t remind me,¡± Niko replies, and takes another drink.


    ¡°He was pretty big in getting us out of there,¡± Saffi says to me, gesturing in Niko¡¯s direction. ¡°¡®S why it¡¯s named after him.¡±


    Oh, like a wolf¡¯s den. I get it.


    ¡°Funny,¡± I say with a chuckle, kicking off my shoes and ditching my heavy black coat. ¡°So, let¡¯s get down to it. You have intel for me?¡±


    Looking a little annoyed that I want to go straight to business, Saffi clicks a buckle on her tactical harness and lets it drop to the couch behind her, before stretching her arms wide and yawning.


    ¡°Yeah. Hold on.¡± She angles her head towards the loft¡¯s upper floor, which I can only see the underside of from here, and shouts. ¡°Tommy! Get down here!¡±


    ¡°One minute!¡± shouts back the voice of a younger boy, followed by an intensification of a sound I hadn¡¯t realized I was hearing before- someone typing on an analog keyboard. Legacy tech, made obsolete by the advent of holo-screen tech and the brainband.


    About two minutes later, someone comes tearing down the stairs at manic speeds, very nearly colliding with Niko in the process. He stops short, drawing breath as if to chastise the person he almost ran into for not getting out of the way, before he realizes who he¡¯s preparing to tear into.


    ¡°Niko! You¡¯re back!¡±


    His arm shoots up, palm open for a high-five, and Niko gives him one, a grin spreading across his face for the first time since his encounter with Mother.


    ¡°Toldja, kid. And I brought a friend.¡±


    The kid turns to me, gives me a once-over, then scrambles over to where I¡¯m sitting, still moving so fast I can barely keep up with him.


    ¡°Izanami, right?! I saw you on the holo the other day! The way you took out that guy with your knife was totally wicked!¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I start to say, but he keeps talking, so fast I can¡¯t get a word in edgewise.


    ¡°And that girl who was with you after you got stabbed, she¡¯s super pretty. Is she your girlfriend?¡±


    My mouth responds before my brain can censor the words, and I say ¡°Uh, yeah, mine and Niko¡¯s.¡±


    Tommy¡¯s mouth falls open, jaw slack, and he slowly turns back to face Niko. Then he crosses the room in a flash again, once more standing next to Niko, who¡¯s more than a head taller than him.


    ¡°My MAN!¡± he shouts, raising his hand for another high-five, which Niko returns, while shooting me a sheepish look.


    Tilting down her pink-tinted sunglasses, Saffi looks at me, expression sympathetic.


    ¡°This is Tommy. Our resident digital safecracker. He¡¯s been digging up intel on this Salzwedel guy¡¯s place. Show her what you have, T.¡±


    ¡°Got it!¡± he chirps, and sends a massive data file my way. It¡¯ll take a while to sift through all of it, and I don¡¯t have my full copyclan available- all but one of them are back at the Citadel, helping maintain the illusion that the real me is still there, and taking care of managing the unit while I¡¯m gone, too. But I left one copy inactive, in case I needed to spin her up while I was on this job, which seems like it was the right decision.


    ¡°This looks solid,¡± I conclude, based on my initial assessment. ¡°Floor plan, security system, guard patrol patterns¡­ shit. You¡¯re the real deal, kid.¡±


    ¡°Thanks! Running cybersec for Mother is boring, so this was real fun. You guys are planning on breaking into this place, right? That¡¯s fuckin¡¯ wicked!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s the idea,¡± Niko says, and starts pouring another drink. I send him a brainband ping asking for him to do the same for me, and he replies with a silent chuckle.


    ¡°It¡¯ll take a bit before I can put together a plan,¡± I inform the group, as Niko comes over to where we¡¯re sitting, three drinks in his hands. Saffi and I each take ours gratefully, while Tommy heads back upstairs, evidently used to clearing the room when the adults are talking. ¡°Gotta know, though¡­ what are we looking at in terms of resources? Your boss give us a budget or something?¡±


    Niko sighs.


    ¡°Mother says we¡¯re allowed to spend as much of her money as we want, so long as we bring enough back from the job to pay for it all afterwards.¡±


    Wonderful. So if I decide retrieving the Regalia is gonna take a six-person team, recouping the cost of hiring all those people is going to be added to our list of objectives. And Niko doesn¡¯t need to say the words for it to be obvious- if we borrow more than we can pay back, we¡¯ll all be in deep shit. I¡¯m not stupid enough to think that being a Noble will protect me from the triad¡¯s wrath.


    ¡°Okay. I can work with that.¡±

 Chapter Twenty-Four

    Light-years away from Limbo City, a cloaked satellite that orbits no body, operating illegally without registration, receives a command and begins to move, rotating in place until it faces the correct direction.


    Once the precise trajectory has been calculated, the satellite extends its firing arm, a massive railgun more than half a mile long. Drawing on internal power reserves, because this is a long shot in the most literal sense of the word, it charges the railgun and fires.


    At first glance, the projectile it launched could be mistaken for a torpedo, thanks to its ergonomic design, but there¡¯s one crucial difference- it lacks an independent propulsion mechanism of any kind. In a frictionless environment, the initial impulse behind its firing will be enough to carry it straight to its destination, provided the travel corridor doesn¡¯t suddenly change. If the projectile happens to get hit by a stray speck of space dust that throws it wildly off course or destroys it, we won¡¯t be getting a refund.


    That scenario is unlikely, but if it comes to pass, we¡¯ll be in trouble. This process isn¡¯t a cheap one- the first major expense of our operation. This projectile was aimed squarely at the planet Liese, from the nearest in a network of illegally operated satellites that serve the Imperium¡¯s criminal fraternity.


    When the projectile reaches Liese, it¡¯ll be caught in the planet¡¯s orbit. In theory, it could have been fired with enough force to escape the gravitational pull of the planetary nature preserve, if we¡¯d paid significantly more, but that wouldn¡¯t have served our purposes. Instead, the projectile will orbit the planet for a matter of hours, until it¡¯s as near as possible to our target, the home of one Anselm Salzwedel.


    Once it¡¯s close enough, the projectile will rotate, using oxygen jets, to face the planet¡¯s surface. Then, the ¡®warhead¡¯ will be launched from the projectile¡¯s body, firing a payload directly towards Salzwedel¡¯s residence. Most of this warhead is just protective shielding, to keep the payload from burning up on atmospheric entry. After getting within range of the building, it will split apart, releasing the payload- a miniature drone, roughly the size of a housefly.


    The lag time between Limbo City and Liese is too great for Tommy, who¡¯s arranged most of this, to pilot the drone manually. Instead, it¡¯s been pre-programmed to do what we need- namely, make us a map of the home¡¯s interior. We¡¯ve already got a blueprint, but that doesn¡¯t do us much good on its own, not when we¡¯re searching for one specific item within a huge building. The drone will, hopefully, be able to give us an idea of where our target is located, if not pinpoint its precise hiding place. Plus, it¡¯ll give us a sense for where the other valuables are located, and what the best ingress and egress points might be.


    If the drone doesn¡¯t provide any of that, or gets caught by some ultra-sophisticated security net we weren¡¯t expecting, or simply never makes it to Liese¡­ it doesn¡¯t change much about the plan. We¡¯ll just be going in with much less information than I¡¯d like. Either way, the die is cast now. We owe the Red Sun Syndicate about half the price of a used hovercar, and if we can¡¯t steal enough from Salzwedel¡¯s home to cover that, we¡¯ll be in deep shit.


    Tommy came to me with the idea of using the satellite network the same night that Niko and I arrived in Limbo City, and I approved it immediately. The network apparently has satellites set up all over the Imperium, but Liese is so remote that even the closest one is still quite a ways away, meaning there are still hours to go before the drone arrives. We¡¯ll know if it¡¯s reached its destination or not by the late afternoon at the earliest. Which means I¡¯ve got some time to kill.


    Originally, my plan was to explore the city with Niko, but when I raised the idea, still laying on the couch where I spent the previous night, Saffi- hair still damp from the shower -just laughed.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got a better plan. How about the pup, who¡¯s been living it up at the Citadel for the past two months, covers my route for the day, and I take the day off to show you around the city.¡±


    When I turned to look at Niko, he shrugged and said ¡°Sure, I¡¯ve got plenty of experience covering for your lazy ass. It¡¯ll be just like old times.¡±


    As Saffi and I are leaving the Den, she leans over and says to me- not quite whispering, but not speaking at full volume either -¡°Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll make sure the two of you get some alone time. ¡®S just that Thirddays are always a bitch for me, so I figured I¡¯d pawn my work off on him while I had the chance.¡±


    ¡°Gotcha,¡± I reply, trying to suppress a nervous shiver as the door of the coffin-like elevator shudders shut. Keeping my attention on Saffi, I do my best to ignore how small our current confinements are and focus on her. Thankfully, she¡¯s pretty easy on the eyes. ¡°So, what does a typical day for you look like, if you don¡¯t mind me asking?¡±


    No need to stress the fact that I¡¯m not gonna tell anybody- my entire presence here is illegal, probably more so than anything she¡¯s ever done in her life, unless she happens to have truekilled somebody.


    ¡°It¡¯s not as interesting as you¡¯re expecting,¡± she cautions me, with an amused look on her face, eyes half-hidden behind those same pink shades. ¡°Most of us have a route, an area we cover every day. Everybody except Tommy, really. It¡¯s like a cop on patrol. We check in with everybody, keep tabs on people, take the community¡¯s temperature. Make sure the only illegal stuff that¡¯s happening is sanctioned by the Syndicate. Collect protection money once a month. All pretty civilized.¡±


    The way she describes it is incredibly matter-of-fact, like she¡¯s talking about her day job. Which I guess she is. And since there¡¯s no real law enforcement presence on the streets of Limbo City, it makes sense organized crime would take that role.


    Finally, the elevator comes to a stop, the doors open jerkily, and I step out swiftly, just overeager enough to draw Saffi¡¯s attention, though she doesn¡¯t comment on it. We step out onto the sidewalk, looking for all the world like a pair of women out on the town. She¡¯s got a stylish black halter top on, with a striking neon-pink sword emblazoned on the front. My outfit is decidedly less conservative than yesterday¡¯s, with a pair of tight black shorts that barely extend halfway down my thighs, and a slightly oversized yellow hoodie with an oversized product label on the back, which is apparently part of some local fashion trend I couldn¡¯t be further from understanding. I was a little worried about being recognized, since the War Games are broadcast all over the Imperium, and my face was featured rather prominently, but according to Saffi, almost nobody around here pays attention to that kind of thing. Not really that surprising- the Nobility has virtually no impact on their daily lives, so they just tune out anything concerning us.


    ¡°Course,¡± she continues, as we head towards the nearest hovertrain station, ¡°there¡¯s some stuff we do that most other 49ers don¡¯t.¡±


    Forty-niners being the lowest-level members of a triad, according to the traditional hierarchy at least. The ranking system is pretty minimal, from what I¡¯ve read- that lowest rung encompasses the vast majority of members, even people who have been with the triad for decades. Only those suited for leadership and management positions tend to climb the ladder.


    ¡°Like?¡±


    In an alleyway to our left, an emaciated figure lies curled up on the ground beneath a tattered blanket, shivering, with a small pool of bile next to their head, slowly seeping towards the nearest drain. Saffi doesn¡¯t even spare them a glance.


    ¡°Odd jobs. Stuff the average street thug isn¡¯t really equipped for. One corp decides they¡¯d like something the competition is building, and they need a deniable team to go grab it for them. Or a bratva Vor decides he wants out of the life, and needs us to make sure he can walk away safely. You get the idea.¡±


    ¡°Mercenaries, basically. And Mother acts as your fixer?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s about the size of it,¡± she confirms. I fall silent, reevaluating my understanding of who Niko is in light of this new information. From the moment I first laid eyes on him, I had a feeling he had a bit of a checkered past, though admittedly, it was mostly the tattoos that led me to that conclusions, and those ended up being entirely unrelated. But what Saffi is describing isn¡¯t much like the vague hints he¡¯s given Sofie and me in the past about what exactly he did for the Syndicate. It does explain why he¡¯s so good at hurting people, though.


    The two of us walk in silence for a while, and though I look up at the looming megabuildings every now and then, I keep my eyes down for the most part. Not staring at the streets- the less I¡¯m aware of what I¡¯m stepping in, the better -but at the people on them. For the most part, they look¡­ empty. Not miserable, and certainly not ecstatic, just completely apathetic. Unless you¡¯re lucky enough to live in a megabuilding or work for a group like the Syndicate, your life in Limbo City is one of drudgery and toil without end.


    Across the Imperium, most manufacturing is fully or near-fully automated. There are still dull, unexciting jobs that can only be done by humans, but their number shrinks every year as technology improves, so the Nobles in charge of governing places where jobs are being lost to automation have, for the most part, instituted basic income programs to make sure nobody is left destitute thanks to the marsh of progress. Others have instituted harsher policies that ¡®incentivize¡¯ people to move somewhere else to find work, like a farm-world, where they¡¯ll be paid reasonably well for fairly light work, at the cost of living on an isolated homestead surrounded by fifty miles of corn. But the governors of this system had a different idea.


    Instead of providing for people whose jobs would be destroyed by automation, they simply outlawed automation completely. No new technology that would automate manual labor is permitted anywhere on Vi?saule, or any of the neighboring planets. I¡¯m sure there are people up in the megabuildings above us who like to complain about their ¡®soul-crushing¡¯ office jobs with whatever corporation they¡¯re a glorified slave to. But it¡¯s nothing compared to working in a factory, assembling the same clock thousands of times a day, almost every day of your life, and knowing that a machine could just as easily be doing it- but that it¡¯s barred from doing so, because it¡¯s in your ¡®best interest¡¯ to keep automation banned. Otherwise you wouldn¡¯t have a job at all.


    Naturally, human labor is less efficient than machine labor in almost every case, but there¡¯s still plenty of massive corporations that choose to keep their headquarters here, and it¡¯s not just because they pay virtually nothing in taxes. Turns out, if you don¡¯t worry about workplace safety at all, and pay pennies, humans are actually more cost-effective than machines. Sure, they break more often, but you don¡¯t have to pay to repair them, just dismiss anybody whose body is too broken to work, and another one will show up desperate to take their place. Plus, the more employees in-system that a corporation has, the more influence they¡¯re given over the outcome of regional elections, which gives them even more power to rewrite what scant few regulations still exist in their favor.


    And of course, the Imperium is all too happy to let all this happen, because if there isn¡¯t a rock bottom in society for you to hit, you¡¯ll stop climbing- and if everybody stopped climbing, society would grind to a halt. There are ways to avoid that, but none that anybody in a position of real power would ever entertain for a second.


    I¡¯m so caught up in my own grim thoughts that I barely notice when we arrive at the hovertrain station. Saffi leads me up the stairs, and to the platform by the elevated track. The maglev rail system only covers the lowest level of the city- up there in the megabuildings, they¡¯ve got their own public transit system that¡¯s significantly better-maintained.


    Once we get to the platform, we¡¯re confronted with a thick metal gate that has multiple doors, and a small scanner next to each one. Turnstiles would be too easy to jump, I suppose, with nobody actually watching the station. Anybody in a uniform, even a public transit employee, would be torn apart by one of the city¡¯s thrill-gangs in about thirty seconds flat.


    The thrill-gangs are comprised of Limbo City¡¯s stupidest, most psychotic individuals, the sort who like to hurt people for fun, but don¡¯t know how to channel that impulse into something slightly productive, like organized crime- so they just hurt people, and subsist on whatever they can scrounge up from their corpses, or torture them into transferring from their personal accounts. Unless you know how to fight well enough to fend off multiple assailants simultaneously, your best bet when you see them coming is to pull your personal kill-switch. But if they manage to hit you with a stun-baton first, it¡¯ll scramble your brain so you can¡¯t pull the plug- because tearing apart a lifeless body is no fun for them, so they¡¯ll do whatever they can to keep you alive and screaming.


    ¡®Protection money¡¯ isn¡¯t just a euphemism for extortion here, even if the triad will absolutely break your legs if you don¡¯t pay up. It also means keeping you safe from the thrill-gangs, and other, less civilized residents of the LC. Niko¡¯s told me a bit about his run-ins with them in the past. Killing them was probably the least morally-dubious thing he ever did while living here.


    As we approach the gates, I get ready to transfer a few credits to the scanner to get through, when Saffi snaps her fingers, and all the gates swing open at once, one or two moving slightly slower thanks to rust and neglect.


    ¡°Neat trick,¡± I tell her, striding through the gate and onto the platform, where a handful of LC residents with the same empty looks in their eyes wait.


    ¡°City doesn¡¯t have much public utility tech left, but what¡¯s there, Tommy¡¯s backdoored into.¡±


    ¡°Impressive. How¡¯d he end up involved with you guys? Seems a little young for gang life¡­¡±


    There¡¯s no judgment in my voice. If he wasn¡¯t working for the Syndicate, I have zero doubt he¡¯d be in a much worse situation. Limbo City¡¯s streets don¡¯t stop being unkind just because you¡¯re a kid. If anything, they¡¯re even worse.


    Saffi leans up against the wall, one foot up, right next to a flickering holo-screen showing the train¡¯s route, though the display seems to have been digitally defaced to include a gaudy, graffiti-like three-eyed face with an X-shaped, alien mouth full of thin, sharp teeth.


    ¡°Fuck if I know. Mother has her people keep an eye out for talented kids, I guess. Rule¡¯s simple with our group- if you don¡¯t wanna talk about what you used to be, don¡¯t ask anybody what they were before either.¡±


    In other words, she doesn¡¯t want to answer any questions about her past, so she hasn¡¯t pressed any of the others on theirs. Niko shared his with Sofie and I, after we got to know him better, but it did take some coaxing, and his life before the Syndicate was fairly tame, since he wasn¡¯t born on the streets, he came to them by choice. The others, I suspect, never got to choose at all.


    Thankfully, the train arrives not much later, its maglev hum filling the awkward silence left by my faux pas. Hovering in place, its doors open, and a handful of people disembark, before me, Saffi, and the others on the platform get on.


    Our car is pretty empty, and relatively clean- though only by Limbo City standards. There are still grease-stained wrappers from shitty fast food meals littering the seats, a couple loose shell casings rattling around, and some dried bloodstains on the windows. Rather than risk sitting down, I pull my hand into my hoodie¡¯s sleeve and use it as a makeshift glove to hold onto a railing, doing my best to avoid contracting some kind of horrid disease from touching anything with my bare skin. Nothing in this city has been cleaned in the last decade, I¡¯m sure of it.


    ¡°So,¡± I say to Saffi, who¡¯s holding onto the railing above us, wearing actual gloves that I¡¯ve only just now noticed. ¡°How long have you known Niko?¡±


    A question I could guess the answer to myself, if I really cared to know. They started out around the same time, and they¡¯re roughly the same age, so it wouldn¡¯t be hard to get a general number. But what I¡¯m really asking is, ¡®How well do you know Niko?¡¯ Only, I can¡¯t quite ask that outright, so I have to be circumspect instead.


    ¡°About¡­ seven years. Maybe eight. We were the first kids Mother recruited in a long time, after a team she really liked got wiped out. Him, me, and a handful of others. They¡­ none of them are around anymore either.¡±


    Truedeath can¡¯t be that common here- it¡¯s probably the only crime that might actually get a police investigation, if only to find out where anybody got their hands on some Mindkiller. And that, in turn, would draw attention to hubs of illicit commerce like the Bazaar, which nobody wants. So if the other kids Saffi and Niko started out with are gone, it¡¯s probably in a slightly less permanent sense.


    One possibility is that they just got kicked out. The Red Sun Syndicate isn¡¯t a charity, and if someone wasn¡¯t pulling their weight, I¡¯ve got no doubt Mother would send them right back to sleeping in alleys and eating rats. Another option is that they died, and were of such low priority to the resurrection system that they still don¡¯t have a new body. Or, more likely, they ended up getting caught on one of those ¡®odd jobs¡¯ Saffi mentioned, and convicted by whatever corporate kangaroo court they were hauled in front of.


    For a street rat from Limbo City, there are only two possible outcomes for a trial like that, and neither involves walking free. Either you get sent straight into early retirement, or you get sentenced to hard labor. Corporate slaves may live miserable lives, whether they work in an office or in a factory, but they still have certain basic rights. A convicted felon is stripped of those. They don¡¯t lose their right to a body, but they lose the right to choose what kind of body it is. Their previous one is recycled, and they¡¯re assigned to a new one, outfitted with dehumanizing industrial cybernetics, designed for their new job on a mining colony.


    There¡¯s no process of being ¡®shipped off,¡¯ you just get yanked out of your old body and deposited directly into a new one, usually on the same day as your sentencing. It¡¯ll be a long way from your old home, on an asteroid mining station, where you¡¯ll probably be spending the rest of your life before retirement. The bodies those people wear are barely recognizable as human, some 80% mechanical, without sex organs, hair, or even fingers. There are no beds, just recharging stations where you¡¯ll spend two or three hours each day, the only brief respite from cold, hard labor. To meet your now-minimal biological needs, you¡¯ll get fed a textureless nutrient slurry through a tube while you ¡®sleep.¡¯ The bodies have no mouths, not even voice boxes, but you can still communicate through the brainband- that is, unless a supervisor feels like revoking your communication privileges, at which point you¡¯re restricted to two words. ¡®Yes¡¯ and ¡®no.¡¯


    It¡¯s maybe the worst fate imaginable for a human being. I certainly struggle to think of anything worse. Given that the Imperium was supposedly founded on humanistic principles, one might think that such horror would be anathema to our society- but believing in the sanctity of human life seemingly only extends as far as not permanently killing you. The Imperial Creed says nothing about making you wish every day that you were dead.


    If a society like ours needs a rock bottom, and places like Limbo City serve that purpose, those mining colonies are whatever is below rock bottom. A place even the lowest of the low fear being sent.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I whisper to Saffi, who hasn¡¯t said a word as I worked through the implications of what she said.


    ¡°Hey. At least the pup and I made it out. Did pretty well for ourselves, even. The others- that¡¯s life, you know? Some of ¡®em caught bad breaks, but most were just plain stupid, and there¡¯s not much Niko or I could have done to fix that.¡±Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    She¡¯s gotta think about it like that, though. Because if not, the horror would eat her alive from inside out. I get to go home after we¡¯re done here. She has to stay. Maybe having Mother¡¯s favor and a more significant position in the Syndicate¡¯s ranks will mean that she¡¯ll be able to escape a fate like her former comrades, but memories are the one thing you can¡¯t leave behind. Unless you can afford to have yours edited. Ironic, that the only people who can afford a procedure like that are also the least likely to need it.


    ¡°Yeah. Look, I know this doesn¡¯t mean anything to you, but¡­ I¡¯m not going to let things stay like this. It¡¯s hollow, and naive, and meaningless, I know. But I¡¯m gonna fix all of this. One day.¡±


    A strong contender for the stupidest thing I¡¯ve ever said. It probably doesn¡¯t even make sense to her on a basic level- even if I survive the Citadel, what power could I possibly have to help Limbo City, or abolish the practice of forced labor, or change anything? One Noble, no matter how determined, is never going to have enough power or influence to reform the entire Imperium. And it¡¯s certainly not doing wonders for my efforts to impress Niko¡¯s cool friend, who now knows for a fact that I¡¯m just some weak-kneed, starry-eyed farm-world girl who thinks she can change the way that things are.


    But all she says to me is ¡°Why?¡±


    Not asking why I¡¯d want to change things. That much is obvious, I suppose. What she¡¯s asking is why I¡¯d bother to try, when the chances of success are negligible and the consequences of failure are so great.


    ¡°Because someone has to.¡±


    <hr>


    It takes more than an hour for the hovertrain to get us where we need to go. I spend most of the trip looking out the window at the buildings passing by. Though the train moves fast enough that I don¡¯t see much more than a blur most of the time, the ones further away from us are more distinct, and I get a pretty good look at the architecture of Limbo City.


    The word that first comes to mind is ¡®patchwork.¡¯ Based on what I¡¯ve read about the megalopolis, it wasn¡¯t planned by a committee like most major cities in the Imperium, but rather handed off to dozens of different corporations and real estate companies to build as they saw fit. The result is that no two buildings seem to fit together, even ones that are mere inches apart. If there¡¯s any unifying factor between them at all, it¡¯s efficiency. With a scant few exceptions, it¡¯s clear no mind was paid to aesthetics in constructing the city. The focus was purely on how to cram as many people into one place as cheaply as possible.


    Of course, almost nobody wants to live in a colorless grey concrete abyss, so it¡¯s fallen to the inhabitants of the city- those with a bit of life left in them, at least -to give the place some color. The neon signs adorning so many buildings are a part of it, and thanks to the omnipresent clouds of smog choking the air, they provide some much-needed light in addition to color, bathing the streets in a prismatic glow. But in addition to those, there¡¯s graffiti. Lots of it.


    Some of the defacement is digital, like what we saw at the train station. Holo-screens projected onto the sides of buildings, or into the open air, but altered to include vulgar images, vaguely anti-corporate messaging, or simply the defacer¡¯s artwork. But most of it is analog, spray-painted onto the otherwise-lifeless monoliths that dominate the landscape.


    There are plenty of gang tags, from the smaller street crews that will probably be wiped out by tomorrow if they haven¡¯t been already, to the more organized criminal networks like the triads, yakuza, and bratva. I even spot a few of the Syndicate¡¯s symbols, angry red suns with accusatory eyes staring out from their centers. Those are mostly to be found lower to the ground, in places that were easier to tag, and seem to mark territory, or in some cases, failed attempts to claim territory, marked by a sign that¡¯s been painted over with a black skull symbol.


    Higher up is the more complex stuff, which I¡¯d say actually qualifies as art. Entire buildings completely painted over, with dozens of different styles on display. Many are purely abstract, but some show scenes, ranging from fantastical battles to peaceful woodland groves. Some even appear to be historical- I spot one that appears to depict Urien, the Exemplar, holding back the forces of the warlord Hearteater from destroying Kerpe Village, a story just about every child in the Imperium knows. It¡¯s a part of our childhood curriculum, taught to us before we even get our first bodies.


    Urien, like my Founder and Hark¡¯s, was one of the Nine Titans, but unlike Thorn or Vance, he wasn¡¯t known for being ruthless, pragmatic, or even unpredictable. Almost exactly the opposite. He earned two titles, like the rest of the Titans- Exemplar, and Hero of the Masses. Those aren¡¯t names you earn by being a cold, calculating bastard. They¡¯re earned by being a good person, and by all accounts, that¡¯s exactly what Urien was. The kind of guy who never heard a hopeless cause he wasn¡¯t ready to fight for. Including Kerpe Village.


    Course, every one of the Titans, no matter how clever or cold, fought a battle that seemed hopeless at one point or another. What sets Kerpe Village apart is that it wasn¡¯t a battle worth fighting. Had no tactical value whatsoever. The warlord had demanded tribute they couldn¡¯t possibly pay, and by that point Urien had already cultivated a reputation for standing up for the little guy, so when they found out he was in the system, they reached out and asked him for help.


    The people of the village weren¡¯t gonna die. Not permanently, at least. But their homes would be razed, their prized possessions looted, their fields burned and the ground salted. If Hearteater¡¯s forces had their way, it would be destroyed forever, the population left with nowhere to go when they emerged from the resurrection system. Refugees in the middle of a system at war. So Urien went, even though half his officers were telling him that it was a trap, and the other half were saying that even if it wasn¡¯t a trap, it still wasn¡¯t worth going.


    When he found out the Exemplar was diverting his forces to defend some insignificant village, Hearteater sent ten times the number of troops he¡¯d been planning to, figuring either that there was something hidden in the village that Urien wanted to defend, or that i would be a good opportunity to distract him while the campaign raged on elsewhere. So Urien and his soldiers fought, bled, and died for a village that meant nothing to anybody except the people who lived there.


    Eventually, Hearteater¡¯s forces retreated, figuring they¡¯d done enough damage to the Imperium¡¯s army, inflicting thousands of casualties that would take months to fully resurrect, diminishing the army¡¯s supply of biomass in the process. For anybody else, this would have spelled the end for their campaign. But Urien wasn¡¯t willing to give up- not against a guy like Hearteater, whose name wasn¡¯t hyperbolic in the slightest. So he came to the people of Kerpe Village, and said ¡®I fought for you- now I need you to fight for me.¡¯ Not an order, not conscription, and not a beg or a plea- just a request, as simple as the one they¡¯d made to him. And every one of them said yes.


    It¡¯s a good story. Powerful, both as a narrative, and a piece of propaganda. ¡®Nobles sacrifice for you, and you must sacrifice for them in turn.¡¯ Representative of the supposed symbiotic relationship between the citizens of the Imperium and those who rule them. Not exactly the kind of story I¡¯d expect anybody here on Vi?saule to appreciate, considering the Nobility hasn¡¯t really done much for them. When I ask Saffi, she just shrugs.


    ¡°People like their stories, I guess. The Liberators especially.¡±


    I raise my eyebrow at the name of the group she¡¯s referencing. Not one I came across in my reading about Limbo City¡¯s various criminal organizations and corporations.


    ¡°They¡¯re the ones who do most of the art you see around the city. Not the gang tags and shit, the actual art. Which is fine, I don¡¯t mind most of it, but that¡¯s not all they do.¡±


    For most of the ride, Saffi¡¯s been looking at her palm-screen, but now she looks up and turns her gaze to where I¡¯m looking, out the window.


    ¡°They call themselves-¡± she mimes gagging ¡°-hopepunks. Fucking morons, trying to take down the corps with snappy slogans and friendship. Of course, most of them work for the corps, or their parents do. Sneaking down to our level to spray paint a scene from a children¡¯s story on the side of somebody¡¯s apartment is what they do to launder their own guilt about benefiting from the system.¡±


    That¡¯s a surprisingly cogent material analysis from someone who¡¯s spent her entire life on the streets, hurting people and stealing shit for money, but I¡¯m not gonna say that, because it would sound wildly condescending. So all I say is:


    ¡°Wow, they sound like they suck.¡±


    Saffi nods sagely, and a couple minutes later, the hovertrain pulls into our station.


    When we get out, it¡¯s alongside almost everybody else in the car, which has been slowly filling throughout the course of our trip. This must be a popular destination for tourists, which most of the people around us seem to be- I notice more expensive-looking clothing, and fewer hollow, empty expressions.


    The station we exit into isn¡¯t nice by any means, but it¡¯s not nearly as grungy as the one we embarked from. It¡¯s the city center- or at least a city center, any metropolis of this size has multiple -so the corporations have an interest in keeping things reasonably presentable, even down on the ground, for anybody who¡¯s visiting. The floors have a few fewer layers of grime on them, the lights are brighter and don¡¯t flicker nearly as often, and the graffiti on the walls has been painted over so well you can barely tell it used to be there at all.


    ¡°Can¡¯t remember the last time I came ¡®round here,¡± Saffi comments, as we head up the stairs out of the hovertrain station.


    ¡°Yeah? Rival gang territory?¡±


    Phrased like an idle question, but I¡¯m also implicitly asking whether I should be getting ready to use the sidearm sitting in a holster on my thigh. Saffi laughs like I just told a reasonably funny joke.


    ¡°Uh, no. This is pretty much the only place in the whole city, ¡®sides the megabuildings, where you don¡¯t have to worry about that kind of thing. It¡¯s¡­ ¡®historic,¡¯ so there¡¯s an actual police presence around here to keep things looking nice.¡±


    Indeed, as we exit the station, at the top of the stairs, is a checkpoint manned by two police officers. They¡¯re wearing bulky, heavy-duty armor, the kind that¡¯s so thick you can¡¯t get even a vague sense of what they might look like underneath. If not for their occasional subtle movements, I might have mistaken them for automated security ¡®bots.


    For the most part, the cops just seem to be standing there, looking menacing as they hold their military-grade rifles. The checkpoint itself is a standard ContraFilter, a thin translucent blue field we all pass through on our way out of the station. It seems to flag our weapons, flickering green momentarily as Saffi and I step through, but neither of the cops says anything. Apparently their mandate for keeping this part of the city looking nice doesn¡¯t extend to taking away anybody¡¯s guns. Not that they¡¯d have any legal basis to do so- the only weapons it¡¯s illegal to carry in the LC are heavy ordinance like rocket launchers or gauss cannons.


    More likely, the filter is just there to scan for anybody carrying drugs, illegal mem cartridges, or other forms of contraband that it would be uncomfortable for a tourist to see somebody dealing on the street.


    As we pass through the filter and out onto the street, Saffi spreads her arms wide, as if to encompass our surroundings completely, and addresses me with a theatric flair.


    ¡°Welcome¡­ to Old Town.¡±


    The name strikes me as ironic, because this place doesn¡¯t look any older than the rest of Limbo City- if anything, it looks newer. The buildings are the same schizophrenic patchwork of design, with height, shape, and color varying wildly, but all seem better-maintained, with less graffiti, no gang tags whatsoever, and slightly more upscale stores than in the parts of town I¡¯ve been so far. It¡¯s still a definite step down from the interior of the megabuilding, but that¡¯s probably intentional. The city wants this place to look a bit run down, so the people visiting feel like they¡¯re getting an ¡®authentic experience¡¯ without having to head into a part of the city where they¡¯d get killed and have their body sold off for parts within minutes of arriving.


    ¡°This is where the LC began,¡± she elaborates, seeming to sense my confusion. ¡°Bunch of preconstructed buildings got shipped in from off-world by a couple different corps looking to set up some new manufactories on a frontier world. From there, it just¡­ kept growing.¡±


    Far as I¡¯m aware, it¡¯s never actually stopped growing. Despite the crushingly miserable conditions for people on the ground here, they haven¡¯t stopped having kids, and those kids will always need somewhere to live, even if it¡¯s just a concrete coffin of an apartment. That demand, in turn, necessitates more expansion of the megalopolis, which creates jobs for its citizens. And once a new district of the city gets big enough, a corp might decide to drop their headquarters there, and ship in a couple hundred thousand employees from off-world to staff it- most of whom will live out their entire lives within the building, but some will inevitably all from grace, have their contract terminated, and find themselves on the streets. A cycle that practically sustains itself.


    ¡°I hope we¡¯re not here just to sightsee, because there really doesn¡¯t seem to be much here worth seeing.¡±


    ¡°Oh, there isn¡¯t,¡± Saffi confirms to me. ¡°We¡¯re here to visit the Sensorium.¡±


    ¡°The what?¡±


    She just laughs.


    ¡°It¡¯s hard to explain. You¡¯ll see.¡±


    <hr>


    The Sensorium is genuinely difficult to describe. It¡¯s not the kind of experience easily put into words.


    Saffi leads me into an out-of-the-way part of Old Town, where a bright red neon sign advertises the Sensorium, surrounded by a symbol representing each of the five standard human senses. Inside is a luxurious parlor, all plush red leather and imitation wood, dressed up to look as classy as possible. Blinking twice at the holographic receptionist, Saffi transfers payment for the both of us, and leads me further within.


    Beyond the front desk is a room filled with comfortable-looking loungers, and dozens of people sitting in them, all wearing the same blissed-out expressions, and the same metal headsets. We find an empty pair of seats, and Saffi sits down, picks up the accompanying headset, gesturing for me to do the same. With some trepidation, I do so.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± she assures me. ¡°Whatever you¡¯re assuming this is, it¡¯s not that.¡±


    Then, before I can ask for a more specific explanation, she puts the headset on and leans back into the chair, closing her eyes and waiting for the process to begin. So I follow suit, trusting that Niko wouldn¡¯t have left me in the hands of someone untrustworthy, even if I¡¯ve known this woman for less than a day.


    When the headset activates, it feels the same as entering a mem- all your sensory inputs are hijacked, with false data being fed to them through the brainband. But unlike a mem, which is literally a recorded memory of another person, this isn¡¯t real. There¡¯s no sequence of events, no narrative. It¡¯s more abstract than that.


    It takes about a minute for the Sensorium to calibrate, by feeding me a series of different split-second inputs all at once. The scent of honeysuckle, then tar, then fresh-cut grass. A stained glass window with the noonday sun shining through. The sound of laughter, or tears, of screams. It¡¯s disconcerting, but not upsetting, the headset somehow modulating my response so I don¡¯t get overwhelmed by the sensory cacophony.


    Then, after the system has calibrated itself based on my synaptic responses, the process begins in earnest. From this point, things get more difficult to describe. It¡¯s like trying to recall a dream- there¡¯s some kind of fundamental, underlying logic that seems perfectly clear in the moment, but afterwards, it¡¯s fleeting. I don¡¯t perceive any of it in a coherent, linear way. Instead, it¡¯s just a melange of sensations that scratch some kind of deep mental itch. Like the feeling of being warm and cozy in bed on a lazy morning, or laying on your back in a field of soft grass on a cool summer afternoon- but dialed up to eleven.


    In reality, those moments of perfection are always just that- momentary. Before long, the birds outside start chirping a little too loud, or a cold breeze wafts in through your window, or a fly lands on your nose. But inside the Sensorium, it feels as though the feeling could last forever. It¡¯s not a single scene or sequence of events, but a collection of sensations that blend together perfectly to create the most powerful version of that feeling possible.


    Make no mistake- this isn¡¯t wireheading. I¡¯m not having my pleasure centers stimulated artificially. Any technology capable of doing that is ruthlessly sought out and eradicated by the Imperium. This isn¡¯t pure pleasure, it¡¯s just a momentary pause, a respite from having to worry about everything else going on in my life. Not a single stray thought drifts through my mind the entire time I¡¯m inside of the Sensorium, the same way you¡¯re not quite capable of thinking when you¡¯re in that limbo state between asleep and awake.


    Instead of being jolted awake, however, the process ends slowly, gently, as the sensory inputs begin to dull, their effect growing less potent by the moment. But I find myself with no desire to claw my way back to that state of pure bliss- already the feeling begins to fade, and I¡¯m left with only the memory of feeling really good, but no way of properly explaining to somebody why I felt that way.


    Saffi comes out of it a few seconds after me, and once I¡¯ve shaken off the slight haze over my own thoughts, I take a moment to study her expression as she¡¯s doing the same. It doesn¡¯t resemble the practically slack-jawed expression on the face of almost everybody else in the parlor, presumably including me while I was under. Instead, she seems to have merely been smiling contentedly as she went through whatever her version of the process was. Presumably, it induced the same state, but through a different set of inputs, calibrated to her tastes. I imagine there were a lot more bubblegum scents and gemstone fractal patterns than in mine.


    Checking my internal clock, I discover that only about half an hour has passed, though it feels like it was a lot longer. Noticing my surprise, Saffi chuckles, a little less edge in her voice than usual.


    ¡°Not bad, right?¡±


    ¡°Not bad at all,¡± I reply, doing my best to sound nonchalant. ¡°You wanna get a bite to eat?¡±


    <hr>


    There¡¯s a takoyaki stall nearby, and as we wait for our food to be prepared, Saffi tells me a bit about the Sensorium. Apparently this is the only part of the ground level where they were able to set up shop, because a room full of effectively comatose people anywhere else in Limbo City would be a prime target for thrill-gangs. There were security measures in place at the other locations, but none that couldn¡¯t be subverted, or simply overpowered, by a sufficiently motivated sadist.


    The technology is fairly new, and hasn¡¯t yet been approved across the entire Imperium, so it¡¯s mainly flourished in places like this, where ¡®regulation¡¯ isn¡¯t in most people¡¯s vocabulary. There¡¯s no indication that it¡¯s addictive, fortunately, but those who can afford frequent trips often make them, because that sensation of comfort and safety basically can¡¯t be found anywhere else on the entire planet.


    Obviously, it¡¯s a lot more common, and a lot more popular, in the megabuildings and corporate arcologies where more people can afford them. Down here, only tourists really make use of the place, because ordinary people living on the surface can¡¯t afford regular trips into Old Town from wherever they live, just to make use of an expensive service that provides no value except of the intangible, psychological kind.


    Some corps do offer trips to their local Sensorium as part of the benefits packages for their executives, because it¡¯s thought to increase productivity, but having a benefits package of any kind is a laughable idea to anybody living down on the surface of the city, so they¡¯d have to scrimp and save if they wanted to make such frequent visits. Aside from tourists, people involved with organized crime are some of the only ones who can afford it, because jobs like the one Saffi has do tend to pay well, in accordance with the level of risk assumed, and the illicit nature of their activities.


    Halfway through our meal, I get a notification from the sole member of my copyclan here on the planet, informing me that the data from the spy drone we sent to Liese has come in, earlier than expected.


    Taking our food with us, Saffi and I head back to the station, and catch the next hovertrain to Lilyhaven, the district where the Bazaar and the Den are located. It¡¯s far from the only part of Limbo City where the Red Sun Syndicate holds sway, but it¡¯s certainly one of the more strategically valuable parts of the city for a gang to control, thanks to the high traffic of illicit commerce passing through the Bazaar.


    I spend most of the train ride studying the drone data, almost as dead to the world around me as when I was within the Sensorium, though decidedly more focused. While I¡¯m in that state, Saffi watches my back, making sure nobody tries to take advantage of me.


    Watching footage from inside Salzwedel¡¯s home makes for a decided change of pace compared to the pervasive crime of Limbo City. Every surface seems to be polished to the point of gleaming, and if I wasn¡¯t watching through the eyes of an insect-sized drone, I¡¯m sure I¡¯d be seeing my reflection in almost everything.


    The collector¡¯s home is large, but not sprawling- he¡¯s got no partners, so the extra space not devoted to basic necessities is mainly apportioned to his collection, which seems to be distributed throughout the entire house. Slipping in through a ventilation shaft, the drone emerges straight into the living room, which is arranged around a single centerpiece- an antique globe featuring the topography of old Earth, made from precious metals and gems. The landmasses are gold and emerald, the oceans glittering lapis. It¡¯s got to be immensely valuable, but unfortunately it¡¯s likely too large for us to take with us. We¡¯ll have to find some more portable items if we want to pay back the debts we¡¯ve incurred to the Syndicate, even just by launching this very drone.


    On the walls are paintings, tapestries, and ancient scrolls preserved behind class. Stationed around the house are various suits of armor, many of which appear to be Earth relics, from samurai to medieval knights, but with some Conquest-era armor that the placard next to it claims to have been worn by the Exemplar himself, of all people. It¡¯s painted in his colors, the breastplate adorned with his symbol, the shield-dove, and it¡¯s got a number of bullet holes in it. None of that means it¡¯s actually authentic, but if Salzwedel was able to get his hands on a Regalia weapon, there¡¯s no reason to believe he couldn¡¯t get a real set of Founder armor. Nothing makes it particularly special save from the person who wore it, no special properties, but it would probably fetch us a decent price, if we disassembled the set and took it with us. Or, I suppose, somebody could wear it, though that would probably hurt its value.


    As I watch the drone buzz through the house, occasionally passing by one of the guards that Salzwedel pays to patrol the place at all times, a plan begins to form in my head. Nothing too concrete, just the outline of an idea, but I can already feel it growing more solid by the minute.


    When we get back to the Den, I¡¯ll buckle down with my copy and iron out the details of the scheme. After that, it¡¯ll just be a matter of getting our hands on everything we¡¯ll need to pull the job off. And that shouldn¡¯t be too hard, given that Limbo City is the contraband capital of the Imperium.


    Oh, and of course, I¡¯m going to have to put together a team.

 Chapter Twenty-Five

    The next morning, I wake up in Niko¡¯s bed.


    Once I¡¯d worked out the details of my plan to retake his Regalia, and related it to him and Saffi, the three of us went out for dinner at a local noodle shop that he¡¯d frequented when he lived here. A real hole-in-the-wall place- literally. The entire restaurant, if it could even be called that, consisted of a hole in the wall of some huge building, with the dingy kitchen visible behind the aging proprietor. Our noodles came in cheap disposable bowls that we ate out of on a bench, but despite the lackluster presentation, they were genuinely great.


    At some point during the meal, or maybe when we went out to get drinks after, I mentioned the couch I¡¯d slept on the previous night being uncomfortable, and Niko offered without hesitating to let me sleep with him. Not exactly scandalous, considering it¡¯s no secret we¡¯re dating, but I was still pretty embarrassed at him saying something like that out loud in front of Saffi. Apparently my parents¡¯ provincial values rubbed off on me more than I¡¯d thought.


    After enduring Saffi¡¯s laughter and finishing our drinks, we went back to the Den, and I did exactly that. Nothing unchaste happened, mainly because Tommy¡¯s bedroom was right next to ours, but it was nice going to sleep next to Niko- and even more nice waking up next to him.


    We don¡¯t get much time to enjoy it, though, because only a few minutes after I wake up, there¡¯s a series of sharp knocks on our door.


    ¡°Princess! Puppy! Get your asses up!¡±


    My nickname was bestowed last night, after we all had a few drinks in us. I protested, on the grounds that I¡¯m about the furthest distance from being a princess conceivable, but according to Niko, once Saffi¡¯s given you a nickname, there¡¯s no getting rid of it. At least mine is slightly less demeaning than his.


    ¡°Wassamatter?¡± I call through the door blearily, sitting up in the bed. It wasn¡¯t exactly built for two people, so there¡¯s not much space between Niko and I.


    ¡°We¡¯ve got a job,¡± she snaps, brooking no dissent with her tone. ¡°Mother wants all hands on deck, and that includes you. Congrats- you just got drafted.¡±


    The urgency in her voice is sufficient to jolt both Niko and me completely awake, and we react in almost exactly the same way, rolling out of bed and scrambling to get dressed. Whatever this job I¡¯m being drafted for is, I¡¯m sure it¡¯s going to entail violence, so I dress appropriately, with a lightweight, non-restrictive top and durable pants with plenty of pockets. All borrowed from Niko¡¯s wardrobe, of course, which means it doesn¡¯t fit me perfectly, but it¡¯ll have to do for now.


    When we get downstairs, Saffi¡¯s sitting at the table across from someone I don¡¯t recognize, both of them examining a series of images that show an aerial view of a building that seems to have been built in the style of an ancient Japanese temple, complete with the shrine gate out front.


    ¡°Bout time,¡± the mystery man says, giving the two of us an unimpressed glance. Admittedly, we do look a little disheveled, but that¡¯s mainly because we didn¡¯t have time to clean up properly before rushing down to meet them.


    Our new arrival has long, black hair, with the tips of his pointed, elfin ears poking through. He¡¯s wearing a black flak jacket over a white button-up shirt, and sensible black slacks that seem less than practical for a combat mission.


    ¡°This is Asher,¡± Saffi says brusquely. ¡°Our current prospect to replace you.¡±


    Niko nods, looking the other man up and down, giving no indication of whether or not he approves. Instead, he turns his attention to the images on the holo-screen, purely professional.


    ¡°What¡¯s the sitch?¡± I ask, pulling up a chair next to Saffi.


    ¡°The Maeda-rengo hit the Bazaar last night.¡±


    Maeda-rengo¡­ one of Limbo City¡¯s yakuza families, and a major rival of the Red Sun Syndicate that Niko used to serve, and Saffi still does.


    ¡°Shit,¡± my horned companion says from across the room, pouring himself a glass of synthetic orange juice. I send him a silent brainband request to get me a glass as well, even if the stuff tastes disgusting compared to the real thing. ¡°How bad?¡±


    ¡°Could have been worse, but it¡¯s still an affront. Mother wants reprisals. She¡¯s got Klahan¡¯s team going after a couple of their fronts, but it¡¯s just a distraction. We¡¯re going after the big fish.¡±


    Klahan? I ask Niko silently, as he puts the glass down and takes a seat across from me.


    He runs one of Mother¡¯s other teams like this one. Worked with them before, they¡¯re good guys. Reliable.


    ¡°This is the Imperial Serpent Bathhouse,¡± Saffi continues, gesturing to the building on the screen. ¡°Intel says a couple ¡®kuza bosses hang out here most afternoons. We¡¯re gonna go pay them a visit, remind them not to fuck with the Syndicate.¡±


    ¡°And then,¡± says Asher, contempt for the three of us practically dripping from his tongue, ¡°Mother¡¯s conventional forces will seize the local branch of the Maeda-rengo¡¯s private resurrection facility, which will force them to either enter the public queue, where they could spend months, or ask their superiors to use their resurrection facilities, which would result in a significant loss of face. In either case, a victory for us.¡±


    A three-pronged attack. Strategically sound, though maybe an overzealous response to what seems like a fairly minor offense by the yakuza. But then again, if Mother let it fly, she¡¯d be the one losing face, and there are doubtless plenty of ambitious opportunists within the Syndicate who could use that to try and usurp her.


    ¡°Exactly. So draw arms. We¡¯ve got about an hour ¡®fore we leave.¡±


    Nobody¡¯s yet bothered asking if I¡¯m willing to help- I guess they¡¯re assuming it implicitly. And Mother¡¯s continued assistance with our heist plan is probably conditional on Niko and I pitching in with this job. That¡¯s fine by me, though. It doesn¡¯t significantly interfere with my plans, and doing a good job with this will probably buy us some favor from her.


    ¡°Got it. Is Tommy up yet?¡±


    ¡°Should be,¡± Saffi replies. ¡°But he¡¯s not coming with us, he¡ª¡±


    ¡°I know. I need to talk to him about¡­¡± I glance at Asher. ¡°The other thing.¡±


    Understanding my meaning, Saffi nods.


    ¡°Okay. He should still be in his room. Just don¡¯t take too long, you gotta get prepped before we leave.¡±


    Brushing her admonishment aside with one hand, I get up from the table, downing the last of my synth-juice, and head upstairs to go knock on Tommy¡¯s door. It takes a couple tries before he responds, and when he opens the door, I see why- he¡¯s wearing clunky, retro-tech headphones, to match the analog keyboard he uses. Most of the tech he¡¯s got in his cluttered room seems terribly archaic to me, but I guess it must work for him.


    ¡°Wassup? Is something happening?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, me and the others are going out, but I need you to do something to help out with the heist.¡±


    Immediately, the kid perks up, and gestures for me to enter the room. He sweeps some dirty clothes off of his bed, and motions for me to sit down, before dropping into his desk chair and spinning it around to face me.


    ¡°Sure, whaddaya need?¡±


    ¡°See if you can get your hands on this stuff,¡± I instruct him, blinking twice to transfer the list. ¡°I budgeted it out already, but if you¡¯ve gotta go a bit over to make sure we get it in time, that¡¯s fine.¡±


    Tommy nods along, eyes closed as he peruses the list in his head. After a minute, he gives an impressed whistle.


    ¡°Wow, you¡¯re going all-out, huh? Lucky for you, I know where to get all the goods. Is this it?¡±


    ¡°One more thing. I need you to find me a specialist. Or better yet, find a couple, give me options. I¡¯ll send you the details of what exactly I need in a few minutes. Nobody too expensive, but nobody too cheap, either. Preferably people you already know are reliable, or who have some existing relationship with the Syndicate, but¡­ I¡¯ll take what I can get.¡±


    ¡°Okay, I can do that. We¡¯ve worked with plenty of mercs before, so it shouldn¡¯t be too hard. Though some of them might be a little weirded out to be working for you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll worry about that,¡± I tell him with a vulpine grin. ¡°You just worry about getting me what I need.¡±


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    Not long after we¡¯re all armed up and ready, a hovercar arrives outside to transport us to our destination. It¡¯s an imposing vehicle, sleek, black, and armored, with windows so tinted they may as well be completely opaque.


    The four of us pile in, though thankfully the back of the hovercar is spacious enough that nobody has to sit on anybody¡¯s lap. Ordinarily I¡¯d have no problem doing so, so long as it was Niko¡¯s lap, but with Asher joining us, I¡¯d feel less comfortable.


    His presence brings the mood down rather significantly. Whenever I try to make conversation, his swift, harsh responses shut it down almost immediately. Consequently, we spend most of the ride in silence, going over the intelligence available to us on the Imperial Serpent Bathhouse, where our targets will be relaxing by the time we arrive.


    Unfortunately, we don¡¯t have much information about what we¡¯ll be up against inside of the bathhouse, but it¡¯s a public facility at the end of the day, so we probably won¡¯t have to worry about turrets or force-walls, just ordinary bodyguards and security staff.


    Our driver is a triad indent, someone who got in so deep with them that he¡¯s effectively the organization¡¯s property. The tattoo of their symbol, the eye staring out from the center of a crimson sun, on the back of his neck, is proof. He doesn¡¯t say a single word to us the whole time, just keeps his eyes locked on the road, hands firmly gripping the wheel. The car drives itself, of course, but he¡¯s clearly glad for any excuse not to interact with us at all.


    ¡°So, what exactly is the plan when we get there?¡± I ask, glancing between my three companions. All of us are wearing body armor, but nothing of the quality provided at the Citadel. It¡¯s lighter, at least, but probably won¡¯t protect against anything more than small-caliber rounds. Which, hopefully, is all we¡¯ll have to worry about from the yakuza boss¡¯s bodyguards. Nobody¡¯s gonna want to hang around a bathhouse when there are people toting around assault rifles.


    ¡°We go in through the front,¡± Asher replies, like it¡¯s the simplest thing in the world.


    ¡°Yeah? What happens if our guys slip out through the back door while everybody is panicking?¡±


    He rolls his eyes and heaves a condescending sigh.


    ¡°They will not flee- to do so would be inviting accusations of cowardice from their rivals. Besides, they have no reason to fear death, given their access to a private resurrection queue.¡±


    ¡°Which they don¡¯t know we¡¯ll be cutting off. Right. But if we get clipped, we¡¯re stuck in the regular queue like everybody else?¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯re that concerned, feel free to wait in the car,¡± Asher sneers.


    ¡°Oh, I wasn¡¯t worried for my own sake, just thinking about what a shame it would be if nobody had to put up with you for a few months.¡±


    With a contemptuous sniff, Asher turns away, shifting the position of his sheathed sword slightly as he does so. Like anybody who favors a melee weapon, he¡¯s probably got wired reflexes, and maybe some hypermobility implants, to make closing the distance between you and a gunman before they can pull the trigger that much easier. And, of course, he¡¯s got a gun of his own, dangling from a strap around his chest. Looks to be a compact SMG, high rate of fire and sizable ammunition capacity, but poor accuracy and range. Makes sense for someone expecting to fight at close range.


    Saffi¡¯s got two pistols in her underarm holsters, and Niko is carrying a combat shotgun, of the kind I¡¯ve seen him use to put holes in targets at the firing range hundreds of times before. I¡¯m carrying a ¡®Trident¡¯ hand cannon, with its signature three-barrel design that lets me fire three times as many rounds a minute. Each of its cylinders only holds nine rounds, and I¡¯ve only got five extras on me, so I¡¯ll need to be conservative with my shooting.


    After more than an hour in the car, we arrive at the bathhouse, in a part of town that seems to pass for upscale around here. It¡¯s not on the ground level- we shifted to a skylane about halfway through the drive -but it¡¯s not up in the clouds with the megabuildings either. The buildings in Limbo City are so densely packed that, in some areas, platforms, walkways, and bridges have been set up on the rooftops to create a middle layer between the squalid surface level and the more comfortable megabuildings.


    At first, these rooftop communities must have begun as shoddy, ramshackle patchworks, but they¡¯ve been greatly expanded since then, with grimy glass walkways spanning the divides, holographic advertisements dominating the empty spaces, and entire buildings constructed on the rooftops of other, larger buildings beneath them. For the most part, the buildings beneath are the claustrophobic ¡®block¡¯ housing complexes, where hundreds or even thousands of people live in coffin-like ¡®apartments.¡¯ And right above them are places like the Imperial Serpent, a luxury bathhouse where landlords, gang bosses, and the rest of what passes for the elite among the lowest rungs of society.


    One thing these rooftop neighborhoods seem to lack is guardrails. Looking down at the surface far beneath us, I begin to feel somewhat nauseous- until very recently, I¡¯d more or less lived my entire life on a flat plane, so I still don¡¯t do super great with heights. Niko seems to notice my discomfort, and leads me away from the edge before Asher picks up on it.


    ¡°How much of the city is like this?¡± I ask quietly, gesturing to the area around us. If I hadn¡¯t just been looking off the edge, I¡¯d probably have a hard time telling if it was even built on the rooftops. That¡¯s not to say it¡¯s exactly like the ground level, though. For one thing, there¡¯s a lot more open space, even some public areas, like a little park with holographic trees that flicker on and off intermittently.


    ¡°Decent amount,¡± he replies, as we head back to where Asher and Saffi are waiting by the car, having finished their call with Mother to confirm that we¡¯re on-site. ¡°Only parts that were built by one corp or real estate group, though, because otherwise the buildings¡¯ heights are all inconsistent and it doesn¡¯t work.¡±


    ¡°Makes sense,¡± I mumble back, trying to get my stomach to stop doing somersaults.


    ¡°Everybody good to go?¡± Saffi asks, tightening the straps on the ballistic vest she¡¯s wearing under her clothes.


    ¡°Yeah. Yeah, I¡¯m good.¡±


    Snorting derisively at me, Asher locks his sword¡¯s sheath into position at his hip, and nods.


    I¡¯d probably get us in trouble if I fragged him, right? I ask Niko silently.


    Saffi and I wouldn¡¯t rat on you, he assures me, chuckling. But... I don¡¯t know, maybe give him a chance. I was pretty tightly wound when I first joined up too. Wherever he was before Mother found him, it can¡¯t have been good.


    Rolling my eyes at him, I turn to follow Saffi and Asher towards the bathhouse, the red metal shrine gate outside the entrance visible even from a distance. It seems to be the largest, nicest building around here, the rest mostly little concrete outgrowths designed for function over form.


    As we stride towards the gate, people start to take notice, and wisely hasten to vacate the area, realizing that nobody walks around visibly armed and armored like we are unless they¡¯re expecting a fight. Grinning, I tap out a rhythm on the side of my holster, an old gunslinger tune. We¡¯re not exactly a posse getting ready to kick open the door to a saloon, but it¡¯s close enough to make me happy. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    My heart breaks a little as the bathhouse¡¯s doors slide open automatically at our approach, but that¡¯s forgotten almost immediately after, as Niko blasts off the receptionist¡¯s head without so much as a word of warning. Her blood and brains splatter against the wall behind her, fragments of her skull embedding themselves in the print hanging above the desk, which depicts a majestic serpent with an ethereal crown floating above its head.


    Harsh, maybe, but we didn¡¯t need her sounding the alarm for security. The gunshot will still have alerted them, but it¡¯ll also have sent most of the patrons running, which will slow the security team down.


    The handful of people in the lobby, including the woman who was talking to the receptionist just a second ago, don¡¯t run- they freeze for a second, then start screaming, but they don¡¯t run. Instead, they cower in place or run for cover. It does occur to me that if we shoot any of these people, they¡¯ll be stuck in the public resurrection queue, potentially for months, which could have catastrophic consequences for their lives. To prevent that, I pull out the Trident and fire a round into the ceiling, then raise my voice to address the room, once the screaming has ceased.


    ¡°Get the fuck out of here, now.¡±


    Before the words have even left my mouth, they¡¯re going, and the rest of the crew moves further into the room to let them exit. Asher ignores them completely, heading towards the door, but Saffi gives me a nod before following him.


    Heading through a set of those Japanese paper doors, we enter a small lounge, where a couple people seem to be hiding behind the couches, though most have already headed for the exits. Behind the bar, however, is a man holding a shotgun, leveled directly at us. There¡¯s no thought process, instinct just takes over, and I plug him twice in rapid succession, the first shot striking him in the chest, which makes him reel backwards just as he¡¯s firing off his own shot- meaning he ends up discharging the gun into the wall far to the right of us. My next shot goes right through his neck, a burst of blood erupting from the wound, before he collapses sideways and hits the ground.


    Behind him, my bullet hit a bottle of liquor, which is now pouring down onto his corpse. While the others fan out from behind me, I approach the bar and grab a half-empty glass sitting there, abandoned by whoever ordered it as they fled. Picking the glass up with my free hand, I raise a mock toast to the corpse, then take a drink. Whiskey, neat.


    ¡°Stop fucking around,¡± Asher snaps, pointing the tip of his sword straight at me. ¡°We¡¯re on a job.¡±


    ¡°Maybe you are, but I¡¯m just volunteering here,¡± I reply, and chuck the glass at him. He carves it in half with a single stroke, and doesn¡¯t flinch as the two halves fly past him, centimeters away from his face. It pains me to admit how cool it makes him look.


    Shaking his head, the swordsman turns around and heads for the next door- not into the baths themselves, but to the men¡¯s locker room. Niko follows him, and I shrug before following Saffi to the women¡¯s.


    On our way through the locker room, we pass a shivering, naked woman, who cringes as we pass by, trying to keep covered up with a towel, her viridian hair dripping with moisture. Not looking to make her any more uncomfortable, I don¡¯t pay her any mind as we pass by.


    Apparently, I¡¯m not quite so well-trained that I won¡¯t get a little distracted by a glimpse of an attractive woman¡¯s naked body, though, because the guard hiding behind a row of lockers takes me completely by surprise. Getting hit in the head with a baton isn¡¯t fun, but I¡¯m getting off easy- if she¡¯d been packing heat, I¡¯d have a hole in my head, and Sofie would be having to figure out how to hide the fact that I¡¯m not physically present at the Citadel for the next six months, instead of the next couple days.


    The hand cannon goes flying from my grasp, and I stumble into the lockers on the opposite wall with a clang of metal on metal, head spinning. My vision flickers in and out, and as I struggle to stay conscious, four gunshots ring out, one after the other. The sound seems impossibly loud, echoing around the locker room, but I try to focus on it, letting the ringing in my ears be the point on which I fixate to maintain awareness.


    A few moments later, I feel Saffi grab my arm and pull me to my feet, her words indistinct to me. Biting down on the inside of my mouth, I force my eyes fully open, head still aching violently. It¡¯s a good thing I¡¯ve got combat-grade bone density augmentations, or I¡¯d probably be looking at permanent damage, which is the last thing I need when I¡¯ve got a heist to run in a few days.


    ¡°--aid, are you okay?¡± Saffi demands, not an ounce of sympathy in her voice. She¡¯s right not to be worrying about my feelings, though. There¡¯s no place for that here.


    ¡°¡®mgood,¡± I reply, probably not very convincingly. But I push myself upright, take my gun when she offers it, and head out of the locker room. The guy who brained me was bathhouse security, not part of the yakuza bosses¡¯ bodyguard crew. Hopefully I¡¯ll fare a little better against them, even with my skull throbbing like there¡¯s an angry bull trapped inside, trying to ram its way out.


    Red lantern-lights hanging from the ceiling provide the primary illumination for the main bathhouse area. There are two rows of heated pools, steam rising from their surfaces, with frosted glass between each, and a single lane down the middle. Almost nobody seems to be left in here, not the security team, and certainly not any of the bathers. One security guard is present, but he¡¯s in the pool on the other side of the room, lying at the bottom of the pool, which is swiftly filling with his blood. Asher and Niko must have dealt with him on their way in, ahead of us, since Saffi and I were slowed down by my little fuck-up in the locker room.


    Most of the room is obscured by steam, but as we slowly move forward, both ready to hit the deck the second we hear gunfire, I see Niko, standing in the center lane, facing down an indistinct figure flanked by two armed guards.


    ¡°I knew when I struck at Guanying that she¡¯d send her children to punish me,¡± the figure says, in a weary voice with a distinct Japanese accent. ¡°But I wasn¡¯t expecting to see you here, little Stormwolf.¡±


    Just our luck- we¡¯ve been recognized. At least it¡¯s by somebody who no one will believe if he tries to report us to the authorities, though. Not even if he coughs up the memory- those can be staged or otherwise fabricated far too easily, especially with the yakuza¡¯s resources.


    ¡°The storm can appear without warning,¡± Niko replies, ¡°and the wolf never abandons his pack.¡±


    His interlocutor throws his head back and laughs. Coming a little closer, but keeping behind the nearest pane of frosted glass so they don¡¯t see us, I get a better look at him. He¡¯s an older Japanese man, thin, with plenty of tattoos all over his skin, which I¡¯m seeing much more of than I¡¯d prefer.


    ¡°That¡¯s good, little Stormwolf. That¡¯s very good. Such a shame you ended up with her, and not me.¡±


    For a moment, the yakuza boss sounds almost wistful. Then his voice turns cold, and he gestures to his bodyguards.


    ¡°Kill him.¡±


    Without hesitating, both of them raise their pistols. Before either can fire, there¡¯s a splash, and a blur of motion, black and silver. A moment later, the guns both hit the ground, along with the hands that were holding them.


    It takes a few seconds for me to process what just happened. Asher, who must have take a side route past the baths, had been hiding in the bath nearest to the boss and his bodyguards, and leapt out, quite literally disarmed them with his sword, and gotten out of the way, just in time for Niko to raise his shotgun and put a fieldball-sized hole in the tattooed man¡¯s chest.


    The force of the blast knocks the frail man off his feet, and he hits the wet floor with a squelch, blood oozing out of his wound.


    Got to admit, that was pretty slick, I say to the group brainband channel. Immediately, Asher makes me regret the compliment.


    And you were of no help at all, shockingly.


    Shut it, Niko tells him tersely. We¡¯re not done here. There¡¯s still two lieutenants in here, and they¡¯ve got security of their own.


    Now determined to show Asher up, I tighten my grip on the Trident and proceed further into the room, not down the main lane with Niko, but along the right-hand side path, next to the towel racks and little cubbies to store your sandals and other belongings. Based on the room¡¯s layout, we¡¯re less likely to be seen this way.


    Moving slowly, I try to keep my footfalls as light as possible, to minimize the sound my boots make against the tiled floors. The visibility in here is for shit, though- which is why neither Saffi nor I notice the guy on the other side of the nearest wall of frosted glass until it¡¯s too late.


    I throw myself to the side as the first bullet pierces the glass, but even with implants and wired reflexes like Asher, I couldn¡¯t outrun gunfire. If it was automatic, we¡¯d be dead, but that¡¯s little consolation. Saffi cries out in pain, and a moment later I feel myself get hit. The ballistic vest absorbs most of the impact, but it¡¯s still enough to throw me back through the glass wall behind me, and into an empty bath.


    Submerged in the steaming-hot water without warning, I hiss in pain, but don¡¯t let it distract me. Saffi wouldn¡¯t still be screaming if she was dead, so it¡¯s up to me to stop the guy who shot us, before he can finish the job. And I¡¯ve only got a couple seconds before he notices the bath I fell into isn¡¯t rapidly filling with blood, and figures out why. No time to even get up out of the water.


    I open my eyes, ignoring the stinging pain, and get as good a fix as I can on the indistinct shape of the yakuza bodyguard. Sticking my gun up out of the water would be a dead giveaway, so instead I just angle the barrel in his direction and fire, letting the water muffle the sound of the discharge. Thanks to the recoil stabilizers, the Trident barely so much as twitches as I let off three rounds in rapid succession.


    The figure stumbles back as each shot connects, and I see a crimson stain spread across his black silhouette. It¡¯s not until he collapses, however, that I finally surface, gasping for air.


    Saffi, you okay? I call out across the brainband, still coughing up water as I wade out of the bath, running my free hand through my sopping wet hair.


    Yeah, he just- nngh -grazed my shoulder. Still good to go.


    You sure? It¡¯s okay if you wanna hang back, we can probably take things from¡ª


    No. No, I¡¯m¡ª I gotta see this through. Come on.


    Slapping a medipatch on her shoulder to staunch the bleeding, she presses on, and I follow.


    Despite the hot steam in the air, I still shiver slightly, as one might be expected to do after they¡¯ve just been dunked in a hot bath and then jumped right back out. Hopefully I¡¯ll have a chance to towel off, maybe even blow-dry my clothes or something, before we leave. Luckily, a police response is about the last thing we have to worry about. If they send anybody at all, it¡¯ll be hours from now, but upon hearing it was gang-related, they probably won¡¯t even bother.


    This room isn¡¯t terribly huge- we¡¯ve only got a few baths on our side to check now. A few steps into the next bathing area, I hear gunshots and tense up, prepared to dive for cover, before I realize that it came from the other side of the room, meaning it¡¯s either Niko and Asher doing the shooting, or being shot. No use asking them which it is- it¡¯ll just distract them. Instead, I keep walking, now even more alert.


    Finally, we enter the last bath on this side of the room. There¡¯s one bather still inside, and he¡¯s flanked by a pair of bodyguards standing outside of the bath, above him. Both of them have their guns trained on us the moment we enter, but Saffi moves faster, training each of her pistols on them and firing before they even realize they¡¯re supposed to be doing the same thing. One shot hits its mark, drilling a hole right through the left-hand guard¡¯s forehead, but the other, fired from the arm that was grazed by a bullet earlier, misses by a millimeter.


    The remaining guard flinches for a critical second, before training his gun on Saffi, but his hesitation gave me all the time I needed. Unceremoniously shoving my partner to the side, so the bullet aimed for her goes through the space between us instead, I fire off three rounds from the hip, leaving a triangular trio of gunshot wounds in his gut.


    Not quite dead yet, he struggles to turn the gun on me, but his strength is rapidly failing, and it slips from his hands before he can pull the trigger. When he hits the ground, I turn my attention to the man in the bath. He¡¯s laughing uproariously, each guffaw sending another ripple through the rolls of fat that comprise his corpulent form.


    He¡¯s easily the fattest person I¡¯ve ever seen, big enough to make me wonder if he chooses to look like that, because the idea of somebody actually eating themselves into that state is just too disgusting to contemplate. He¡¯s got his hair done up in a bun, and curiously, not a hint of the tattoos that we saw on the older boss¡¯s body earlier. I guess they¡¯d look all weird and stretched out on him, though.


    ¡°Ryouta Serizawa,¡± Saffi hisses vehemently, righting herself without even a glance in my direction, much less a thank-you for saving her from getting killed again.


    ¡°Ooh, you know my name,¡± the rotund yakuza lieutenant says, feigning fear. ¡°Is that supposed to be intimidating?¡±


    ¡°Incredible,¡± Saffi mutters. ¡°You don¡¯t even remember, do you?¡±


    ¡°Remember?¡± He cackles, splashing water everywhere as he flails his flabby arms with amusement. ¡°Please. I destroy lives like yours on an industrial scale, girl You wouldn¡¯t expect a farmer to remember the name of every piece of livestock he sends to the slaughterhouse, would you?¡±


    Well, that explains why she was so adamant about seeing this through, and why she¡¯s been wound so tight about this whole mission. She¡¯s got a personal stake in seeing this guy dead. The exact reason why, I don¡¯t know, and I¡¯d rather not guess. I¡¯m sure the answer is suitably upsetting.


    ¡°Go ahead,¡± he chortles, as Saffi snarls and levels her guns at him. ¡°Shoot me. I¡¯ll be right back here, this time tomorrow, laughing while I watch my boys take you apart.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t be too sure about that,¡± I retort, pointing my own gun at him. Both he and Saffi ignore me completely.


    ¡°Mindkiller¡¯s not the only way to destroy a person¡¯s mind, you know,¡± he continues. ¡°It¡¯s just the quickest. And I prefer to take things slow.¡±


    ¡°What a coincidence,¡± Saffi hisses, venom seething from every syllable. ¡°So do I. You¡¯re in luck, though. My orders today are to kill you quick. So consider this a preview, before the main event.¡±


    As Serizawa opens his mouth to laugh, she empties both magazines into him, riddling his massive, bloated body with bullets. Blood gushes from each wound, and the bath is soon stained completely crimson, his body swiftly slipping beneath the surface.


    Breathing heavily, Saffi continues to pull the triggers on the empty weapons for a few seconds, then realizes what she¡¯s doing and stops abruptly, looking back over her shoulder at me. I¡¯m careful to keep any hint of judgment off of my face, and she seems to accept my neutrality, efficiently reloading both pistols and holstering them.


    Saffi here. We¡¯re finished over her. What¡¯s your status, boys?


    All good, Niko shoots back casually. Fuckers put up a bit of a fight, but we got them in the end.


    Indeed, as I look over to the other side of the room, I notice the glass partitions riddled with bullets, some almost entirely shattered. I must have tuned out most of the sound, being so focused on what was right in front of me.


    Good. Let¡¯s get out of here.


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    According to Niko, back when he lived here in Limbo City, his favorite thing to do after killing somebody was to go dancing. So that¡¯s exactly what we do.


    Asher declines to join us, although nobody quite extended him an invitation. He¡¯d probably be out of his element in a nightclub- the only thing more rigid than his blade is the stick up his ass. So I¡¯m glad to ditch him, and hit the dancefloor with Saffi and Niko.


    Obviously, we swing back by the Den first, to change out of our blood-soaked clothes and shower, reporting back to Mother that our job is done while we¡¯re on the way. From what Saffi says she was told, it sounds like the other hits went off without a hitch as well. Retaliation for last night¡¯s affront, secured. And unless they¡¯re willing to lose face by begging their superiors for help, the boss and his lieutenants who we killed won¡¯t be back on the streets for months. As far as triad dirty work goes, this is something I can feel reasonably good about.


    For most of the trip back, Saffi is quiet, brooding. But when we get to the club- Ascendance, a Triad business located not far from the Den -she drops her moody attitude quickly. At first I wonder if she¡¯s putting up a front, trying not to bring down the vibe, but it seems like she¡¯s genuinely cheered up just by being here. Or maybe it¡¯s who she¡¯s here with.


    Since Niko left, it seems like she¡¯s been dealing with Asher and Tommy alone, two tasks I certainly don¡¯t envy. Now that he¡¯s back, at least for the moment, some of the weight has been lifted off her shoulders. She can relax and unwind the way the two of them used to- which apparently involves dancing and drinking. A lot of drinking. I stop worrying about the exact amount somewhere around my third shot.


    Before we enter Ascendance, I download a quick club dancing skillsoft from the brainband, to make sure I don¡¯t embarrass myself on the dancefloor. That quickly turns out not to be a problem, though. The people here aren¡¯t dancing with any sort of skill or grace, so much as they¡¯re gyrating and grinding against one another, making vague attempts to match the tempo of the beat.


    At first, I have to admit I¡¯m hesitant about joining in, but the liquor helps with that. Before long, the three of us are all out on the dancefloor, and in the darkness, broken only by brief flashes of swirling strobe lights, it¡¯s next to impossible to tell who you¡¯re touching, or where. There seems to be an unspoken agreement amongst everybody here, though- what happens on the dancefloor, stays on the dancefloor.


    A lot of the people here are very clearly n something a lot stronger than alcohol. They¡¯re moving more aggressively, and when I do catch a glimpse of their faces, I see an electric mania in their eyes. Intoxicated by the energy of the club as I am, though, it doesn¡¯t make me nearly as uncomfortable as it otherwise might. Instead, I let it infect me, to the point where I¡¯m moving with almost as much intensity as they are.


    In the center of the dancefloor is a circular bar- the eye of the storm, as it were. Occasionally, the people sitting around it are bumped and jostled by a dancer who strays too close, sometimes even spilling their drinks, but I suppose that¡¯s the risk you assume when taking a seat there. And in the middle of the bar area is a pillar, which starts off narrow, but widens towards the top. Atop that platform is the DJ, tiny and indistinct from our position, but made massive by the hologram that mirrors his movements, projected above the platform. He manipulates the music from a series of holo-screens that he plays like an instrument, building the beat to a crescendo and then denying us the climax, over and over, with each time seeming to increase the energy in the room, almost paradoxically.


    Finally, the moment comes- the beat drops, and everyon loses it. Including me. Everything becomes a bit of a blur- I shake my hips, I wave my tail, and I end up pressed against somebody. I can¡¯t tell who, whether it¡¯s Niko or Saffi, but all of a sudden our lips are locked in a fiery-hot kiss. Even this close, I can¡¯t tell who it is I¡¯m making out with, and not a moment later we¡¯re separated, some other dancer forcing his way in between us.


    My mind is in a haze, and before I can think much about what just happened there, somebody bumps into me, serving as a timely reminder that I¡¯m now standing still in the middle of the dancefloor.


    Putting the moment of passion out of my mind, I continue dancing, but swiftly find that I¡¯m beginning to tire. Through some nnverbal brainband communication- the only way to communicate at all, with the music this loud -Niko, Saffi and I agree to take a break.


    The three of us all make our way off the dancefloor, and pile into a nearby booth, each breathing heavily. None of us can quite look at either of the others in the eye. Finally, Saffi speaks.


    ¡°I¡¯m, uh, I¡¯m gonna go get us some more drinks.¡±


    Maybe that¡¯s unwise, given our current collective state of intoxication, but I can¡¯t bring myself to complain. As she stands and leaves the booth, to fight her way back through the crowd to the bar, Niko looks up at me.


    ¡°You have something on your face,¡± he says, gesturing to a spot on my chin.


    Raising a finger to my face, I wipe the offending blemish off, and stare down at a smear of pink lipstick.


    ¡°¡­huh.¡±


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    Hey, Sofie. You mind if me and Niko hook up with a friend of his?


    Is she hot?


    Oh yeah. Smoking.


    Then go for it. Just send me the mem after. A girl¡¯s bound to get lonely with nothing but holograms for company.

 Chapter Twenty-Six

    ¡°So¡­ are we gonna talk about it?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Do you think we need to?¡± Niko replies.


    ¡°I guess not.¡±


    ¡°I mean, you had a good time, right?¡±


    ¡°You know I did,¡± I reply with a chuckle.


    ¡°Well, so did I, and I¡¯m sure Saffi did too. So, what¡¯s there to talk about?¡±


    We fall silent for a few moments.


    ¡°Did you two¡­ do that often?¡±


    ¡°A couple times,¡± he shrugs. ¡°Never anything serious. We always knew I was gonna have to leave, so¡­¡±


    He trails off, looking regretful. The sorrow in his expression makes me feel guilty- are Sofie and I taking advantage of him by being with him, when he¡¯d rather be with Saffi but can¡¯t? It¡¯s hard to know. But if I asked him, I¡¯m sure he¡¯d say I¡¯m being stupid. Just because he might have had feelings for her once, which our little romp last night dredged up, doesn¡¯t mean what we have isn¡¯t real.


    ¡°Anyway, let¡¯s leave it at that,¡± he says firmly. Then a playful grin spreads across his lips. ¡°Unless you feel like doing a play-by-play, maybe critiquing my technique?¡±


    The idea is enough to make me laugh out loud, any lingering sense of guilt erased instantly.


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t think that¡¯ll be necessary. Your performance was¡­ let¡¯s say, satisfactory.¡±


    Niko rolls his eyes and gives me a playful smack on the back. Though to a casual observer, we might just seem like a couple taking a walk through a bustling megabuilding concourse, we¡¯re here on business.


    While we were all busy doing the triad¡¯s dirty work yesterday, Tommy managed to get his hands on just about everything I asked him to find, including the ¡®specialist,¡¯ i.e. mercenary, that we¡¯ll need to pull the job off. Unfortunately, he was only able to find one suitable candidate for the most important role in the entire operation- an individual known only as ¡®the Recluse,¡¯ who was only willing to entertain the idea of working with us if the person in charge of the job came to meet with him in person.


    From his perspective, the request isn¡¯t entirely unreasonable. This guy is one of the best security experts in the LC, but he does all his work remotely, from inside of a fortified apartment inside a megabuilding. He¡¯ll either use drones, or remotely pilot someone else¡¯s body, to do his part of the job. But the lag time between here and Liese, where Salzwedel¡¯s house is located, would be too great for that to work. So if he¡¯s coming, he¡¯s coming in person. And if we¡¯re gonna be the ones to make him emerge from his hideout for the first time in who knows how long, it makes sense he¡¯ll want to see our faces first.


    Tommy also let me know that if he does agree to work with us, he¡¯ll want an extra fifty percent on top of his standard, not-insignificant fee. This is one area where we can¡¯t afford to cut costs, though. And if everything goes according to plan, he¡¯ll practically pay for himself.


    To all appearances, the Recluse¡¯s apartment looks just like any other. The door is a cheap, plastic thing- it looks flimsy enough that Niko could probably batter it down with his bare hands. But as we approach, and a camera mounted above the door registers our presence, that door slides open, revealing a far more imposing steel one, the kind that looks like it would be more at home in a bank vault, back when banks stored anything of real, physical value.


    In the center of the door is a blue camera-eye, which lights up at our presence, and runs a scan of Niko and I. A moment later, the door speaks, in a genderless mechanical voice.


    ¡°It seems that you are armed. Please deposit your weapons into this container.¡± As it speaks, a drawer opens up out of the door, extended towards us. ¡°They will be returned upon your exit.¡±


    I look to Niko, who shrugs. We both remove our sidearms, and I take off the knife strapped to my ankle as for good measure. Niko produces a second pistol that I hadn¡¯t even known he was carrying, and then a grenade, a garrotte, and a toxin injector, all from the depths of that orange jacket he bought at the market back on Akademos, a few days before the War Games. Apparently it¡¯s full of surprises.


    We both dump all our weaponry into the drawer, which promptly slams shut. Once the blue eye scans us again, to make sure we didn¡¯t leave anything out, the door begins to open, a slow process of multiple locks unlocking, before it finally swings inward, inviting us to proceed.


    The Recluse¡¯s apartment doesn¡¯t exactly look inviting. It¡¯s largely unlit, the only real source of light being from the server towers that seem to be built into the walls, kept safe behind metal grates. Past the hallway we enter through, there seems to be a small sitting room with chairs that look like they haven¡¯t been sat in for months, arranged around a table with a film of dust covering it. On the other side of the room is a kitchenette that doesn¡¯t look like it¡¯s ever seen any use at all. Above us is a single, bare bulb, either not turned on, or left on so long it burned itself out without the Recluse noticing.


    When I heard the whole ¡®never leaves his apartment¡¯ thing, I assumed it was because he¡¯d turned the place into some kind of ultra-comfortable safe haven he¡¯d never want to leave, but this is almost the exact opposite. If we hadn¡¯t been invited in I would have assumed nobody lived here at all.


    This way, says an unfamiliar voice over the brainband. Nonverbal communication only has the tone and inflection you give to it purposefully, and this guy¡¯s words had none at all. Eerie.


    Accompanying the words was a sense of direction- literally, a sense telling us which direction to walk in. Not that it was particularly hard, since there¡¯s only one door leading forward.


    Niko steps in front of me seemingly insistent on taking the lead. Hard to know whether he perceives a real threat, or if he¡¯s just trying to act protective because this is a generally creepy environment, but I appreciate the gesture nonetheless- because I know that he knows I don¡¯t need to be protected, so he¡¯s not actually doing it for some dumb bullshit macho reason, but as a way of signaling that he cares about me, or whatever. It sounds stupid when I put it into words.


    After a short walk through another hallway where the walls are made from server towers, just like the entire rest of the apartment, we enter a room where the necessity of all those servers becomes obvious.


    ¡®Recluse¡¯ isn¡¯t just a synonym for hermit, it¡¯s a kind of spider. And the device that our man is sitting in/hooked up to sort of resembles a giant spider. Mainly in the legs, which there do seem to be eight of, and make an unsettling clacking noise against the concrete floor as he approaches us.


    The rest of the device is a chair, sort of. He¡¯s clearly not just sitting in it, though. His arms are in sockets of some kind, and at least one of them seems to be controlling the spider-chair, while the other manipulates the holo-screens that the chair is projecting around him. Although why they need to be projected, I¡¯m not sure, since the Recluse himself certainly isn¡¯t seeing any of it. He¡¯s laying back, almost limp in the chair, with a mask on over his eyes.


    Looking closer, I can see various tubes and wires connected to his body, feeding into several different tanks attached to the back of the spider-chair, and some of which seem to be wired into the room itself as well. The man¡¯s body is thin, frail, emaciated- I¡¯d be shocked if he wasn¡¯t physically dependent on the chair at this point. It was clearly designed so he wouldn¡¯t have to get up to eat or shit- some automated process probably refills his nutrien slurry tank and empties the septic one every month or so.


    Apparently I don¡¯t do a great job controlling my reaction, because the Recluse notices the look on my face. Not with his eyes, of course but with the cameras on his chair, which feed the data into him, either via the brainband, or through a direct connection to his ocular nerve. Probably both.


    You see the problem, then?


    This time, there¡¯s an undercurrent of humor to his words, though subtle enough that I almost convince myself it¡¯s not there.


    ¡°Uh, yeah. Hope you¡¯re not planning to come with us in that thing, because my plan does not have room for it.¡±


    Oh, no. I will be joining you in person, as agreed. But first- introductions. I am the Recluse. And you two, I presume, are Condor and Nightingale?


    Beside me Niko rolls his eyes. He¡¯s just mad because I said he had to be Nightingale.


    ¡°Yeah. We can talk about real-name privileges after you explain what exactly your plan for coming with us outside of that chair is. Because if we¡¯ve gotta carry you the whole way, it¡¯s not gonna work.¡±


    My plan is simple. I will discard this body for a new one, in less¡­ fragile condition. That body will accompany you. It will be a novel experience, after so long in this machine. Afterwards, I will simply place the new body back into the machine. However, the task of sourcing a new body falls to you, as we do not have time to wait for me to be resurrected legally.


    The matter-of-fact way he says that is enough to make my jaw drop. I look to Niko, making sure he heard the same bullshit I just did. All he does is shrug, looking unsurprised.


    ¡°Are you fucking kidding me? What do you think I am, a wizard? Under any other circumstances, I¡¯d tell you to go fuck yourself, even if you were the only competent security expert on this shithole of a planet, which you¡¯re not.¡±


    Beside me, Niko chuckles softly, covering his mouth with his hand to hide it. Both the chair and the body within it are motionless.


    ¡°However. Some friends of mine recently came into temporary possession of a yakuza resurrection facility. So if you were deliberately asking something incredibly unreasonable to try and dodge the job without having to turn us down¡­ tough luck. Now hurry up and kill yourself, we¡¯re burning daylight.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Are you sure there isn¡¯t something we need to be doing right now?¡±


    Niko is tense, I can feel it. Literally. He¡¯s sitting in my lap, despite being the larger of the two of us- we discovered a while ago that between my tail and his horns, this is more comfortable. Despite being in that enviable position- or at least I assume it is, I¡¯ve never run a poll or anything -he¡¯s still stiff, shoulders hunched and his back stiff.


    ¡°Nope,¡± I reply casually, snaking my tail around his chest to pull him closer to me. ¡°The spider-creep is getting his new body, so we¡¯ve got a few hours before we need to be back at the Den. Saffi and my copy are making sure all the gear¡¯s ready for tomorrow. We can just relax.¡±


    Almost reluctantly, Niko does just that, allowing himself to loosen up. As a reward for good behavior, I run a hand through his hair, feeling where the black metal of his horns pokes through the skin of his scalp. They aren¡¯t solid metal, but rather bone protrusions covered in a relatively thin metallic layer, which also coats the rest of his skeleton. A useful enhancement to have on the streets of Limbo City, I imagine.


    The two of us aren¡¯t on the streets right now, though. We¡¯re in one of Niko¡¯s old haunts, somewhere nobody else knows about except Saffi. The storeroom of an abandoned rooftop pharmacy, long since taken over by a thrill-gang trying to expand their operation by cooking up illegal drugs by mixing together legal ones.


    Saffi and Niko¡¯s crew was sent to clean the place out, years ago, and they did exactly that. But Niko, feeling concerned that his relatively comfortable life with the triad might one day be torn away in the same way as he¡¯d just done to the grangers, had felt it necessary to have a fallback plan. And the storeroom, already protected by a security system sophisticated enough to keep the gangers out, had seemed like the ideal place to start. Stolen novel; please report.


    So, in secret, using money he saved from the spoils of their exploits, he began fortifying the room further, and then stocking it with more than just expired prescription drugs. He got guns, ammunition, canned food, even physical currency- all the essentials for surviving and starting a new life when your old one is burning down.


    Thankfully, it never came to that. But the security measures he put in place stayed around, meaning that when we entered, years after he¡¯d last been in here, the only change was a layer of dust.


    It might not sound like the most romantic spot, but this wasn¡¯t just Niko¡¯s fallback plan, it was where he went to be alone, when he wanted to be away from Tommy, or Saffi, or any of the various others who came and went through their lives. So it¡¯s got more than just guns and canned synth-fish, it¡¯s got a little alcove with cushions and a blanket, and a little box that Niko tells me contains memory chips of all his favorite books and movies from when he was younger, which he loved so much he needed physical copies of, though he refuses to let me know what¡¯s actually on them. I suspect porn.


    ¡°It just feels as though we should be doing something,¡± he says, sighing. ¡°The operation is tomorrow. Are we really sufficiently prepared?¡±


    ¡°I ¡®unno about you, but I¡¯m pretty well prepared,¡± I chuckle. ¡°Just think of this as the calm before the storm. You should know all about that, right?¡±


    ¡°Ah. You¡­ heard that.¡±


    ¡°That speech you gave to the ¡®kuza guy yesterday? ¡®The wolf never abandons its pack, and the storm comes without warning?¡¯ You betcha.¡±


    Hearing his own words repeated back to him makes Niko shudder in disgust. I know I¡¯m setting myself up for the same torment the next time he hears me say something melodramatic in the heat of the moment, but I¡¯m having too much fun with this to care.


    Outside, a steady patter of rain is coming down on the roof of the building. Considerate guy that he is, Niko immediately shed his jacket and passed it to me when it first started coming down, aware of my rather negative associations with this particular form of inclement weather. Any discomfort I might have had has passed now that we¡¯re inside, though. And the jacket was surprisingly comfortable.


    ¡°Just don¡¯t tell Sofie about that, okay?¡±


    ¡°Bold of you to assume I haven¡¯t already sent her the mem,¡± I reply, with a low, evil laugh. Since the store has been abandoned for years now, it¡¯s been completely cut off from the power grid, so our only source of light is a compact, travel-sized plasma lantern in the middle of the room.


    ¡°Of course you did,¡± he sighs, but I can tell he¡¯s smiling, even without seeing his face.


    ¡°Hey, I¡¯m not judging. You know I¡¯m a dramatic bitch too, and that shit was straight out of Hawkshade or Zauberin or something.¡±


    ¡°Out of what?¡±


    ¡°Stuff I liked when I was a kid. I¡¯ll tell you about it some other time.¡±


    He accepts that with a shrug. I¡¯m not really in the mood to explain the details of the childrens¡¯ media that shaped my personality right now.


    The two of us sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Niko making no complaints as I run my hand through his hair, or try to ease out some of the tension in his back. Then he speaks.


    ¡°This city must be a big change from the farm. I¡¯m impressed how well you¡¯ve adjusted in such a short time.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m an adaptive creature. Only way to stay alive.¡±


    Niko pauses before replying, considering my words carefully.


    ¡°Unless you¡¯re content to stay in the same place your whole life.¡±


    Unbidden, an image of my family comes to mind. Father Len on the porch, blowing holographic smoke rings. Mother Kalli and Father Nico in the garden. Cesar and Damon racing hover bikes through the cornfields.


    ¡°Not me.¡±


    ¡°Me neither,¡± he says simply. Not that I would have expected him to answer otherwise. Living on a farm-world is desirable for a certain sort of person. Pretty much nobody would choose to have been born into the same circumstances as Niko.


    ¡°We¡¯re lucky to have the choice, though. If we weren¡¯t Nobles, I¡¯d still be there, you¡¯d still be here.¡±


    And, of course, there are so many people who don¡¯t have the choices we do- Saffi and Tommy and even Asher, to say nothing of the millions here in the LC who have even fewer choices than those relatively lucky three. My siblings, whose humble origins will most likely preclude them from ever advancing meaningfully in status, if they were inclined to walk that path.


    ¡°Do we really have any choices, though? You and me, we¡¯re lucky, sure. But Sofie- if she wasn¡¯t a Noble, she could have been anything, anyone. Rich parents, talented gymnast, smart as a whip, yet her entire life was predetermined because she inherited some long-dead Founder¡¯s pattern.¡±


    If I¡¯m not careful, this whole conversation could turn deterministic quickly, which would get depressing really fast. Acknowledging that free will is a lie rarely makes things feel romantic.


    ¡°Without that pattern, she wouldn¡¯t be the Sofie we know. And because of it, the Citadel is right where she wants to be. Same goes for us, too. If we weren¡¯t Nobles, we probably wouldn¡¯t have wanted to leave in the first place.¡±


    I pause, reconsidering.


    ¡°Well, except maybe you. But who knows? Non-Noble Niko might have been thrilled to be a corporate serf.¡±


    The mental image I share of a bright, cheerful, horns-and-tattoos-free Niko excitedly mopping the floors of a corporate arcology is enough to make the two of us laugh, though with a hint of sadness, because we both know he¡¯d have been anything but thrilled.


    ¡°Conversations with you are always so cheerful,¡± he says sarcastically, although not without some fondness.


    ¡°We could always change the subject,¡± I offer.


    Leaning back further into my embrace, Niko yawns and closes his eyes.


    ¡°Or we could just¡­ stop talking for a while.¡±


    ¡°Now that you mention it, that doesn¡¯t sound like such a bad idea.¡±


    <hr>


    When conducting meetings entirely within the Brainband, one needn¡¯t limit oneself to the possible as far as venues go. For our briefing, I selected a simple conference table, resting on the surface of an onyx-black inverted pyramid, the tip of which is balanced on the peak of a mountain made of glass. Above us, the sky is a symphony of incandescent supernovae, blooming into impossible colors that dissipate into the void just as quickly as they¡¯re born.


    All of this is perhaps a little over the top for a meeting like this, but I like to think it adds a sense of majesty and awe that Limbo City has thus far been lacking. Nobody comments on any of it, but I do spot Saffi looking up at the cosmic fireworks display above us, and the Recluse peering over the edge of the pyramid, which is perfectly still, despite the breeze which, if this were more than a shared idea we¡¯re all experiencing, would have upset its nigh-impossible balance and sent us tumbling to our deaths.


    At this height we¡¯d all be dead of hypoxia already, though. So there isn¡¯t much use dwelling on that part of things.


    ¡°Let¡¯s begin.¡±


    Seated at the head of the conference table, I tent my fingers and smile wickedly. Rather than ordinary clothes, I¡¯m ¡®wearing¡¯ a full-body jumpsuit made of roiling black matter that reacts to my words and movements. Perfect attire for our present environment, which is somewhere between purely concrete and completely abstract.


    ¡°By now, you all should be aware of our primary objective- stealing the Hurricane Howl, a Regalia weapon tied to the line of the Stormwolf.¡±


    With a tap of my finger against the table, I summon a visual representation of our target. It emerges from the center of the table, a perfect replica of the weapon in question, contained within a glass case.


    For the most part, the Hurricane Howl resembles an ordinary belt-fed machine gun. However, in place of the drum magazines, there are two canisters affixed to the underside of the gun, both transparent. And inside of each is a thunderstorm. Dark clouds struggle and strain against their confines, electricity brewing within each. Complex machinery connects the captured micro-storms to the gun itself, which is ornate, black metal with burnished silver engravings depicting a pack of wolves charging down each side of the barrel.


    ¡°Priceless, of course- and also useless, outside the hands of Mister Nightingale here.¡±


    From across the table, Saffi raises her hand, and I nod to her.


    ¡°Iza, do we really have to do this whole code-name thing? This guy-¡± she jerks a thumb towards the Recluse, who occupies a significantly less fragile body than the last time I saw him ¡°-already saw your faces, so he has to know who you are by now. Your little War Games were broadcast to the entire Imperium, remember?¡±


    ¡°The code-names, Ms. Mockingbird, are no longer for his benefit, but for anybody who might overhear our communications during the operation itself. It¡¯s best to get in the habit of using them now.¡±


    Only half true. We¡¯ll be communicating via brainband most of the time, after all. I just like the code-names, and if our ¡®specialist¡¯ is going to make us call him Recluse the whole time, I want one too.


    ¡°Now, unless there are any other burning questions¡­?¡±


    Looking across the table, I¡¯m met with no further resistance, though Saffi does roll her heart-shaped eyes at me. Precisely how her eyes have taken that shape, and how it¡¯s possible for them to roll, is unclear. A fully immersive brainband sim like this operates on a certain level of dream logic.


    ¡°Good. As I was saying. We¡¯re after the Hurricane Howl, currently in the possession of one Anselm Salzwedel, antiques aficionado and CEO of Blitzar, a major warship manufacturer. It, along with the rest of his collection, is held within his home on the planet Liese, which has exactly one public teleportal hub, on the other side of the planet from his home.¡±


    Another tap of my finger, and the display case containing the Howl sinks back into th table, replaced by a holo-projector that immediately activates to show a 3D map of Liese, with a red dot on one side showing Salzwedel¡¯s home, and a blue dot on the other showing the teleportal hub.


    ¡°Obviously, we won¡¯t be entering there. Instead, we¡¯re going to use Salzwedel¡¯s private hub, inside of his home. He takes security seriously, so the codes change every six hours. Acquiring the latest codes from here on Vi?saule would be next to impossible, so we¡¯re going to the one place that¡¯s guaranteed to have them.¡±


    The projection of Liese disappears, replaced by another planet entirely. A caption above it identifies the world to the others as New Arrach. Pretty boring as planets go, largely Earthlike, just with about 25% less ocean, and only three, large continents.


    ¡°Here, in the city of Temmas, the regional offices of SecuriCorp LLC are located. Salzwedel has a team from SecuriCorp patrolling his home at all times, even when he¡¯s home, but especially when he¡¯s not. They have a shift change three times each day. We¡¯re going to break into the SecuriCorp offices, take out the team scheduled to take tomorrow¡¯s second shift, and replace them.¡±


    As I¡¯m talking, the hologram zooms in rapidly, first to Temmas, then to the building where the offices are located, then into the building to the offices themselves. SecuriCorp is a small operation, with only a few regional offices in the entire Imperium, so figuring out which one would be catering to the Salzwedel home wasn¡¯t too hard.


    ¡°Here¡¯s the plan for how we¡¯ll be accomplishing that.¡± I tap my finger again, and a panel in the table opens up in front of everyone, revealing a slim paper dossier. ¡°You¡¯ll notice it¡¯s not especially long. That¡¯s because the building won¡¯t be particularly well-defended. It¡¯s just an office, after all.¡±


    Rather than opening the dossiers, each of the team members simply places their palm against them, absorbing the contents instantly.


    ¡°We will, however, have to worry about the team we¡¯ll be relieving. They will, of course, notice we¡¯re not the people they¡¯re expecting, and there won¡¯t be time to generate false credentials. So we¡¯ll have to kill them. Given that, you may be wondering why the game of dress-up is necessary at all. It¡¯s not for their benefit, but rather for the house¡¯s automated security, which is programmed to ignore anybody in a uniform.¡±


    ¡°Not to the degree that it would allow us to simply walk away with whatever we¡¯d like, though,¡± Niko interjects.


    ¡°Correct. It¡¯s just to get us through the door safely. Once we¡¯re inside, it¡¯ll be our newest addition¡¯s job to suppress the security system and allow us to begin the looting. The Regalia is, after all, not our only objective. We need to steal roughly two point five million credits worth of valuables, in order to recoup costs for the heist itself.¡±


    Most of that went towards the Recluse¡¯s fee, so he¡¯ll essentially be helping pay himself here.


    ¡°Using the drone footage of the interior of Salzwedel¡¯s home, I¡¯ve plotted a route that will allow us to obtain the necessary items as efficiently as possible. Given whose money we¡¯re playing with here, I have- of course -included more items than we may strictly need, in case anything proves to have been overvalued. Should there be any excess funds left over once our debts with the Syndicate are settled, they will be distributed equally amongst those present.¡±


    While I¡¯m talking, the projection zooms in even further, through the teleportal inside of the SecuriCorp office, and into Salzwedel¡¯s home. It follows the route I planned out, highlighted by a crimson thread weaving its way through the house, intersecting with various items as it goes. Paintings on the walls, statues on pedestals, jewelry behind glass cases.


    There were plenty of easy targets- multi-million-credit items that would have squared our debt and then some. But none that would be feasible to transport through a teleportal. We¡¯d need analog transport to haul the terracotta warrior statue in Salzwedel¡¯s bedchamber off of Liese, and that would take time we simply don¡¯t have.


    ¡°At the end of this path is the Regalia. Or rather, what I believe its most likely location to be. Salzwedel doesn¡¯t exactly have it out on display. If it¡¯s where I think it will be, great. If not, we¡¯ll have plenty of time to find it. Guard shifts are eight hours long, so nobody will be coming to take over for us for quite a while. That being said¡­ let¡¯s make sure this doesn¡¯t take eight hours, yeah?¡±


    A couple chuckles at that, but nothing too enthusiastic. Fair enough.


    ¡°After the primary objective is secured, we take the teleportal straight home. No need to pass back through the SecuriCorp offices, obviously. We can assume there¡¯ll be some kind of investigation, but so long as nobody is stupid enough to show their face or use their real name, we should be in the clear.¡±


    It¡¯s possible Salzwedel won¡¯t alert the authorities at all, since doing so would risk exposing his illegal possession of a Regalia weapon, but he¡¯s probably smart enough to just omit that particular item from the manifest of things taken.


    ¡°Everybody clear on their role? Good. In that case, this meeting is adjourned. I¡¯ll see you all tomorrow.¡±

 Chapter Twenty-Seven

    Oddly enough, none of my usual pre-battle nerves are manifesting as we approach the SecuriCorp offices in the city of Temmas, on New Arrach. I suspect it¡¯s got something to do with the fact that what we¡¯re doing is illegal. There¡¯s a unique thrill to breaking the rules. And it doesn¡¯t hurt that, for once, I don¡¯t have the eyes of the entire Imperium on me, judging my performance against every over Noble of my line.


    This office building, while not exactly a fortress, does have some security measures meant to prevent people from just waltzing in without permission. Fortunately, we have a top-class security expert with us. The Recluse¡¯s spoofed credentials allow us to stride straight through the lobby unmolested, the hidden turrets in the ceiling remaining inactive.


    Our security expert¡¯s new body looks almost nothing like his previous one. If you asked a layperson what his role in our heist crew was, they¡¯d probably say ¡®the muscle,¡¯ because that¡¯s exactly what he¡¯s covered in. It¡¯s generally considered somewhat tasteless to wear a body with such obvious artificial strength, but he¡¯s only gonna be using this one for a few hours before he goes back to the chair, so I¡¯m not gonna judge.


    The one security measure in this building we can¡¯t deactivate completely is the camera network. In order to avoid being recognized, we¡¯re all wearing FalseFace implants, which make us look like completely different people. I¡¯ve also got my tail wrapped around my body, underneath my clothes, to make sure nobody recognizes me by my unusual appendage.


    While the rest of us are silent and still, the Recluse taps his foot along nervously to the beat of the peppy jazzflash song playing in the elevator. Since he¡¯s the one with the muscles, he¡¯s also carrying the duffel bag full of gear we¡¯re going to need for the job. All of us are carrying our own weapons- no need to hide them in this building. If the automated security flagged everybody who came to work with a gun, none of the SecuriCorp officers would make it through the front door.


    As the elevator rapidly approaches our destination on the sixty-seventh floor, I tap the Recluse on the shoulder and gesture towards the bag. He deposits it on the floor, and opens up the top. Swiftly, Saffi, Niko and I all retrieve three identical pairs of thermal imaging goggles. They¡¯re calibrated specifically to seek human heat signatures, and powerful enough to see through all but the thickest walls. A fortified military compound might have defenses against tech like this. An office building, not so much.


    SecuriCorp isn¡¯t a massive outfit like Palladium or the Junkyard Hounds. They don¡¯t own entire asteroids devoted to housing miniature armies. Instead, they cater to a select clientele, people like Salzwedel. And they rely on anonymity to protect them, which is precisely why most of their regional HQs are in places like this. Why bother maintaining a massive base, when you can just rent out a couple dozen offices all over the Imperium, where your contractors can hang around before their shifts in the homes of the wealthy and powerful begin. It¡¯s low-profile, too, which means it¡¯s less of a target.


    I strap the goggles on, but wait until we hit floor sixty-seven to pull them down over my eyes. When the doors open, I see the world in cool blue, with a cluster of glaring red lights demanding my attention. Drawing my sidearm, I glance to Niko and Saffi to see they¡¯ve done the same. Despite his new, burly frame, the Recluse won¡¯t be participating in the shooting side of things. Killing people isn¡¯t his area of expertise. But it is ours.


    The SecuriCorp office isn¡¯t even the only one on this floor, but fortunately, there don¡¯t seem to be very many people in any of the others. Still, we¡¯ll need to keep things quick and quiet. If anybody alerts the authorities, we¡¯ll likely be compromised, even after we¡¯re through the teleportal. Won¡¯t take a genius to figure out where we went, or why.


    All three of us affix silencers to our weapons- compact black cubes no more than an inch in diameter, which neatly slot onto the barrel of just about any weapon in existence, and suppress some ninety-five percent of all sound without taking up excess space. Convenient little gadgets. I didn¡¯t bring the Trident with me for this job- it¡¯s a versatile weapon, but not exactly subtle.


    After a quick countdown on the brainband, Niko kicks open the door to the SecuriCorp office, the only thing branding it as anything other than an ordinary corporate suite being the logo, a padlock with a pair of crossed swords behind it, and the letters SC in the center.


    Immediately, a holographic receptionist winks to life behind the front desk, features unnaturally symmetrical and smooth, without a hint of hair anywhere on its ¡®body.¡¯ Before it can say a word and alert the human inhabitants of the office to our presence, Niko fires a single shot, which passes through it, and hits the projector on the wall, causing it to disappear.


    From here, there are three doors, each leading into a different part of the office. There are heat sigs in every direction, meaning we¡¯re going to have to split up. Fortunately, we all studied the floor plan in advance, so I don¡¯t have to give anybody orders. Niko heads for the door on the far wall, behind the desk, where the office¡¯s command center is located. Saffi breaks right, towards the manager¡¯s office. I take the left, which leads to the break room.


    With my free hand, I push the door open slowly, and sweep the room. In the corner of my eye, I spot a man in a green-and-gray SecuriCorp uniform, standing by a coffee machine, filling up a mug. He notices me at almost exactly the same time, and whirls around in surprise. Instinct takes over, and I pull the trigger, sending a single round through his eye and into the wall. He drops the mug, but whether it¡¯s thanks to sturdy design or the carpeted floors, it doesn¡¯t shatter, just lands with a soft thud, meaning our presence here is still a secret.


    As the body slumps to the ground, blood pooling together with hot coffee to create a permanent stain in the carpet, I poke my head- and my gun -into the adjoining bathroom, to make sure there¡¯s nobody sitting on the toilet wondering what¡¯s going on outside. There are no heat sigs inside, but better safe than sorry. Fortunately, it¡¯s empty. I¡¯d have felt a little bad about shooting someone while they were shitting.


    I read once, in some old book, that humans used to have a reflex that caused them to shit themselves when they died. Makes me glad that¡¯s edited out of us by default now, else the War Games would be a lot more unpleasant. Though apparently the real reason that reflex was removed was to make the process of recycling dead bodies for their biomass more efficient, since having to powerwash the lower half of every corpse before it could be recycled added up to a lot of cumulative time.


    The next nearest heat signature comes from a room just off of the break room. Now that I¡¯m close, I can make out the SecuriCorp contractor¡¯s silhouette more clearly. Strangely, he looks like he¡¯s holding a gun, but it¡¯s not pointed anywhere near me, so it doesn¡¯t seem like he¡¯s heard me. Putting my ear to the door, I listen closely and hear the muffled sound of silenced gunshots. That¡¯s when I put it together- they must have a shooting range here. Not a large one, and they probably can¡¯t use real ammo without voiding the lease, but still, this is perfect for me. That guy in there is completely focused on his targets, and he¡¯s most likely wearing noise-canceling headphones. He wouldn¡¯t notice me unless I ran naked across the firing range itself, with a target painted in bright red on my backside.


    Instead of doing that, I move away from the wall, keeping my eyes on the shooter just in case he unexpectedly decides to point that gun in my direction, and open the main line.


    Nightingale, what¡¯s your status?


    Immediately, I hear Niko sigh at being referred to by his codename.


    All good, Condor. Control room is clear.


    Good. Mind killing the cameras for me?


    He doesn¡¯t ask why, or even make a snarky comment, just sends a wordless pulse of assent. Then, a few seconds later, another one confirming that he¡¯s done as asked.


    Thanks. See you soon.


    With the cameras off, I can now unfurl my tail, and use it to pluck a short, thin needle from my belt. That wouldn¡¯t have been possible before I came to the Citadel, but after my second death here, I decided I needed to make my tail more than just a fashion statement with a sharp bit on the end. So now, the barb can split open like a pincer, making it capable of grasping and holding things. It¡¯s dangerously close to having an additional limb, which is, if not outright illegal, certainly pushing the boundaries of acceptable body modification. That¡¯s why I try not to show this particular capability off. Though that¡¯s not exactly the reason I wanted the cameras killed, so much as the general idea that my tail is fairly distinctive, and seeing it on security footage would make it easier to identify me as being a part of this heist.


    Cracking the door open, I snake my tail through, careful to keep it out of the shooter¡¯s line of sight. It¡¯s two feet long when fully extended, so it¡¯s more than capable of reaching over to him from this distance. Once it¡¯s close enough, I draw back slightly, then jam the needle straight into his neck. He squeezes the trigger reflexively, and then tries to turn towards me, but the paralytic is already taking effect, locking his joints in place. We don¡¯t need him alive, of course, which is why the paralytic is only half of what this particular substance does. The other half is a good old fashioned neurotoxin, which will kill him relatively painlessly in the next few seconds. But I needed him paralyzed to ensure he wouldn¡¯t fight back, so I could avoid having to damage his uniform like I did with the guy I shot earlier. The plan is to masquerade as these guys, which is a lot harder to pull off in an outfit covered in blood.


    Slowly easing the needle out of his neck, to minimize the blood loss from the wound, I let the body drop to the floor and wait for several moments until I¡¯m certain he¡¯s not going to jolt upright and attack me.


    My rooms are clear. What¡¯s your status, Mockingbird?


    Same here, Saffi replies curtly. We haven¡¯t had much time to talk since the other night, and I was a little worried that it would make things weird afterward, but that mostly doesn¡¯t seem to have been the case. I guess getting caught up in your own emotions is a luxury you can¡¯t afford in her line of work. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    Good. We¡¯re all clear, then. Recluse, you¡¯re free to enter. Let¡¯s meet up in the command center.


    Stepping over the body on the ground, I head out of the firing range, which is exactly as unimpressive as I expected of a firing range built inside of an office building to be, and back through the break room, into the reception area, and then behind the desk, into the office¡¯s nerve center.


    The barrel of Niko¡¯s gun is the first thing I see as I enter the room, though he lowers it quickly after realizing it¡¯s me. He¡¯s sitting in a desk chair, legs crossed, looking bored, and nods at me as I walk in.


    The command center looks pretty much exactly like what I expected. Walls covered in holo-screens displaying feeds from different locations that this SecuriCorp office is contracted to protect, a big control table in the center of the room, and several desks on either side of the room with analog computer terminals on them. Two corpses sit on the floor, and one of the computer terminals has a bullet hole in it, but besides that, there aren¡¯t many signs that there was a fight in here. Niko was characteristically efficient, it seems.


    This SecuriCorp office serves a fairly large sector of Imperium space, but has only a handful of actual clients in all of that space, Salzwedel being one of them. It doesn¡¯t take very long for me to locate the holo-screens corresponding to his home. They don¡¯t display security camera feeds- Salzwedel¡¯s home security system is on a different network from the people he actually pays to guard the place -but rather the personal perspective feeds of the guards currently patrolling the place.


    Saffi enters through another door, knocking first to make sure we don¡¯t shoot her, which is probably what I should have done too. Shortly after, the Recluse follows, dumping the duffel bag on the ground once he¡¯s inside.


    ¡°I¡¯m here,¡± he announces redundantly, smiling at us.


    ¡°Okay, we¡¯ve got about twenty minutes before the current shift ends. I want everybody to go find a body with an undamaged uniform that fits them, and put it on. If you can¡¯t find one, go hit the armory, there should be something for you there, but make it quick. After that, we need to take the bodies and dump them in the bathroom, and lock up the doors so that nobody comes snooping around here and realizes we shot the place up. That clear? Good. Get moving.¡±


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    Twenty minutes later, the four of us are wearing green-gray SecuriCorp uniforms over our clothes, and waiting by the office¡¯s teleportal hub for the team on duty to return. Finding a uniform that fit me right was harder than I thought it would be, mostly due to the size of the personnel here compared to my relatively slender frame. Shockingly, the kind of people who go into private security tend to be the sort of people who favor extremely muscular bodies. For that same reason, the Recluse had no trouble at all finding something that fit him fine.


    Talking to him is still weird, considering how different he looks compared to the emaciated husk we met just yesterday. Even the way he speaks is different, less stilted and formal. There¡¯s a certain strange enthusiasm about him, which I guess isn¡¯t actually all that strange. This is practically a vacation for him, a brief chance to live like an ordinary person before he has to go back to his life of total mediation, seeing and doing nothing except through a technological interface.


    The office¡¯s teleportal hub is just another room, mostly empty except for an emergency control panel off to the side, which can be used to manually program the hub in the unlikely event that transmitting your destination and access codes via the brainband is impossible.


    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t they be here by now?¡± the Recluse asks, sounding more curious than nervous. All four of us are positioned around the empty doorframe that is the teleportal, ready for the SecuriCorp contractors to emerge so we can take them down.


    ¡°Yeah. Probably just running a little late. They should have no way of knowing what happened here.¡±


    ¡°Unless one of the people we killed managed to trigger a silent alarm,¡± Saffi points out, grip on her twin pistols not wavering.


    ¡°Fair point, but don¡¯t you think the cops would have already showed up if that was the case?¡± Niko responds, likewise maintaining his focus on the teleportal while he talks. The way they¡¯re speaking, you¡¯d think it was the weather we were discussing, not the possibility that we¡¯re about to get busted for a list of crimes that¡¯s already very long, even though we haven¡¯t even started the main part of the heist yet.


    Before I can tell them to shut up, though, the teleportal hums to life, a shimmer of light spreading across the empty doorframe, and a low thrum of energy permeating the room. It¡¯s a wider teleportal than the one we used to get here, big enough for multiple people to pass through at once. Despite what some uninformed people believe, there¡¯s zero chance of becoming molecularly entangled with another person if you do that. These teleportals don¡¯t actually deconstruct you at the atomic level and put you back together somewhere else- they¡¯re just miniature wormholes.


    You can probably imagine the surprised expressions on the faces of the first two SecuriCorp guards to come through the teleportal, to find people wearing their comrades¡¯ uniforms, but pointing guns in their faces. The woman on the left only gets out a confused ¡°Wha--?¡±, while the other manages an entire ¡°Why are you--?¡± before we open fire.


    ¡°Bitch to be you right now,¡± the Recluse quips, emptying his magazine into the back of one of the fallen guards. Niko shoots him a quizzical look. ¡°What? It¡¯s from a movie.¡±


    The next guard to emerge steps right onto the ankle of one of his dead friends, trips, and falls face-first onto the corpse, before quickly becoming one himself thanks to some sharp shooting by Saffi. The next wanders haplessly through, unaware of what just happened thanks to our silencers, and the fact that noise doesn¡¯t travel through a teleportal. It¡¯s only after seeing three corpses right in front of him that he realizes anything¡¯s wrong. The man stares at us, confounded, and squints at me in particular.


    ¡°Wait, you guys aren¡¯t--¡±


    However he was going to finish that thought, we never get a chance to find out, because I put a round straight through his neck. Shocked, he claps his hands to the wound, but the damage is already done, and he falls to the ground, gasping for air as blood begins to fill his lungs. Out of pity, I put another in his skull, ending his suffering. It¡¯s just good manners.


    ¡°Should we put them in with the rest?¡± the Recluse asks, jerking his thumb in the general direction of the bathroom we filled with corpses.


    ¡°Nah, no time. Let¡¯s go.¡±


    Stepping over a pile of bodies, we walk through the teleportal, and the heist begins in earnest.


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    On New Arrach, it was mid-morning. Here on Liese, it¡¯s the middle of the night. Time in the Imperium is generally calculated based on two clocks- Local Relative Time, which is based on whatever planet you happen to be standing on, and Imperial Standard Time, which is calculated based on the current time on Prime, the capital-world. Day to day, you only really use LRT, because it determines when you eat, sleep, and get off work, but IST has its uses as well. Mainly people use it to schedule interplanetary meetings and other events, since calculating the time difference between two planets that could be millions of light years apart is next to impossible. You also use IST whenever you¡¯re off-planet, be it living on a space station, asteroid, or in transit aboard a ship.


    Moving from the brightly lit SecuriCorp office to the dark interior of Salzwedel¡¯s home is slightly disorienting, but all four of us adjust quickly enough. A quick scan using the thermal goggles verifies what we already knew- there¡¯s nobody else here but us. And unless we somehow fuck up badly enough that this takes eight hours, it should stay that way ¡®til we¡¯re gone.


    Okay. First stop is the security control panel, one floor up. Remember, we can¡¯t start smashing and grabbing until after the security system¡¯s suppressed, so keep your hands in your pockets.


    Saffi and Niko both nod seriously, and for a moment, I wish Sofie was here with us to make a joke or something. Pushing that feeling aside, I follow the trail I laid out for myself, a thread of Ariadne visible only to me, overlaid onto my vision. The spy-fly we sent in ahead of us mapped the place out, and I used that map to determine our path through the house. Now all I have to do is follow that path, and not deviate from the plan.


    Despite having heard my own words just a few seconds ago, it¡¯s hard to resist the impulse to start stealing immediately, especially when we walk past a silver skull sitting in a glass case, with a pair of gemstones in its eye sockets, green and red respectively. Unfortunately, it¡¯s not on our list, no matter how valuable it might be- the plan affords no time for backtracking.


    Doing my best to ignore the other priceless works of art and artifacts we pass, I lead the group up the nearest flight of stairs, and to a seemingly innocuous wooden panel in the wall. Without the drone, I¡¯d have had no idea it was here, but the little fly¡¯s sensors were precise enough to pick up something concealed behind this panel, and its analysis of the house¡¯s security system suggests that almost everything is routed through this one spot.


    Taking a prybar from the duffel bag, I pop the panel out of the wall, and then step back to let the Recluse have at it. He crouches down, awkwardly thanks to his hulking frame, and retrieves a set of precise-looking tools from the bag to begin rewiring the system. Disabling it outright is off the table, since there¡¯s undoubtedly a failsafe to lock the entire place down if the alarms are taken offline without proper authorization. Instead, what the Recluse is doing is significantly raising the alarm¡¯s trigger threshold. Normally, so much as scratching the glass on one of those cases would have triggered the entire security system to activate, but once he¡¯s done, it won¡¯t register anything less than a bomb going off as cause to actually start the alarm.


    It takes several minutes for the Recluse to crack the encryption. While he¡¯s doing that, I head over to the nearest window and take a look outside. Even in the middle of the night, the view is breathtaking. The cobalt peaks glitter in the distance, and a flock of iridescent starfeather birds pass over the forest below, sparkling like their namesake against the night sky.


    Liese is a conservatory world, meant to be wholly untouched by humankind. It¡¯s practically criminal that people like Salzwedel are allowed to build homes here. The Nobility system was intended to keep people with lots of money from amassing too much power and influence, because a Noble¡¯s position is guaranteed, so there¡¯s no reason for them to take bribes. But that doesn¡¯t apply to the stewards who occupy a Noble¡¯s position while they¡¯re still at the Citadel, all the while knowing they¡¯ll soon have to step down and take a power position. With that in mind, it¡¯s much easier for them to justify modifying the rules so someone like Salzwedel can live on a planet like Liese just because he feels like it.


    ¡°Got it!¡± the Recluse cries triumphantly, stepping away from the panel and raising his hands to the skies in victory.


    ¡°Great. Close it back up, and somebody grab the bag. This is where the fun part starts.¡±


    ¡°Let the looting begin,¡± he intones.


    ¡°Uh, yeah. Sure. Just do it.¡±


    From inside the duffel bag, Niko retrieves a folded-up cloth sack. Maybe the most low-tech way of transporting our ill-gotten gains imaginable, but we couldn¡¯t exactly have brought a hovercart in here with us. This¡¯ll just have to do.


    ¡°Okay, good. We¡¯re on the third floor now. My path takes us all the way down to the basement, where the Regalia is.¡± Or where I think it is, at least. ¡°Secondary objective remains the same- there¡¯s a specific quota we need to meet with regards to the value of what we bring back. The path I laid out takes us past a number of items that should meet that quota, plus a few extra for good measure. That said, we¡¯ve got plenty of time, and the security system is suppressed, so if you see something shiny that you think might be valuable, feel free to grab it and throw it in the bag. Let¡¯s move out.¡±

 Chapter Twenty-Eight

    It doesn¡¯t take long for the four of us to get really into looting Anselm Salzwedel¡¯s home. For all four of us, he¡¯s an example of unattainable heights of wealth and influence, capable of building a home on a conservatory world, and cramming it full of priceless artifacts. Whether we were living on the streets of Limbo City or in the dirt on Demeter VII, it seemed impossibly far from where we started, to here.


    Apparently the collector¡¯s in a bit of money trouble these days, which is why we even know he has Niko¡¯s Regalia in the first place. He put it, along with much of his collection, up for auction on the black market. Not the small-time black market of the LC streets, but the kind only someone of his station can get access to. So by looting his collection a day before that very auction, we¡¯re not only enriching ourselves (outstanding debts to the Red Sun Syndicate aside), we¡¯re ruining him as well.


    That¡¯s just fine by me, though. For one, it¡¯s not like he¡¯s going to end up on the streets. He¡¯ll just have to sell off an ultrayacht or two instead. And for another, nobody gets to be as rich as him without destroying a few thousand lives, at minimum. Considering some of the things we¡¯re passing by in this house, I¡¯d say more like tens of thousands, if not more.


    What really strikes me about Salzwedel¡¯s home, though, is how tacky it all is. I likened it to a museum after first seeing it, because of all the artifacts and collectibles on display, but museums have some sense of organization and elegance to them that this place lacks. He just has these items arrayed around the place practically at random. On our way towards the nearest staircase down to the second floor, in a single hallway alone, we pass three wildly incongruous items right next to each other.


    The first item is a suit of armor emblazoned with a bright red cross, a relic from some ancient Earth kingdom that was so fervently religious, their soldiers all wore the symbol of the church right on their chests. The second is a vintage poster for a classic film called ¡®Waterworld,¡¯ which looks fragile enough behind its protective cover that I suspect it¡¯d crumble to dust if I touch¨¦ it, which is the only reason I don¡¯t roll it up and stick it in our sack. And the third is a glass case containing a single bullet, which the placard identifies as the last bullet fired in the Kallisto Campaign, a notoriously brutal series of battles that ended with the Warlord coming to offer his surrender to the Imperium¡¯s forces, after having forced his people to fight losing battle after losing battle merely to slow the enemy down. He was surrendering to a man called Brokkr, the Bastard-General, one of the Nine Titans, and legend has it that Brokker¡¯s response was, without a word, to shoot the warlord in the face. And this, supposedly, was the bullet that did it.


    That bullet, we do take, dropping it in the bag. Priceless historical artifact it may be, but I figure if it¡¯s survived this long, a little rough treatment now won¡¯t destroy it. The point is, there¡¯s no unifying theme or connection between any of that. It¡¯s all just thrown together in a jumbled mess. Half of this stuff, I doubt Salzwedel even cares about particularly. He¡¯s just accumulating things for the sake of it, because the process of becoming so wealthy that he can afford all this has left him with a giant hole in his heart, and he thinks he can fill it through consumption.


    Besides the priceless artifacts everywhere, the house is incredibly clean. It¡¯s a very modern design, mostly smooth white surfaces, with the occasional bit of false wood paneling to make it look a little less like the inside of a luxury space cruiser. None of the lights are on, and I¡¯m happy to keep it that way, but the light fixtures mostly seem to be big pillar-things that hang from the ceilings, instead of, like, lamps or whatever. None of them dangle low enough for me to touch, and I have to restrain the impulse to jump up and swat at one of them to see if it¡¯d swing around a bit.


    Halfway through the second floor of the house, after several scheduled stops to steal, among other things, an original copy of the first Emperor¡¯s only published book, Purpose, and a set of dueling pistols from the seventeenth century of the Earth calendar, Saffi raises a hand and brings us to a halt.


    ¡°Hold up, I wanna grab something.¡±


    She¡¯s not the first of us to make an unscheduled stop, so we do what we did before. The Recluse puts down the duffel bag containing our gear, and she opens it up to retrieve the necessary tools, in this case a simple glass cutter, which she attaches to the exterior of a glass display case, behind which sits a small golden model of a dragonfly, with a pair of tiny pink gemstones in the place of its eyes.


    ¡°Don¡¯t think that¡¯s gonna go for much,¡± Niko points out, as the glass cutter swiftly carves out a circle from the surface of the case, allowing Saffi to reach inside and pluck the trinket out.


    ¡°Yeah, I know. I just want it.¡±


    Rather than tossing it in the sack, she slips the dragonfly into a pocket and zips it shut. Stowing the glass cutter, the Recluse picks up the duffel bag and hoists it over his shoulder, allowing us to continue.


    After another few stops to steal a set of silverware from the wreck of the spacecruiser Gargantuan, an unsolved quantum clockwork puzzle box designed by the Fractalsmith, and a ceremonial death mask from the ancient Venusian Caliphate, we reach the stairs leading down to the first floor. Niko and Saffi are lagging behind the Recluse and me slightly, I suspect they¡¯re chatting privately over the brainband.


    Reaching across his chest to adjust the strap of the bag on his shoulder, the Recluse stumbles, seconds away from tumbling down the long flight of stairs. My hand snaps out reflexively, grasping the back of the SecuriCorp uniform he¡¯s wearing, pulling him back. He flails his arms a bit, trying to regain his balance, and grasps the railing tight.


    ¡°Whew. Thanks for that. Guess I¡¯m still getting my land legs back.¡±


    ¡°No problem.¡± I release my grip on his shirt, but keep my hand close in case he loses his balance again. ¡°How long did you spend in that chair anyway?¡±


    ¡°¡­too long,¡± he answers somberly, though that doesn¡¯t actually clarify much for me. ¡°I have to thank you for giving me the push to leave.¡±


    Doesn¡¯t really feel like I deserve any thanks, since I really just wanted him for the job, but I¡¯ll take it.


    ¡°Glad to hear you¡¯re having a good time. Just remember, we¡¯re here to do a job.¡±


    ¡°Of course. I do have quite a bit more experience with this sort of thing than you.¡± He laughs good-naturedly, and keeps walking. Only after we reach the bottom of the stairs does he pause again, looking thoughtful. ¡°It¡¯s almost a shame I¡¯ll have to return to the DataThrone after this.¡±


    ¡°Well, you could always prolong this vacation a little.¡±


    Something tells me that¡¯s not actually a novel idea. He was already toying with the thought of putting off the return to his chair, he just wanted some external validation of the idea before committing to it. If I¡¯m the one he wants to provide that, I¡¯m happy to oblige.


    ¡°You know, that¡¯s not a bad idea,¡± he muses, scratching his hairless chin.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad you¡¯re rediscovering the joys of living like a human being, but can you focus up? We¡¯re not even halfway done with my list.¡±


    ¡°Right, right. Sorry.¡±


    As the four of us move through the first floor of Salzwedel¡¯s home, we make over a dozen scheduled stops, and nearly half as many unscheduled ones. I end up having to caution Saffi against opening up a case containing one of the original Apples of Discord, a series of art pieces that possessed a powerful memetic effect that caused anyone exposed directly to them to desire the Apples more than anything in the world. Several minor wars were launched over them as a result, which the artist later claimed was all a part of the exhibition. Most of them were believed to have been lost, and all the others are supposedly accounted for in high-security vaults or museums, so seeing one here, out in the open, was a surprise. It¡¯s possible this is a fake, but I¡¯d rather not take the chance.


    The Apple is pretty much the only thing not nailed down that we don¡¯t take, though. By the time we get to the sub-level, the sack is looking pretty heavy. Niko hasn¡¯t given any indication that it¡¯s bothering him, though. He¡¯s made the fewest unscheduled stops of any of us- I think he just wants to get on with it. The prospect of reclaiming his Regalia isn¡¯t just about obtaining a powerful weapon, it¡¯s also about redeeming his line, erasing the disgrace of being the only Noble lineage that actually sold off its own Regalia. Having the Betrayer in my line¡¯s past, I can certainly understand the impulse, though expunging my line¡¯s past sins will be a lot harder than it will be for him.


    Since Salzwedel¡¯s home is built into the side of the mountain, it doesn¡¯t really have a proper basement so much as a smaller, semi-secret lowest floor, accessible only through a high-security door that operates off of a different system than the rest of the house. So we¡¯re not gonna be able to waltz through like we have with every other security countermeasure up to this point.


    Pulling a device that resembles a jeweler¡¯s loupe from the duffel bag, the Recluse begins examining the door, searching for the hidden control panel that will allow him to bypass it. Sighing in relief, Niko puts down the sack of loot and leans against the wall to catch his breath.


    ¡°How long¡¯s this gonna take?¡± Saffi asks, eyeing the imposing titanium door, which doesn¡¯t have any visible mechanisms for unlocking it the traditional way. Presumably it¡¯s keyed only to open in Salzwedel¡¯s presence, maybe using some kind of brainband authentication code, since DNA check, fingerprints, and retinal scans aren¡¯t as secure as they once were.


    ¡°A while,¡± the Recluse shoots back, a little tersely.


    ¡°How ¡®bout we go look for some more stuff to grab?¡± I offer to Saffi, who¡¯s already looking bored. ¡°He¡¯s got a smoking room not too far from here, there¡¯s bound to be some good stuff in there.¡±


    ¡°Sure, why not?¡±


    Leaving the Recluse behind at the door, with Niko to keep an eye on him, we head down the hall towards the smoking room. Nobody¡¯s huffing carcinogens these days, of course- though one of the things we grabbed on our way to the sub-level door was an antique cigar box. Instead, the smoking room is for imbibing mood-fluid, the safe, legal drug of choice for most of the Imperium. I wouldn¡¯t be shocked if Salzwedel partakes in other, more proscribed substances, maybe even in this room, but he¡¯s smart enough not to leave any evidence of that lying around.


    Unlike the rest of the house, which is sleek, white, and modern, the smoking room is clearly designed to evoke something more nostalgic. Wood paneling on the walls, plus red leather sofas and armchairs, and a large waterpipe in the middle of the room, with several tanks of mood-fluid attached, and half a dozen different smoking tubes that guests can smoke the vaporized fluid out of. A very old mechanism for communal consumption of mind-altering substances, with a few modern modifications, mainly granting it more capacity, and making it less of an ideal vector for the spread of disease.


    Obviously, we¡¯re not going to take the waterpipe, though it could probably fetch a few hundred credits thanks to its gold filigree. The real prize here is what¡¯s on the walls. Mounted above the fireplace like a hunting trophy is a helm, the same basic model as any other you¡¯d have seen on a battlefield in the War of Conquest, but with a few notable modifications. For one, it¡¯s been painted onyx-black, matching the reflective lenses. For another, a pair of boar-like tusks have been grafted onto it. They¡¯re jagged, with spikes protruding out from across the length of the tusks, still looking sharp enough to cut me open, even hundreds of years after they were torn from the jaw of some unfortunate creature on a far-off world.


    While Saffi sets to work liberating the other items hung up around the room, from necklaces to bangles, broaches, and other kinds of jewelry, I pry the helmet loose, careful not to let the tusks carve my arms up. Thankfully, the SecuriCorp uniform I¡¯m wearing is durable enough to give me some protection when I scrape against them. Eventually, I manage to dislodge it, and turn to Saffi, triumphant.


    ¡°Looks cool,¡± she tells me, with an armful of expensive accessories. ¡°You sure it¡¯s gonna fit in the bag?¡±


    ¡°It better. This thing¡¯s gonna go for a shitload. Supposedly the Apocalypse Knight wore it into battle on Elet IX.¡±


    Saffi makes an unimpressed noise. Founder artifacts are incredibly valuable and highly coveted, but to someone from the streets of Limbo City, they probably don¡¯t hold very much significance.


    ¡°Well, if not, we could always make the pup wear it.¡±


    The two of us share a chuckle over that mental image. Unfortunately, it¡¯s not a real option, since we¡¯d have to drill two holes in the helmet to accommodate Niko¡¯s horns, which would tank its value. It would probably look pretty good on me, though.


    Between the helmet and what Saffi¡¯s got in her arms, we¡¯re more than in the clear for our debts to the Syndicate, which takes a load off my mind. It¡¯ll probably take Mother¡¯s people a while to fence all of this stuff, even in Limbo City, where you can find a buyer for just about anything you might want to sell. But so long as the street value is roughly equivalent with what we borrowed from her, it should be okay.


    The alternative doesn¡¯t really bear thinking about. I don¡¯t need anybody else sending assassins after me. Though on the other hand, the Syndicate- while powerful within its sphere of influence -doesn¡¯t really have the pull to get people inside the Citadel. That doesn¡¯t mean we¡¯re free to just keep all the loot for ourselves, though. Me and Niko being safe only means she¡¯d take her anger out on Saffi, Tommy, and our families. So either we pay her back in full¡­ or we find some way of dealing with her.


    When we¡¯re about halfway down the hall back to where Niko and the Recluse are waiting, Saffi puts a hand on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. Surprised, I look back at her with an eyebrow raised.


    ¡°What¡¯s up?¡±


    ¡°Niko¡­ be good to him, okay? He deserves better than just being treated like a useful tool.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t¡ª¡±


    ¡°I know. Not saying you do. But you gotta watch out for him. That¡¯s how he¡¯s used to living. Wouldn¡¯t take too much for him to fall back into the same routine.¡±


    Quiet for a moment, I consider what she¡¯s saying. My first instinct is to reject the idea more firmly, because I¡¯ve made him an officer, put him in a decision-making role. But an officer is still just a soldier at the end of the day.  I¡¯m the one deciding our course, he just offers advice for how best to get to the destination I choose. And to a certain point, that¡¯s the system working as intended. Militaries aren¡¯t democracies for the same reason the Imperium isn¡¯t- it¡¯s inefficient. Even within my own War Council, if we all had to vote on everything we did, it would cost us far too much time. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    ¡°Understood. I¡¯ll keep an eye on him.¡± I pause, studying her face. ¡°Is there anybody who¡¯s gonna be keeping an eye on you?¡±


    Saffi smirks.


    ¡°C¡¯mon, Condor. You really think I need someone babysitting me?¡±


    The words are spoken with the same effortless confidence as she says anything else, but it feels like there¡¯s something underneath, just barely detectable. Maybe a touch of sadness. I can¡¯t dwell on that now, though.


    ¡°Heh. Dumb question, I guess.¡± I tilt my head back in the direction of the others. ¡°C¡¯mon, let¡¯s not keep them waiting any longer.¡±


    <hr>


    By the time we get back to the sub-level door, the Recluse has nearly gotten it open. By the way he¡¯s sweating, it¡¯s clearly taking some effort, though likely more of the mental kind than the physical. On the other hand, Niko looks as bored now as he was when we left him, distracting himself by staring at his palm-screen.


    ¡°What, are you taking bets on whether we¡¯ll pull this off?¡± I ask with a chuckle.


    ¡°He¡¯s still doing that?¡± Saffi scoffs. ¡°Unbelievable. And here I thought you wanted to rescue your line¡¯s reputation.¡±


    Niko closes his fist, and the palm-screen disappears.


    ¡°It¡¯s hardly my fault that I¡¯m surrounded by easy marks.¡±


    While the three of us share a chuckle at that, he hoists the loot bag back up over his shoulder, after allowing Saffi and I to deposit our most recent acquisitions inside. Fortunately, the helmet fits, and the material is durable enough that I¡¯m not too worried about the tusks slicing it up from the inside.


    ¡°¡­got it,¡± the Recluse wheezes, before lowering himself to the floor, breathing heavily. Whatever he was doing didn¡¯t look that strenuous to me, since he just seemed to be tinkering with a control panel set into the wall, like before, but apparently unlocking this one door was significantly harder than suppressing the entire house¡¯s security system.


    I don¡¯t doubt that what he just accomplished was impressive, but something tells me his exhaustion is more a result of having spent ¡®too long¡¯ on a life-support system designed to ensure he never had to get up out of a chair. Even in a fresh, fit body, this kind of exertion seems to have taken more of a toll than it otherwise might have.


    ¡°You good?¡± Saffi asks, not looking especially concerned.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be okay,¡± he breathes. The contrast between his hulking frame and how much the task of unlocking a door has taken out of him is pretty funny, the more I think about it- though thankfully, I manage not to let my amusement show. We do still need him, for the time being.


    ¡°Great. How ¡®bout we keep moving, then?¡±


    Without waiting for a response, she heads through the doorway and down the stairs, Niko following close behind. I hang back for a second, and offer the Recluse my hand, helping him to his feet. Thankfully, I¡¯m wearing gloves, else I wouldn¡¯t have risked touching his sweat-slick palm.


    ¡°Guessing you didn¡¯t do much field work even before you got in that chair?¡± I ask, with what I hope is a sympathetic smile.


    ¡°Not exactly, no,¡± he laughs. ¡°Usually I¡¯d just disable security from an external control panel, then leave the rest to everybody else. Don¡¯t worry, though- it¡¯s all coming back to me.¡±


    Again, it feels more like he¡¯s trying to convince himself than me, but I don¡¯t argue, just clap him on the back and follow the others down to the sub-level.


    It¡¯s only a short flight of stairs down, and the door we¡¯re met with at the bottom opens silently without a hint of resistance. Another layer of security on top of what we¡¯ve already gotten past would have been excessive, I suppose.


    While Salzwedel keeps plenty of items on display all over the house, they¡¯re all just decorations. This room, on the other hand, seems to be entirely dedicated to his collection. The eastern and western walls are dominated completely by massive glass cases containing dozens of different items, mostly antique weapons from various different eras, while the room itself is replete with trophy cases arranged in a grid, containing everything from a clockwork model of the Sol System, to a human head preserved in amber.


    ¡°These are all on a separate alarm system,¡± the Recluse warns us, as Saffi approaches one of the cases. ¡°Best not to risk opening any of them up until we retrieve the primary objective.¡±


    ¡°What he said. Now, let¡¯s see if we can figure out where it¡¯s hidden.¡±


    Our spy-fly drone wasn¡¯t able to get past the door to this sub-level, so we¡¯re flying blind now. I assumed the Regalia would be down here because it¡¯s the most secure place in the house, but it¡¯s possible all that security is just misdirection. If I was Salzwedel, I wouldn¡¯t keep it behind a maximum-security door, I¡¯d keep it under my bed, or in a hidden compartment under the garbage disposal- the last place anybody would think to look. Then again, that might be a little too clever for him.


    Opening up the bag, I pull out one of the bulkier items we brought along- a deep-surface scanner. It resembles a large tablet with a screen on one side, and handles on either end so it can be pressed up to any surface. The sensors on the other side are powerful enough to penetrate thirty feet of solid concrete. If this thing can¡¯t pick up wherever the Regalia is hiding, it¡¯s probably not down here.


    While the other three survey the room with just their eyes, I start looking in the most obvious place- on the far wall, which is suspiciously devoid of any trophies or collector¡¯s items whatsoever. It might be the single largest empty surface in the entire house, come to think of it. But after slowly moving the scanner across the entire length of the wall, and getting Niko to give me a boost so I could scan the top half, nothing shows up. The display stays static, showing nothing beyond the wall except more concrete.


    ¡°Nothing?¡± Saffi asks from across the room, glancing briefly our way before turning back to the item which has her transfixed, a golden, mechanical insect of some kind that seems to have been put on alert by her interest, crawling around on the inside of its case excitedly.


    ¡°Nope,¡± I reply, annoyed. ¡°Rec, is there any way this wall could be, like, shielded or something? Cuz I¡¯ve got no idea why he¡¯d leave it totally empty like this if there¡¯s not a big hidden room behind it or something.¡±


    ¡°I can take a look,¡± he says, in a tone that suggests to me he doesn¡¯t expect to find anything.


    ¡°Good. I¡¯ll check out the other walls.¡±


    Hopping down from Niko¡¯s shoulders, I pause momentarily to catch my breath, then head over to the eastern wall, starting my examination from the bottom. As I bring the scanner across the glass case, I pass by dozens of different artifacts, a few of which I recognize, and one or two of which might well be worth the combined value of everything we¡¯ve tossed in our loot bag so far.


    There¡¯s a set of knives that were supposedly used by the Rogue, an infamous Noble thief. One of the original prosthetic eyes worn by Sa¡¯adah El-Amin, the Founder of Bret¡¯s line. The Equinox Diadem, a symbol of office worn by the kings and queens of the Trent Dynasty, a monarchy from the Warlord Era that peacefully surrendered to the Imperium. What there isn¡¯t, however, is a hidden compartment behind the wall. I scan every inch of the case, increasingly frustrated, but the results never change.


    Turning away, I look to the Recluse, hoping he¡¯s turned up something that I missed on the other wall, but he just shakes his head, looking concerned. Hissing under my breath, I march over to the west-side wall, passing by a case containing the hand of a bronze statue, clutching a massive, fieldball-sized pearl, so large it could only have formed in the oceanic depths of Abyssia.


    The other wall has its own share of treasures too. Less Noble memorabilia, more historical Earth artifacts, like a huge, golden crucifix inset with gemstones- an ironic symbol for a church that preached the divestment of physical possessions. But then again, the phrase ¡®hypocritical church¡¯ is a redundant one. Besides that, there¡¯s an antique rifle, so old that parts of it seem to have actually been made from wood. It¡¯s difficult to imagine wielding a weapon made from such flimsy materials, like trying to duel using a sword made of bamboo.


    Again, I find no sign of anything hidden beneath the surface. This time, my scan is so meticulous that when I turn around, I find Saffi sitting on the ground, arms wrapped around her knees, looking unimaginably bored.


    ¡°...seems like it¡¯s not here,¡± I report quietly. ¡°We should probably go back up and search the rest of the place, but if you guys wanna take five and--¡±


    ¡°I have an idea,¡± Niko says abruptly. Instead of elaborating, he just holds his hand out, and I pass the deep-surface scanner to him, leaning against the wall to watch what he does next.


    To my surprise, he gets down on his hands and knees, pressing the scanner to the floor, and begins to move between the cases, scanning the ground beneath us. His route is less careful and meticulous than mine, but it becomes clear why he¡¯s not taking as much care moments later, when he reaches the very center of the room.


    Niko stops in between four cases. One contains an intricate, filigreed golden compass. The next holds a model pirate ship. Number three, a severed human hand with a spiral pattern scarred into its palm. And the fourth, a spear-tip broken off from the shaft. On the ground between all four, the scanner lights up green. He¡¯s got a hit.


    ¡°Right under our fucking feet,¡± I whisper, equal parts incensed and impressed.


    ¡°Okay, we know where it is,¡± Niko announces. ¡°Now we need to know how to access it.¡±


    Clearing his throat, the Recluse speaks up.


    ¡°I already scanned for a control panel, but there doesn¡¯t seem to be one down here. Whatever mechanism will open the compartment up, it¡¯s most likely analog.¡±


    In other words, he¡¯s suddenly become useless. I resist the urge to say that aloud, mainly because I have a feeling we¡¯re still going to need him for when we¡¯ve gotten the Regalia out of its hiding spot.


    Approaching the spot Niko identified, I examine the cases surrounding it, starting with the compass. The stand it¡¯s on has it propped up at a slight angle, and the needle is pointing straight south. Curious, I close my eyes and access the brainband, searching for this planet¡¯s magnetic north. Turning in that direction, I glance back at the compass, and discover that the needle is pointing in the wrong direction. More than a little eyebrow-raising.


    Wary of setting off any alarms, I gingerly press my palms to the sides of the case, and apply as little pressure as possible, hoping to test a theory. As I suspected, the case begins to turn, rotating until the compass inside is facing a different direction. Once it¡¯s aligned with the rest of the cases once again, the needle shifts over to east instantly, without having so much as twitched until the case stopped moving.


    By now, Niko¡¯s noticed what I¡¯m up to, and he approaches, peering over my shoulder.


    ¡°Curious. Do you think--¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I do. Gimme a hand here.¡±


    Together, we turn the case one more rotation, until the compass, and the needle, are pointing ¡®north.¡¯ The direction still doesn¡¯t align with the planet¡¯s actual magnetic north, but that doesn¡¯t matter- this compass isn¡¯t measuring that. Instead, it seems to be a tool for determining whether the case is aligned in the correct direction for unlocking the compartment beneath.


    Once the case is turned the right way, we step back, waiting for something to happen. Unfortunately, nothing does. Not even a slight rumble to let us know we¡¯re on the right track. I frown, immediately annoyed once more.


    ¡°Saf-- uh, Mockingbird, mind checking to see if any of these other cases rotate?¡± Niko asks.


    ¡°Sure,¡± she replies, and gets up, walking over to the nearest case to try turning it. This one doesn¡¯t budge.


    ¡°Huh. So is it just this one, or...?¡±


    I shake my head, and turn to the next case, containing the model ship, which has a unicorn figurehead at the bow. Another quick test reveals that this case, too, can turn. Swiftly, I set to work rotating it so the unicorn¡¯s horn faces ¡®north,¡¯ same as the compass needle.


    Immediately, Niko catches on, and walks over to the spear-tip, which is held up horizontally on a stand, rotating its case to match the others. Finally, we work together to turn the case containing the hand, so its palm faces north as well.


    When the last case clicks into place, there¡¯s a loud pneumatic hiss. Then the floor begins to move beneath us. We both jump to opposite sides of the rapidly-opening gap, watching as the four cases each recede to create space for a fifth, larger case in between all of them.


    To nobody¡¯s surprise, the item within the hidden case is none other than the Hurricane Howl. It looks exactly the same as the replica I displayed yesterday during our planning session inside the brainband. That¡¯s no surprise either. Besides their unique traits, the Regalia all share something unique- they exist in fixed quantum states, impossible to permanently damage or destroy.


    Saffi and the Recluse join Niko and I around the case, examining the weapon closely. Both of them wear expressions of undisguised fascination as they stare at the ¡®magazines,¡¯ each containing miniature storms that have been swirling for centuries, maintained by technology that can no longer be replicated. Each of the Regalia weapons is an irreproducible technological miracle in its own right. Niko¡¯s expression, however, is unreadable. He turns to the Recluse.


    ¡°Get it open.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll need a minute to study the alarm system in here,¡± he protests.


    ¡°Why weren¡¯t you doing that already? We spent the better part of an hour searching this room, what were you doing? Sitting on your ass?¡±


    ¡°Well, I, uh--¡±


    ¡°Forget it. Just get to work.¡±


    Looking flustered, the Recluse retrieves his tools from the bag and kneels down, examining the pedestal that the case rests atop, searching for some mechanism that could be used to unlock it without setting off any alarms.


    While he does that, Niko begins to pace around the case, eyes never wandering from his Regalia for more than a second. The only other times I¡¯ve seen him with such intense focus are in the middle of a fight, and even then, only when there¡¯s live ammunition involved. Even Saffi seems slightly disconcerted by how he¡¯s behaving.


    Suddenly consumed by the same nervous energy, I set to work packing the duffel bag back up, stowing the deep-surface scanner and the rest of our instruments, save for that which the Recluse is actively using. Once we¡¯ve got the gun, this should be as simple as heading straight back to the teleportal hub, using the Citadel codes that Sofie provided this morning- courtesy of Professor Kore -and going home. Saffi and the Recluse will wait for us to leave, then take the loot bag and return to Limbo City, so the Syndicate can get their cut. All very neat and tidy.


    ¡°It¡¯s done,¡± the Recluse says after several minutes, sounding more frustrated than tired this time. Apparently a little bit of pressure was all we needed to get real results out of him. In a different version of the plan, this would be where one of us shot him in the back so we could all get a bigger cut of the loot, but that doesn¡¯t really apply in this case. Still, he¡¯s no longer particularly useful to us, so I can stop walking on eggshells around him.


    ¡°Finally,¡± Niko replies, as the glass case retracts into the pedestal, leaving the Regalia exposed to the air, resting on its stand. Gingerly, as though afraid it¡¯ll shatter when touched, he puts his hands on the weapon, and slowly lifts it.


    As Niko wraps his hand around the weapon¡¯s grip, placing the other underneath the barrel to support its weight, we all take a step back. Not because I particularly expect he¡¯s about to start shooting, but just as an instinctual response to anybody holding a weapon like that in the firing position.


    After a moment, the weapon emits a soft hum, and a series of blue lines tracing the length of the barrel light up. An androgynous digital voice emanates from the weapon, not aloud, but speaking through the brainband.


    New user detected. Authenticating Noble lineage...


    A pause. We all draw breath, save for Niko, whose eyes are closed, expression unreadable once more.


    Authenticated. Welcome, Stormwolf.


    The three of us sigh, relieved, and he opens his eyes, smiling.


    ¡°Okay. Let¡¯s get out of here.¡±


    Saffi grabs the loot bag, struggling slightly with its weight before the Recluse offers to take it off her hands, passing her the duffel containing our gear instead. Part of me feels guilty for not carrying anything, but it¡¯s hardly my fault that we packed light.


    Niko at the head of the group, we exit the trophy room and ascend the stairs. The door seems to have closed automatically behind us, but it opens back up as we approach.


    Waiting outside the door to greet us is none other than Anselm Salzwedel.


    To be more precise, it¡¯s a holographic avatar of Salzwedel, filtered slightly to let us know he¡¯s not here in person. The trillionaire is on the older side, with graying hair and gaunt features, though he wears a smug expression as he greets us.


    ¡°I hope you didn¡¯t think it was going to be that easy.¡±

 Chapter Twenty-Nine

    Salzwedel laughs cruelly at our collectively shocked expressions. Though the holographic avatar has a slight digital filter, reminding us he isn¡¯t here physically, the sound of his laugh is perfectly clear.


    ¡°I must confess, I was actually rather surprised when I realized you had taken the bait I left out for you. An auction, selling off my most prized possessions, in order to pay off my debts? How laughable. I manufacture warships for the Imperial Navy. If I truly was in debt, the Emperor would wipe it away with a stroke of his pen.¡±


    A setup. This entire heist was a setup. We walked straight into a trap. It¡¯s a brute fact, bouncing around the inside of my skull, making me feel like more of a fool with every passing second.


    ¡°You mean this whole thing was a setup?¡± the Recluse asks, proving himself the only one of us incapable of not stating the obvious.


    ¡°Quite so, my musclebound friend,¡± Salzwedel laughs. ¡°You are no doubt wondering why I would deliberately seek to have my home ransacked, and my most valuable trophy stolen. The answer is quite simple. Priceless and unique though it may be, that weapon is little better than a paperweight in my hands. It has been in my possession for no less than four decades now, and not once have I been able to so much as pull the trigger. Not once.¡±


    Frustration seeps into his tone, twisting his features for a moment. He¡¯s well-dressed, a full suit and tie, with his hands behind his back, almost statue-like in his stillness, save for his face. I¡¯ve got no idea where he could be speaking from. Nowhere near here, surely.


    ¡°You, Mister Genov, are the only person in the entire Imperium capable of changing that.¡±


    Though we¡¯re all wearing FalseFace implants that make us appear as different people, he can tell which one of us is Niko, because the Regalia in his hands is activated. At the very least, the rest of our identities should still be safe.


    ¡°Your Noble cognitive pattern is what unlocks the weapon, meaning it will only function in your hands. But it is not your hands that make it function. It¡¯s your brain.¡±


    While Salzwedel is speaking, Saffi glances to the left and right, and, seeing no impediments to our egress, starts in the direction of the teleportal hub.


    ¡°Fuck this supervillain monologue bullshit, I¡¯m out.¡±


    ¡°I would not recommend that course of action,¡± Salzwedel advises calmly.


    The holographic Salzwedel snaps his fingers. Seconds later, dozens of soldiers, wearing not the green-gray SecuriCorp uniform, but a bright yellow one, pour into the hallway on both sides. All of them have weapons primed and pointed at us.


    ¡°As I was saying,¡± he continues, while Saffi and I both draw our own weapons, pointing them at the soldiers on either side. Kind of a pointless gesture, but it does make me feel a bit better. ¡°For the past several years, a group of researchers in my employ have been busy developing a machine capable of harvesting your cognitive pattern, and using it to fool the Regalia into believing that you are the one wielding it.¡±


    Niko stiffens, and behind us, I hear the Recluse gasp.


    ¡°All the machine now requires is your brain. It will be carefully preserved, self-termination function suppressed. Your disappearance will be written off as yet another failure of the Stormwolf line, and the power of the Hurricane Howl... will be mine.¡±


    This time, Niko snarls, and levels the machine gun at the hologram, which only makes Salzwedel laugh.


    ¡°My soldiers are under orders to capture you alive, of course. Sadly, your associates will need to be terminated. Mindkiller is difficult and expensive to acquire, but as you all have seen, I am a man of great resources.¡±


    Just like that, the stakes are even higher. He can¡¯t risk us exposing his scheme, or coming after him for revenge, so truedeath is his only option.


    Placing a hand on Niko¡¯s shoulder, I draw him back. He¡¯s breathing heavily, clearly furious, but now isn¡¯t the time for uncontrolled anger. Not yet.


    ¡°You would be the mastermind?¡± Salzwedel asks, amused. ¡°The Stormwolf line is hardly known for its intelligence, so I suppose it stands to reason there would be a power behind the proverbial throne.¡±


    ¡°Something like that,¡± I reply, keenly aware that I no longer have a plan of any kind. For a lot of Nobles, that realization would mean it¡¯s time to surrender. But I¡¯m more than willing to improvise.


    ¡°Well? Have you anything to say? Perhaps you intend to reveal that this was all somehow a part of your plan?¡± He pauses, mirthful. ¡°No? I suppose real-life heists rarely play out as they do in fiction.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right. I didn¡¯t plan for any of this. But that¡¯s just gonna make it all the more embarrassing when I win anyway.¡±


    A number of things happen in short order after that. The first is that my tail snaps out from underneath my clothes, with a small object held between the pincer-like segments of the barbed tip. It¡¯s a smoke pellet, which, when it hits the ground in front of us, explodes into a thick cloud, obscuring sight-lines for the soldiers surrounding us.


    Next, Saffi tosses me and Niko our thermal imaging goggles, which all three of us quickly strap on, giving us the advantage against the soldiers, who have no such equipment of their own. Probably weren¡¯t expecting they¡¯d need it, considering this was supposed to be as simple as springing a trap on us. Their mistake.


    Next, the Recluse takes three steps back, through the doorway to Salzwedel¡¯s high-security sub-level. The door slams shut in front of him, sealing itself thanks to his control of the security system. He really did subvert all of those systems, meaning that despite the fact that Salzwedel engineered this entire situation, he still has limited control of the house¡¯s facilities itself. Behind that door, he- and more importantly, our loot -should be safe until the shooting is over.


    We aren¡¯t all acting independently, of course. I gave everybody their orders over the brainband, while Salzwedel was monologuing. And one of us still has a role to play.


    Besides the soldiers and the three of us, there¡¯s another heat signature nearby. Two, really. The twin storms that serve as the Hurricane Howl¡¯s source of ¡®ammunition.¡¯ When I first strap the goggles on, they¡¯re faint, but while I watch, they begin to warm up, and the scent of ozone permeates the air.


    ¡°What are you waiting for, fools? Shoot!¡±


    Salzwedel¡¯s shrill command comes a moment before the soldiers do as instructed, opening fire on our position. What they¡¯re firing, however, are rubber bullets. He needs Niko alive for his sick scheme to work, not to mention the rest of us, because if we die the normal way before he can truekill us with Mindkiller, we¡¯ll expose his plan. So they¡¯re hamstrung, using non-lethal ammo against a trio of targets all wearing body armor, thanks to the SecuriCorp uniforms we ¡®borrowed¡¯ on our way in here.


    That doesn¡¯t mean we¡¯re completely safe, of course. If they hit us in the head, we¡¯re down for the count, and taking a body shot still won¡¯t be pleasant. But they aren¡¯t the only ones firing. The air crackles, and I hear the sound of thunder, close by, yet somehow distant, as the Hurricane Howl begins to fire.


    In thermal vision, it looks incredible. Bolts of white-hot lightning rip outwards from the machine gun¡¯s barrel, and tear through the ranks of the soldiers on the right side of the hallway. Each bolt is powerful enough to kill a man in an instant, but that¡¯s not all- the lightning jumps from man to man, arcing between their weapons and gear, all of which serves as lightning rods to the supercharged weapon. Within seconds, all of them are smoking corpses, the stench of burning hair practically choking us.


    We waste no time in fleeing from the remaining soldiers, Niko firing off a few shots in their general direction to slow them down. Carrying the bulky gun slows him down a little, but they¡¯re in no hurry to follow after seeing the rest of their squad get massacred like that.


    All three of us breathing heavily, we dash down the hall, until I spot a doorway I remember from watching the spy-fly footage of this place to prepare for the heist. Even in the midst of the fight, I can¡¯t help but feel angry with myself at having gotten so completely suckered by Salzwedel¡¯s scheme, but there¡¯s no time to beat myself up about that now. Recriminations can come later.


    Fucking hell, that was close, Saffi says, as we duck into Salzwedel¡¯s sitting room. The jewel-encrusted globe showing the oceans and continents of Earth rests in the center, but I ignore it, instead taking cover behind a couch to catch my breath.


    Not out of the woods yet, I warn her, peering over the sofa to check the doorway.


    ¡°You think you¡¯ve escaped?¡± Salzwedel roars over the house¡¯s PA system. ¡°None of you are leaving this place alive!¡±


    That would seem to run counter to his previously established plan to keep Niko alive indefinitely as a brain in a jar, but I don¡¯t think he¡¯s quite thinking straight at the moment.


    Case in point:


    I¡¯m going to track him down and force-feed him his own testicles, Niko hisses.


    Fully on board with that plan, but let¡¯s focus on getting out of here first.


    After a moment, he signals his wordless assent, apparently too infuriated to form any complete sentences that aren¡¯t about how he plans to enact his revenge upon his would-be captor.


    Okay, let¡¯s take stock then. First off, nobody¡¯s seriously hurt, right? I know it was pretty hairy for a second there.


    One of ¡®em clipped me, but I¡¯m all good, Saffi replies. Assholes can¡¯t shoot for shit.


    For real. Guess he must have cheaped out on mercs. Speaking of- I¡¯m estimating maybe twenty guys left, assuming Salz isn¡¯t busy calling in reinforcements right now.


    Make that eighteen.


    I don¡¯t bother suggesting that Saffi might not have killed the two people she shot at before we left. It would be an insult to her abilities.


    Copy that. My guess is they¡¯re regrouping right now, so we have a little time to prepare. Low-rent guns for hire or not, they won¡¯t be stupid enough to all run at us together, so we can¡¯t just rely on Niko gunning them down like before.


    His response comes in the form of a low grunt.


    Hold on, Saffi interjects. We can¡¯t just wait here for them to come to us. Even if he didn¡¯t have anybody on standby, that asshole can still just call up Mercs-R-Us and have them ship in twice as many people whenever he wants. We gotta take control of the ¡®portal hub, or we¡¯re fucked.


    The sagacity of her insight makes me pause for a moment, feeling deeply foolish for the second time today.


    You¡¯re absolutely correct. In fact, I think I¡¯ve pretty much voided any right to be giving orders today. The wheel¡¯s yours.


    Saffi shoots me a sideways glance from her hiding spot not far from where I¡¯m crouched down, like she¡¯s trying to figure out if this is some kind of trick or test I¡¯m pulling.


    ¡­okay, sure. Why not? Let¡¯s put those goggles back on and go hunting.


    Of course- the thermal goggles will let us see the enemy through the house¡¯s walls, giving us the advantage as we search them out.


    It might be prudent to split up, I suggest, trying not to slip into ¡®commander voice.¡¯ They need to take all three of us alive, after all. And if they do take you down, try to pull your plug before they can stun you or something.


    Good call. Let¡¯s hit it.


    Pulling the thermal goggles back down over my eyes, I peer up over the sofa, sweeping the room with my sidearm as I do so. Several heat signatures show up in the distance as I do so, giving me some idea of where the remaining mercenaries are located. It doesn¡¯t hurt that I have the house¡¯s layout ¡®saved¡¯ in my memory, accessible at any time, meaning I know more than just the general locations of the mercs, I know which rooms they¡¯re in specifically.


    Flicking Niko and Saffi that information, I have to keep myself from immediately handing out orders, still my first instinct, and instead wait for Saffi to issue a command.


    Seems like most of them are in the kitchen. Pup, you good to handle them on your own?


    His laconic reply is Yes.


    Thought you¡¯d say that, she smirks. It looks like some stragglers split off and headed up to the second floor. They¡¯re all yours, Princess.


    Part of me wants to complain about being given the easier job, but Niko is the one with the Regalia. Plus, I did just abdicate my role as leader of this little operation, so I¡¯ve got no right to second-guess Saffi.


    Sounds good. And you?


    Gonna secure the ¡®portal room, hit the emergency shutdown to make sure he can¡¯t bring anybody else in. Now get moving, we don¡¯t have all day.


    With a nod in her direction, I smack the side of my sidearm and step out fully from behind cover, following Saffi and Niko out of the sitting room. I do spare one last look at the jewel-encrusted globe before we leave, still a bit disappointed we can¡¯t take it with us. I wouldn¡¯t even want to sell it, just put it on display in my own apartment back on the Citadel.


    The three of us split off quickly, and I head for the nearest staircase, keeping close to the wall and making sure to make as little noise as possible while I walk. The handful of heat signs on the second floor aren¡¯t stationary, and I can¡¯t keep all of them within my field of vision at once, so if I get sloppy, it¡¯s very possible one of them might manage to sneak up on me.


    Right now, though, I¡¯m trying to sneak up on one of them. There¡¯s a heat signature nearby, moving cautiously down an adjacent hallway with a weapon raised. Fortunately, he¡¯s facing away from me, so this should be a layup- except for the fact that shooting him in the back would instantly alert every other person in the building to my exact location. So instead, as. prepare to round the corner that¡¯ll give me line of sight on him, I use my tail to pluck a lightweight throwing knife from my belt.


    With the tip of the blade held in the pincer-grip of my tail¡¯s barb, I turn the corner and set my sights on the mercenary. A brief, idle brainband search informs me that they¡¯re part of a group called the Yellowjackets, which explains their brightly-colored uniforms. Presumably they don¡¯t wear those into hot zones most of the time. Just more proof they weren¡¯t remotely prepared for dealing with us. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    More evidence for that is the fact that their uniforms lack any kind of protection for the wearer¡¯s neck. Even the appropriated SecuriCorp uniform I¡¯m wearing has that basic precaution. Salzwedel really did go with the lowest bidder for this operation. Taking him at his word that his financial troubles really were entirely fabricated, it seems strange that he wouldn¡¯t go with the best mercenaries available for this job- but maybe he figured his little scheme to entrap us was so good that the quality of people holding the actual guns didn¡¯t matter. At the end of the day, he is just some rich asshole who got lucky, not a tactical genius of any sort.


    Then again, I¡¯m hardly in a position to be criticizing anybody¡¯s tactical credentials right now. Instead of dwelling on that, I draw my tail as far back as it¡¯ll go, until I can feel the tension in it. Then, eyes locked on my target, I whip the flexible appendage forward, and release its hold on the knife at the last possible moment. Whistling through the air, the blade strikes true, hitting the Yellowjacket merc in the back of the neck, a centimeter to the right of the spinal column, so it doesn¡¯t get slowed down by the thick bone in the dead center of the neck.


    Blood gushes from the wound, swiftly staining his yellow uniform red as he collapses to the ground, a final cry for help gurgling to nothing in his throat. However, quickly scanning the rest of the floor shows me that one of the others has changed direction, now heading this way, indicating he knows something is amiss. Even with a near-instant kill, people do sometimes manage to hold on long enough to send a silent call out over the brainband, but fortunately, it¡¯s fairly rare. People just don¡¯t have the same reflex to do that as they do to cry out aloud. Still, that¡¯s most likely what happened in this case, unless one of the Yellowjackets just happens to be clairvoyant.


    Clairvoyant or not, he¡¯s still stupid, because he doesn¡¯t call over any of the others, just approaches alone to investigate. Instead of running, I move closer to the body, then step into a room right next to it, closing the door behind me. I find myself in a spacious, well-appointed bathroom, which only really matters in this context because it¡¯ll be much harder to suppress my footsteps on the polished tiles beneath my feet.


    When the Yellowjacket turns the corner and sees his friend¡¯s body, he rushes over, without pausing for a second to check for traps scan for anything suspicious. It¡¯s an incredibly amateurish mistake, one I can¡¯t see any of my Gazelles making. Except maybe Bret.


    Waiting a second to calm my nerves, I put my hand on the doorknob. After a deep breath, I push it open, and rush into the hallway, tackling the Yellowjacket with as much force as I can muster. My hand goes to his mouth, keeping him from shouting for help, while my tail¡¯s tip drives straight into his neck. Once it¡¯s pierced the skin, I drag it across the artery as quickly as possible, hoping to kill him before he, too, can get off a silent cry.


    This time, it seems to work. As I feel the mercenary go limp, and let him fall from my hands to lay on top of his friend, I do another quick check of the floor, and see that none of the others have moved significantly from where they were a few moments ago.


    By my count, there are still three Yellowjackets left on this floor. Judging by the distinct lack of thunderclaps, Niko hasn¡¯t yet started dealing with his lot. To make sure I shouldn¡¯t be on the lookout for a sudden influx of new enemies, I send a quick, wordless query to Saffi, asking if she¡¯s managed to hit the emergency shutdown on the teleportal yet. Fortunately, she responds with a yes, meaning I can focus entirely on the task at hand.


    Wiping blood off my tail onto the leg of the SecuriCorp uniform I¡¯m wearing, I head down the hall, towards one of the house¡¯s guest bedrooms. It¡¯s lucky the lights are all off, otherwise the bloody footprints I¡¯m tracking across the polished white floor would be a bright red beacon indicating where I¡¯m going. Normally I try to avoid that sort of thing, but surprising the second Yellowjacket beside the corpse of the first required me to step in a pool of the first guy¡¯s blood. At least these aren¡¯t my shoes. The sneakers I wore out this morning are sitting safely in the bottom of the duffel bag containing our gear.


    The nearest living Yellowjacket is somewhere in the vicinity of Salzwedel¡¯s dressing room, a spacious area that I recall from the spy-fly footage as containing a truly ludicrous amount of cravats, not unlike the one he was wearing in his holographic address to us earlier. If I¡¯m lucky, I should be able to sneak up and knife him from behind, like I did to the other two. In case this goes wrong, though, I need to know where the other two are, so I can gauge how fast they¡¯ll reach my position if they hear something.


    One of them is exactly where he was the last time I checked, holed up in a closet of some kind. Not exactly the bravest choice, but probably the safest. My target is maybe a hundred yards away, though further in practical terms because there are several rooms between us that I can¡¯t simply cut straight through to reach him. And the third¡­


    ¡°Don¡¯t move a muscle,¡± a low, gravelly voice intones from behind me. Immediately, I curse myself for my own incompetence once more. Knowing there weren¡¯t reinforcements coming through the teleportal, I let my guard down, forgetting that the Yellowjacket who rushed blindly in wasn¡¯t necessarily the only one who heard my first victim¡¯s silent cry of distress. And now another one of his friends has a gun trained on me from behind.


    Usually, knowing the gun pointed at you only has rubber bullets in it would be a relief, but in this situation, it¡¯s rather more chilling, because I know that if he shoots me and I pass out, I¡¯ll never wake up. Not as ¡®me,¡¯ at least. I¡¯ll be an unrecognizable puddle of psychic goop, rendered unrecoverable by Mindkiller. Everything that I am will be destroyed, in a way that not even resurrection technology can repair.


    Forcing myself to breathe evenly, I do as he says, not moving even to raise my hands. He takes a single step towards me. By the sound of it, he¡¯s still a short distance away, far enough that I couldn¡¯t hope to hit him if I turned around and took a swing. Complying is, paradoxically, my best hope for survival in the near term.


    ¡°Drop the gun.¡±


    I drop it, careful to ensure that it lands with the barrel pointing away from me. An accidental discharge being what kills me would be incredibly humiliating. Though that thought does serve as a useful reminder that, if worst comes to worst, I can self-terminate before he gets a chance to knock me out. If I¡¯m quick enough.


    ¡°Good. Now put your hands behind your head.¡±


    Once more, I do as he says, and he takes another few steps forward, now close enough that I can sense his general position relative to mine. More importantly, I can tell more or less where the gun is.


    From the moment that I became aware of the presence of the Yellowjacket behind me, my tail has been lying limp on the ground, unmoving. In the darkness, he either hasn¡¯t noticed it, or hasn¡¯t considered it as anything more than an odd detail about the person he¡¯s pointing a gun at. His mistake.


    My tail snaps up, and coils around his wrists, then jerks them to the side, a mere instant before the gun goes off. The bullet streaks past my arm, gunshot sounding impossibly loud amidst the silence of the house. Ears still ringing, I whirl around and rush him, still fighting with my tail to prevent him from pointing the gun at me. That¡¯ll only get harder in close quarters, but I don¡¯t have much of a choice except to fight.


    With his arms still bound, the Yellowjacket is at a disadvantage, but he¡¯s still got some muscle mass on me, which he uses to its full extent by body-checking me as soon as I¡¯m close enough. Unfortunately for him, I pull him along with me when I stumble back. And instead of trying to right myself, I let myself drop to the ground- right next to my sidearm.


    Using my tail to keep his gun pointed straight down, I flip over to face him, and bring my own gun up, plugging him twice in the chest. He flinches each time, but somehow manages to stay upright, forcing me to take my time and aim, before putting a third shot straight between his eyes.


    Finally, he drops, and I release my tail¡¯s grip on him. There¡¯s no time for me to catch my breath, though. Every Yellowjacket left on this floor will be rushing to this location after all those gunshots. I could run, but that would put me on the back foot, and I refuse to let myself become the prey here. I¡¯m still the predator, and they¡¯re about to find out why.


    Kipping up to my feet, I holster my sidearm and rub the palms of my gloves together quickly, as if I was trying to build up a static charge. What I¡¯m really doing, however, is activating the microfiber hairs on its surface, which will mimic the ability of a gecko to cling to walls. Not a part of the standard SecuriCorp kit, of course- I brought these from home, ordered off the Limbo City black market home shopping network. You never know when the ability to stick to surfaces will come in handy, after all.


    Sure enough, another Yellowjacket arrives just a few moments after I¡¯ve crawled up onto the ceiling, using my hands to stay attached, and bracing my legs against the wall so they don¡¯t dangle downward conspicuously. It¡¯s actually pretty difficult to keep from falling, even with the gloves, since I still have to basically hold up my own body weight, but fortunately I won¡¯t be stuck like this for more than a minute or so.


    Or at least that¡¯s what I thought at first, but more than a minute passes, and the second Yellowjacket doesn¡¯t show. I watch the first guy examine the body, look around uselessly for the culprit, never thinking to even glance upward, and then pause, motionless, as he presumably speaks with someone over the brainband.


    Since my hands are occupied, I have to use my tail to flip the thermal goggles down over my eyes, and crane my neck to look for where the other Yellowjacket is. Thankfully he¡¯s out of the closet and moving this way, but frustratingly slowly, as though he expects me to jump out from behind every closed door he passes. Which isn¡¯t an incredibly unreasonable fear given how one of his allies died not a few minutes ago, but it¡¯s still quite vexing.


    Before he gets here, though, I hear the sound of thunder, sudden and unexpected, making me flinch. Flinch, and drop to the ground, my tenuous balancing act irretrievably thrown off by the jarring noise.


    I land right on top of the Yellowjacket beneath me, and scramble to get on my feet, reaching for my sidearm while stabbing blindly with my tail to try and slow him down. My first few stabs go nowhere, stopped by the uniform he¡¯s wearing, but I manage to hit an unprotected spot eventually, as evinced by the cry of pain he lets out.


    That buys me a crucial few seconds, which I use to put some distance between us, and then draw my sidearm and empty the remainder of my magazine into his body while he¡¯s still writhing in pain from being stabbed. As soon as I feel the gun kick for the last time, I eject the magazine and reach for my belt to grab a second one and reload, pressing myself up against the wall.


    No sooner have I done that does a bullet fly down the hallway from the far end, fired by the last remaining Yellowjacket, having picked the exact worst moment to make his appearance. Slamming the new mag into place, I fire back, keeping myself flat against the wall to minimize the surface area he could hit.


    The two of us fire at each other fruitlessly for several long seconds, the gunshots accompanied by distant thunder from Niko¡¯s Regalia downstairs. Something tells me he¡¯s having a much easier time dealing with his targets than I am.


    Eventually, the Yellowjacket stops shooting, not because I¡¯ve gotten a clean hit, but because he¡¯s out of bullets, and ducking behind the corner to reload. Instead of doing the same, I pull a frag grenade from my belt, yanking out the pin with my tail so I don¡¯t have to let go of my gun, and lob it down the hallway as forcefully as I can.


    Remaining flat against the wall, I can¡¯t see what happens, but I hear the sound of the grenade hitting the floor, and then the Yellowjacket shouts a single word- ¡°Shit!¡± -before it detonates. Shrapnel and fragments of the floor and walls fly past me, a shard of metal coming dangerously close, and I don¡¯t dare move until several seconds later.


    Finally, when it becomes clear there are no Yellowjackets left, I let out a breath. Stepping out, I scan the hallway- without the goggles, as fresh corpses still have heat signatures -to make absolutely certain nobody¡¯s still alive enough to shoot me. Once I¡¯m sure, I let out a sigh.


    Second floor is clear, I inform the others.


    Good. Get back down here. Salzwedel wants to chat.


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    The fastest route back down to the first floor of the house takes me through the kitchen, and past about a dozen charred, smoking corpses, victims of the Hurricane Howl. This is the first time I¡¯ve gotten a proper look at what it can do, since last time was made a little hectic by all the bullets flying. It¡¯s not pretty.


    A banal fact floats through my mind as I pass by the corpses- only about ten percent of ¡®natural¡¯ lightning strikes are lethal. Obviously, that¡¯s not an acceptable metric for a weapon designed to use electricity as its method of death-dealing. Most of what makes the Howl so deadly is the fact that it produces lightning bolts with a far higher voltage than the average lightning strike, strong enough to both burn flesh, and far more importantly, stop a person¡¯s heart in seconds. The corpses are charred and scorched, but if you performed an autopsy, most of them would be found to have died of cardiac arrest.


    The other thing that makes the Howl so dangerous is that almost every piece of equipment worn by a modern soldier is highly conductive. Guns, gear, armor, even just the metal buckles on your belt, all sufficient to attract chain lightning strong enough to fry your nervous system And that effect is compounded by the fact that any soldiers have subdermal implants of some kind, which are conductive as well. This might seem like a glaring vulnerability, but only to one specific gun that hasn¡¯t seen use on a battlefield in centuries. And even if that wasn¡¯t the case, wearing an all rubber ensemble just on the off chance you¡¯d run into the Stormwolf one day is pretty ridiculous.


    On the other hand, the Yellowjackets knew exactly what they were walking into, and they still didn¡¯t take the proper precautions. It¡¯s only thanks to their incompetence that we¡¯ll be walking out of here, I suspect. How humiliating, to be saved not by my own wit or skill, but by the idiocy of my enemies.


    When I return to the hallway where Salzwedel first confronted us, outside the still-sealed passageway to his sub-level trophy room, it¡¯s with a confident expression on my face. No matter how much I might be beating myself up internally, I can¡¯t let him see anything other than total self-assuredness if this is going to work.


    ¡°How kind of you to finally join us, Izanami,¡± the holographic Salzwedel says contemptuously. He looks a little more shaken than he did earlier, but still clearly hasn¡¯t accepted his own defeat yet. It¡¯ll be my job to talk him into doing so.


    Presumably he put together who I am, despite the FalseFace implant, after I revealed my tail earlier. Not that I¡¯m the only person in the entire Imperium with a tail that looks like this, but I¡¯m definitely the only one who¡¯s a known associate of Nikolai Genov.


    ¡°Sorry to keep you waiting,¡± I reply smoothly. ¡°A shame you couldn¡¯t be here in person, though. Niko is just dying to meet you.¡±


    To emphasize the point, Niko grins ferally and hefts the Hurricane Howl. Even with the holographic filter distorting his features, I see Salzwedel¡¯s expression flicker slightly at that.


    ¡°We will be meeting in person soon enough,¡± he replies, not quite managing to hide a tremor in his voice. ¡°The three of you, and your friend locked in my trophy room, will be surrendering yourselves to me voluntarily. If you fail to do so, I will have your families killed. Permanently.¡±


    He knows my name, so that¡¯s the obvious threat to make. I did at least have the foresight to make my parents install some defenses around the family home, but if Salzwedel put his mind to it, I¡¯m sure he could still manage to make good on his threat. Assuming he hired a better class of mercenary, at least.


    ¡°You could do that. But all you¡¯d really be doing is removing the only reason we have not to kill you. And however much you might want this plan of yours to work out, I don¡¯t think you¡¯re really willing to forfeit your own life over it.¡±


    The ship manufacturing magnate blinks in surprise at my casual willingness to write off my own parents. If you asked me in another context whether I¡¯d actually be willing to let them die just to save my own skin, I might answer differently. But in a situation like this, you have to genuinely believe everything you¡¯re saying, no matter how repugnant you might find it under different circumstances.


    ¡°You¡­ make a compelling point,¡± he says eventually. ¡°Very well. If you return the Regalia, and my other possessions, I shall permit you to leave, and take no further action against you or yours.¡±


    He¡¯s already folding. That¡¯s good news for us. But I¡¯m not about to take a deal like that. For one, it would still leave us in the hole with the triad- but even if not, I still wouldn¡¯t settle for walking away without the Regalia.


    ¡°Nah. I don¡¯t think so. We¡¯re leaving with what we came for, and you¡¯re gonna keep your mouth shut anyway. Because if you don¡¯t, we¡¯ll tell the entire Imperium that you were holding onto a lost Regalia illegally, and what you were gonna do to Niko in order to use it.¡±


    An incredulous look flashes across his face, replaced almost immediately with haughty condescension.


    ¡°Oh, please. Pick a less obvious bluff next time, girl. You would be incriminating yourselves along with me.¡±


    ¡°Sure would,¡± I shoot back. ¡°But I¡¯m not worried about it, ¡®cause at the end of the day, you¡¯re more replaceable than us.¡±


    ¡°Wha- More repla- Are you mad?¡± he sputters indignantly. ¡°If I had the pair of you permanently killed, your replacements would be born within the hour!¡±


    ¡°Yep. And if you exposed the fact that we broke in here, it¡¯s possible we¡¯d both get retired early. But here¡¯s the thing. Replacing two nobles is inconvenient. Our positions in the Imperial Navy would be filled by stewards for another two decades or more. It would be an embarrassment- not to mention, public opinion would likely favor us, given we only broke the law to rectify an ancient injustice.¡±


    ¡°I fail to see how that makes me more replaceable than you,¡± he snaps. ¡°I run a company that supplies your precious Navy with more than half of its warships!¡±


    Just to drive home how little I care about any of this, I lean back against the wall with one foot up. Seeing my bloodstained boot stain his pristine white walls makes Salzwedel wince slightly.


    ¡°Right. If Blitzar disappeared tomorrow, the Imperium might be in trouble. But we¡¯re not talking about Blitzar disappearing. Just you. And what is it you actually do, Mister CEO? What¡¯s your value-add? You didn¡¯t design any of those ships, and you certainly aren¡¯t helping build them. So if you vanished tomorrow, what would actually be lost that couldn¡¯t be regained by sticking another stuffed shirt in your position?¡±


    Beside me, Saffi snickers quietly as Salzwedel fumes, trying to find a way to refute my logic. Under different circumstances, he¡¯d probably try to bluster his way out of this, justify his own worth with some pile of bullshit about how invaluable a CEO is to the company¡¯s success. But here, with the possibility of early retirement very much on the table, it seems he can¡¯t muster any of that bluster.


    There¡¯s a long stretch of silence, where I watch anger slowly rise to the surface on Salzwedel¡¯s face, then get forced back down with an almost Herculean effort. It would be impressive if it didn;t look so much like he was trying to hold back an inconvenient shit.


    ¡°Fine,¡± he spits eventually. ¡°Take your spoils and leave. I¡¯ll buy them back soon enough regardless. But don¡¯t think for a moment that this is over.¡±


    His pathetic little attempt to feel powerful even while capitulating is enough to make me laugh.


    ¡°Uh, sorry, dude. I think I was pretty clear before. This is absolutely over. You can¡¯t expose us without fucking yourself over. You come after anybody we care about, and you sign your own death warrant. You come after us¡­ well, I¡¯ll have a deadman¡¯s switch running by the end of the day, for starters. But that only matters if you manage to kill us, and I can promise that you won¡¯t.¡±


    By now, Salzwedel is grinding his teeth so hard they must be close to cracking. Hoping to push him over the edge, I wink and blow a kiss at his holographic avatar, before sending the Recluse the signal that it¡¯s now safe to come out from behind the reinforced high-security door.


    Our security specialist rejoins us a few moments later, carrying both the bag full of our loot, and the duffel containing our equipment. With the whole party reassembled, I grin at Salzwedel and saunter off towards the teleportal room, leaving him to seethe.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to have to deal with him anyway, aren¡¯t we?¡± Niko asks the moment we¡¯re out of earshot of Salzwedel¡¯s holo-projector drone.


    ¡°Oh, for sure. But let¡¯s take at least one night off to relax before we start worrying about that.¡±

 Chapter Thirty

    Breathing Citadel air again, after days in Limbo City, is like returning to satin bedsheets after a few nights of sleeping on sandpaper. For that reason more than anything else, I¡¯m glad to be back.


    Another plus is that I can relax a little, stop looking over my shoulder quite so much, now that I¡¯m back in Sander¡¯s care. He doesn¡¯t say a word to greet me, just nods and resumes his position two steps behind me, like I¡¯d never left.


    Sofie¡¯s kind enough to cover for Niko and I for the remainder of the day, while we take some time to recuperate. The two of us reintegrate with our copyclans, gaining memories of a fairly uneventful past few days. He hides the Hurricane Howl in his closet, a temporary measure to keep it safe before we figure out something more permanent. Obviously, nobody can know we have it, since that would expose the illegal means we used to acquire it- and despite what I said to Salzwedel before we left his home with our loot, I¡¯m not exactly a hundred percent certain that wouldn¡¯t end with the both of us getting sent to early retirement.


    Before the days is done, we ring up Saffi on a holo-call to verify that she got home safe. And, of course, to make sure everything went smoothly with the handoff to Mother. She confirms that it did, and that any of the excess profits that go beyond what we spent preparing for the heist will be divided between the three of us,once it¡¯s all been fenced.


    Before we get off the line, she makes the two of us reaffirm the promise we made before parting ways- that as soon as we¡¯ve graduated the Citadel, we¡¯ll go visit her. Repeating our little extracurricular excursion would be unwise to say the least, so it¡¯ll most likely be a year and a half at minimum before we get a chance to see her again.


    With that final piece of business complete, we both head to bed- separately, this time. Although, sharing a bed with Nico for a few nights, including one where Saffi joined us, did give me something of a taste for it.


    That night is yet another where I¡¯m grateful for the ability to induce sleep in myself at will. Without that, I¡¯m quite certain I¡¯d have spent most of the night trying and failing to keep my thoughts quiet, as my internal critic ruthlessly tore me apart for my myriad failures during the heist- not least of which is agreeing to participate at all.


    It¡¯s easy to say that hindsight is 20/20, but no aphorism is going to make me feel any less stupid for failing to see that the entire thing was a giant honeypot we fell right into. If it weren¡¯t for Salzwedel being an arrogant, miserly bastard, we¡¯d probably all be dead. Except for Niko, who would be experiencing a fate far worse than simple oblivion.


    Worse still, even my tactical acumen failed me, in the moment I needed it most. I don¡¯t regret ceding command to Saffi, but it still shames me that doing so became necessary. Even my combat performance was lackluster compared to how I usually do in training. The obvious explanation is that my confidence was shaken, causing a cascade effect of failure, but that¡¯s hardly satisfying. If that was enough to break me, what hope do I have leading an entire armada?


    There¡¯s only one thought in my mind before I hit the switch to put myself to sleep: I need to get stronger.


    <hr>


    Over breakfast the next morning, Grant offers another compelling reason to redouble my efforts for self-improvement: midterms are approaching fast. They seemed barely a speck on the horizon when I agreed to accompany Niko on his quest to regain a lost Regalia, but now they¡¯re suddenly my top priority.


    Thankfully, my copyclan was hard at work preparing, while I was off gallivanting about Limbo City. But out of my four Citadel classes, they were only able to prepare for three, because only three of them could be prepped for without a body. And the fourth, my Combat 101 exam, is easily the one I¡¯m most concerned about.


    A good deal of Professor Almstedt¡¯s class consists of fighting my fellow students, so it¡¯s little surprise that the midterm is built around more or less the same theme. Except instead of taking place in a controlled environment, these fights will be happening in the wolds of Akademos, the moon upon which the Citadel resides. We¡¯re to be dropped in without equipment, and left to fend for ourselves for several days, with the highest marks awarded to the student who survives the longest. Strictly speaking, it¡¯s possible for the entire exam to go by without anybody murdering anybody else, but apparently it¡¯s never once happened.


    Given my poor performance under real-world conditions, I¡¯m still concerned about Professor Brennan¡¯s midterm, but that¡¯s something my copyclan, now freshly updated with memories of what I did over the past several days, can prepare for. My main concern right now is going to be getting stronger in the most literal sense. If I want to survive the Combat 101 exam, I¡¯m gonna need more muscles.


    ¡°Actually,¡± Grant says, bringing me back to reality, ¡°there is one more thing I¡¯d like to discuss.¡±


    ¡°Yeah?¡± I ask, still only half paying attention to him.


    ¡°Our unit¡¯s financial situation is¡­ deteriorating.¡±


    Those words are enough to snap me back completely. On seeing my expression immediately turn deadly serious, he raises his hands placatingly, and I take it down a notch, my initial concern swiftly drowned out by another wave of self-loathing, this time for having allowed things with the budget to get bad before my very eyes.


    ¡°It¡¯s not dire, not yet,¡± he assures me calmly. ¡°The payout from our victory in the War Games was a boon, and Nikolai¡¯s illicit gambling enterprise has helped keep us afloat. However, we were forced to cut back on that during his absence, due to problems posed by his copyclan¡¯s incorporeality.¡±


    Makes sense. It¡¯s hard to deal cards when you¡¯re a hologram. I really should have known relying on that would come back to bite me in the ass eventually.


    ¡°Your copyclan already deputized me to make some minor spending cuts, but there¡¯s a deficit we need to make up, mainly relating to costs incurred preparing for our engagement with the Oxen. Money well spent, of course, and much of it was recouped by our winnings, but that didn¡¯t account for everything.¡±


    Now I¡¯m getting flashbacks to planning the heist, and plotting out how I¡¯d repay every cent I borrowed from the Syndicate with something stolen from Salzwedel¡¯s collection. The stakes are obviously a bit lower here, and we do get a small monthly stipend from the Citadel no matter what, but it¡¯s not sufficient to cover costs for what we¡¯re doing.


    ¡°Also,¡± he continues, ¡°while you were gone, your copyclan authorized something called¡­ Project Barbicane, I believe. Only Ada and her engineering team are privy to the details, though I suppose it¡¯s in your memory now as well. But a not-insignificant part of our budget is now earmarked for research and development. All that is to say¡ª¡±


    ¡°We need to make some money,¡± I interject. ¡°I get it. You got any ideas, or is that gonna fall on me?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Grant says, a self-satisfied smile spreading across his lips, ¡°there is one thing.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Okay, I¡¯m confused. Is your plan to put on a talent show? And, what, pass around a hat for donations afterward? Because I don¡¯t think that¡¯s gonna pan out the way you think it will.¡±


    If there¡¯s another explanation for what Grant brought me to see, I¡¯m not seeing it. A good half of my Gazelles have gathered in one of the gymnasium¡¯s training rooms, with various stations set up all around the place for different people to practice a wide variety of athletic endeavors. Colleen has set aside her katana for a rapier, and she¡¯s using it to fence against a mechanical arm that, for all its superior speed, can¡¯t seem to land a blow on her. Mars is facing off against a training ¡®bot in pankration, apparently attempting to assert the dominance of warm flesh over cold steel. Even Sofie¡¯s gotten in on the action, propelling herself through a series of hoops suspended in the air with an acrobatic flourish I didn¡¯t know she possessed, despite the fact that she introduced herself as a gymnastics champion. Idly, I wonder how she was able to excel in that field given her decidedly non-aerodynamic body type. Maybe she gave herself a few extra curves as a sort of handicap?


    ¡°Commander,¡± Grant says, his tone only slightly patronizing. ¡°The Citadel Championship is starting in just a few days.¡±


    Oh. Right.


    The Citadel Championship- a week of nominally nonviolent competition between the various units at the eponymous Citadel, celebrating athletic achievement in all its forms. Also the second major factor in determining how the units are ranked at the end of every year, after the War Games but before academics. Those aren¡¯t weighted equally- if you win every single round of the War Games but do poorly in the Championship and get terrible grades, you might still end up ranked highest. But on the other hand, if you do poorly in the War Games but win big in the Championship and have flawless grades across your entire unit, you¡¯ll probably escape being ranked last.


    Not unlike midterms, the Championship was somehow far off on the horizon right up until it was imminent. And all the time I was off in Limbo City, preparing for a heist that turned out to be a trap, I could have been here, preparing. Setting my unit up for a victory that won¡¯t just improve our standing, but also earn us some significant money. Not exactly a consistent revenue stream, but a few medals will bring in enough cash to balance our budget and keep us solvent well into preparations for the next round of War Games.


    Except¡­ clearly my lack of presence here hasn¡¯t stopped them from preparing, judging by how everybody inside of the training room is performing. Yet I have no memories from my copyclan of approving any of this, much less getting involved. They were just as ignorant of the situation as I was, despite having been deputized in my place while I was absent.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been working on this for a while, haven¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°We started almost immediately after you left,¡± Grant confirms, assessing the performance of our various athletes coolly as he speaks.


    ¡°How come I don¡¯t remember you discussing any of it with me, then?¡±


    The look he gives me is mostly sympathetic. Mostly.


    ¡°Absorbing several days¡¯ worth of memories all at once must have been difficult. You¡¯re clearly still processing some of them. We did discuss the financial situation, albeit briefly. I told you that I had an idea about how to fix it, and you replied¡­¡± He pauses, summoning his memory of my exact words from the brainband. ¡°¡®Great, get on it.¡¯ And then you left.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± I reply sympathetically.


    ¡°Yeah. I also tried to bring up the Championship separately, but your copies seemed content to leave it in my hands. They had other priorities.¡±


    This is why the Imperium has laws about not maintaining a simulated instance of yourself for more than a day. Personality drift can occur with frightening speed. It¡¯s fortunate no members of my copyclan were at the point of being unwilling to reintegrate by the time I returned.


    ¡°Right. Sorry about that.¡±


    He¡¯s not wrong about it taking some time to fully process all of those extra memories, but with what I¡¯ve already sifted through, I have some sense of what their ¡®other priorities¡¯ were. Some interesting stuff there, but much of it theoretical. Not what I¡¯d consider a productive use of their time. I guess without an ¡®Iza Prime¡¯ to shoulder most of the responsibility, everybody was just assuming someone else was doing the hard work of actually running the unit. Classic bystander effect, except all of the bystanders are just different instances of the same person.


    ¡°It¡¯s no trouble,¡± Grant says smoothly, with a hint of that slick politician-speak in his voice that made me dislike him when we first met. ¡°You¡¯d likely have delegated the task to me regardless, perhaps simply with a little more oversight.¡±


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re not entirely wrong about that, but I still feel bad. So- walk me through the plan, in detail. How many events are we gonna be competing in?¡±


    Accepting my apology with a single nod, Grant leads me into the center of the room, hands folded behind his back. The air around us is thick with the scent of sweat, and filled with the sound of effortful grunting. Frankly, it¡¯s not my ideal environment. Not that I¡¯m sensitive, of course- a large part of my brain is quite literally hardwired for combat. But something about being in a place that¡¯s almost like a war zone, only without the smell of blood or the sound of gunfire, feels wrong to me.


    ¡°The scoring system is designed to disincentivize participating in as many events as possible,¡± my chief of staff explains, as we walk past Tai maintaining a marathon pace on a treadmill. ¡°You¡¯re familiar with the phrase ¡®better to have tried and failed than never tried at all?¡¯ Apparently the Citadel disagrees. If you participate in a dozen events and do badly in most of them, it¡¯ll be worse for your score than if you don¡¯t participate at all.¡±


    ¡°So for the best expected returns, you only put someone up if you think they have a solid shot at winning.¡±


    ¡°Or at least earning a medal, yes.¡±


    Before I can start to formulate a response to that, we top in front of a station where Kat is sitting, arms wrapped ¡®round her knees, beside a mechanical facsimile of a horse, which stands eerily still.


    ¡°No luck?¡± Grant asks, his tone shifting from businesslike to warm and compassionate without so much as a hitch. The way he can do that is actually kind of scary.


    ¡°No,¡± she replies, voice small.


    ¡°That¡¯s fine. How about you take a break, go get some water, and decide if you want to give it another shot? It¡¯s alright if you want to call it quits- there are other ways you can help out.¡±


    Looking up at him, she nods, then catches sight of me and looks away, scurrying off to do as Grant suggested. Hopefully my copyclan didn¡¯t do something to make her more afraid of me while I was gone, but most likely she¡¯s just upset that I¡¯ll think she¡¯s failed me somehow.


    ¡°She volunteered when I asked if anybody was willing to participate,¡± Grant explains, his voice switching back to business effortlessly. ¡°Apparently she rode horses with some skill when she was younger. Evidently not at the competitive level, however. And now she feels she¡¯ll be letting everybody down if she doesn¡¯t master it.¡±


    Despite the situation, I can¡¯t help but let out a soft chuckle. Of course, it was foolish of me to believe that all of Kat¡¯s problems would be solved by helping her to overcome her unwillingness to participate. Now she¡¯s pushing herself too hard, and beating herself up when she falls short of her own unrealistic expectations. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    ¡°I¡¯ll talk with her,¡± I offer.


    ¡°Good. She seems to be more comfortable around you than me.¡±


    ¡°Clearly you just lack my animal magnetism,¡± I joke, waggling my tail a bit for effect. Grant¡¯s businesslike demeanor cracks for a second, and he laughs.


    ¡°Are you suggesting my rapport with her would improve if I procured myself a pair of cat ears?¡±


    ¡°Who knows? Can¡¯t hurt to try.¡±


    Once he¡¯s done chuckling, Grant returns to business, and resumes our impromptu tour of the training room. There¡¯s no way this specific equipment was set up in this specific arrangement before now- presumably Grant had the room reserved and requested the particular equipment that we¡¯d need for everybody to practice their particular athletic pursuit of choice.


    ¡°As I was saying. We¡¯ll be participating in eight events- ah, best make that seven,¡± he corrects, glancing at the jockeyless mechanical horse. ¡°Unless Katrina¡¯s scores drastically improve in the next few days.¡±


    ¡°Hey, it could happen. Most of this is mental anyways, right?¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± Grant replies, a little skeptical. Since nobody in the Imperium is born unfit or infirm unless they choose to be, almost everybody is on a roughly even playing field when it comes to athletics. Far from making competitive sports obsolete, however, it¡¯s simply turned them into a contest of will, where mental fortitude is the most important element. Given that, I suppose it¡¯s little surprise Kat is struggling.


    ¡°So. Seven events.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Though as you can see, we only have five participants. Colleen and Tai will be doubling up.¡±


    It¡¯s a bit surprising to me that Tai is participating at all, given his generally reclusive nature. But maybe he¡¯s been a runner this whole time, and I just ever bothered to find out. Not that he¡¯s made getting to know him better very easy.


    ¡°Well, you can make that seven,¡± I tell him, surprising myself slightly with the words. ¡°I know there¡¯s a sharpshooting event, and I want in.¡±


    Grant raises an eyebrow.


    ¡°Are you sure? I don¡¯t think any of the other commanders are participating¡­¡±


    ¡°Sounds like all the more reason to buck the trend. Plus, I could use the practice.¡±


    Winking, I cock a finger-gun at him and fire. Grant cracks a smile. There¡¯s another reason I want to participate, though- to prove to myself that I¡¯m still good at something.


    ¡°Very well. You¡¯ll be competing alongside Amalia. I trust you¡¯ll have no issue practicing at the firing range? We don¡¯t exactly have the space to set up another practice station here.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, sure. I just have one other question. We¡¯re rigging this shit, right?¡±


    A familiar, self-satisfied grin spreads across Grant¡¯s lips.


    ¡°Well, obviously.¡±


    <hr>


    A few hours later, when practice is done for the day, Sofie, Grant and I sit down to discuss the finer points of the plan to rig the Citadel Championship in our favor.


    The venue for this meeting, much the same as most of our War Council gatherings, is my apartment. Sofie¡¯s fresh from the shower, a liquid sheen making her metallic hair glisten in the light of the afternoon sun. It¡¯s not until she flashes me a warm, easy smile that I realize exactly how much I missed being around her.


    All three of us are eating, spread out around the recessed area of my living room with our meals in our laps. I¡¯m having a tuna melt, savoring the taste as much as I can without letting it get cold, while Grant¡¯s having a salad and Sofie a pasta bowl. Sander, elsewhere in the apartment, is drinking a protein shake- a brief reminder that I need to speak with him about my physical fitness regimen.


    ¡°So, there¡¯s basically two obvious tacks to take with this,¡± Sofie says between mouthfuls. ¡°First is fucking with the other teams. We¡¯ve got a decent idea of who¡¯s gonna be participating, so we can spike their food, or fuck with their implants, or cut their hamstrings if we have to.¡±


    ¡°It should go without saying that the other units are most assuredly intending to do the same, if they have not already begun,¡± Grant adds.


    ¡°Right, of course. And since almost my entire team is also gonna be on the field, running counterintel is gonna be tricky. I already briefed everybody who¡¯s signed up to test all their food before they eat it, and not to move around the Citadel alone. Not a perfect system, but...¡± she shrugs. ¡°We just don¡¯t have the numbers for anything better.¡±


    In many ways, running a small unit like this one is a simpler logistical task than managing an entire armada, but it¡¯s got problems of its own. You¡¯re pretty much perpetually stretched thin, for one thing.


    Dropping the crust of my sandwich into its wrapper, I ball the thing up and chuck it in the general direction of my trash can. Based on the sound it makes, I can tell it didn¡¯t go in, and I sigh heavily. Before I can get up to rectify my mistake, however, I hear Sander walk behind me to handle it, and I sent him a wordless pulse of gratitude.


    ¡°So, do we have anybody working that right now?¡±


    ¡°Indeed we do,¡± Sofie replies, eyes lighting up. ¡°Nikitha¡¯s cooking up some delayed-release poisons, and Valent¡¯s shadowing a couple of the other participants to figure out when the best opportunity to dose them will be.¡±


    Cheating like this is against the official rules of the Championship, but in practice, it¡¯s quite commonplace. That doesn¡¯t mean nobody¡¯s on the lookout for it, of course- part of the challenge is seeing if we can manage to cheat without getting caught.


    ¡°Naturally, incapacitating all of them isn¡¯t going to be possible, so we narrowed our list of targets down to the biggest threats in each unit. I can share it, if you¡¯d like.¡±


    ¡°Sure, hit me.¡±


    With a double-blink, Grant transfers the file to me over the brainband, and I scan through it quickly. What strikes me first is how few people the Komodos have participating- probably because they¡¯re confident they can secure the highest ranking by winning the War Games alone. However, among those who are likely to participate, they have one serious threat. Hector Casales, their combat officer, seen practicing his pankration against a training ¡®bot, same as Mars. And though I respect Mars¡¯ martial abilities, I know which one of the two I think would win in a fair fight, and it¡¯s not him.


    Anand, the Ox Unit assassination specialist who stabbed me during the War Games, is slated to participate in the gymnastics event opposite Sofie. Part of me wonders if my Intelligence Officer included her on this list specifically to take revenge for the earlier attempt on my life, though of course I¡¯m sure Sofie wouldn¡¯t do something like that purely based on a grudge she¡¯s holding.


    Apparently Tellis will be taking part in the fencing event, and Heinonen will be running track, though how she intends to do that while wearing her mechanical ¡®exo-dermis¡¯ I have little idea. How we could possibly poison her while she¡¯s wearing it is a question worth asking as well, though I¡¯m sure Valent is hard at work figuring out an answer as we speak.


    From the Peregrines, there¡¯s a bunch of names I don¡¯t really recognize, including a fencer, a gymnast, and a runner, among others.


    ¡°We¡¯re probably not even going to get to everybody on that list,¡± Sofie explains. ¡°Valent¡¯s going to see how many he can deal with, then it¡¯ll be up to us to figure out what to do about the others. Which brings us to option two- fucking with the events themselves.¡±


    ¡°So, sabotaging equipment, manipulating the scoring system, that sort of thing?¡±


    ¡°Precisely,¡± Grant confirms. ¡°The tech team may be of some assistance, but they seem largely preoccupied with your ¡®Project Barbicane¡¯ at the moment.¡±


    ¡°Right, yeah. That¡¯s gotta take priority, sorry.¡±


    ¡°Understood. We¡¯ve still got some resources at our disposal. My recommendation from the beginning has been to focus on rigging events where our participant¡¯s ability is more of a concern than that of the other competitors.¡±


    ¡°Such as?¡± I ask, eyebrow raised. Clearly, grant¡¯s trying to be diplomatic, but this isn¡¯t the place to be beating around the bush. If he things some of our people aren¡¯t up to snuff, I need to know who.


    ¡°Colleen will be competing in the speed-skating event as well as fencing, and while none of the other participants vastly outstrip her in terms of skill, the same can be said of her relative to them. Finding a way to tilt things in her favor would be to our advantage.¡±


    Leaning back into the couch, I contemplate the conundrum. Any kind of ice-skating event is difficult to rig, short of bashing in the kneecaps of your opponents, or otherwise incapacitating them. And if we¡¯re reserving that for the more serious threats, we need to find another way to give Colleen the leg up she needs.


    Another complicating factor is that Colleen, being rather prideful, would likely refuse outright if we offered her performance-enhancers, or implants, to help ensure she wins. So whatever we come up with has to be something she won¡¯t know about, any more than her opponents.


    ¡°Okay, thought.¡± Sofie says, raising a hand to speak. ¡°We embed some high-powered magnets under the ice, deep enough that nobody will see ¡®em. Then during the event, we have somebody watching who can activate them remotely to throw the others off balance.¡±


    Grant clears his throat.


    ¡°I can see... a few logistical issues,¡± he says delicately.


    ¡°Just a few?¡± I ask with a laugh. ¡°Okay, first- how do we get the magnets under the ice in the first place? If we melt the entire thing and drop ¡®em in, they¡¯ll just sink to the bottom and be useless, plus there¡¯s no way we can re-freeze the entire thing before anybody notices. And if we carve out a hole or something, that¡¯ll be even more obvious. Plus, there¡¯s no guarantee they wouldn¡¯t end up throwing Colleen off too, same as all the others.¡±


    ¡°Sheesh,¡± Sofie replies, raising her hands in surrender, though with an amused expression. ¡°Just spitballing here. I¡¯m the spy, anyway. Wacky schemes are supposed to be your area of expertise.¡±


    ¡°Being an unparalleled strategic genius is my area of expertise,¡± I shoot back, with more than a little irony in my voice. But I do appreciate the idea, even if it¡¯s... completely unworkable.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m happy to hear your brilliant plan any time now.¡±


    ¡°Hey, who said anything about that?¡±


    Sofie rolls her eyes with a laugh. Rather than continuing the banter, we both fall silent, contemplating the problem before us. The magnet plan was a bit outlandish, but I have to admit, I¡¯m struggling to come up with anything better.


    ¡°We could always just blunt the blades of their skates, no?¡± Grant asks idly. ¡°Or perhaps it would be more practical to replace the blades with pre-blunted ones¡­¡±


    The simple elegance of the idea cuts through the fog of my confusion like- well, like an ice skate. I clap my hands together, satisfied.


    ¡°That¡¯s perfect. See if you can source some blunt blades, I¡¯ll figure out when the best opportunity to make the swap will be.¡±


    Or more accurately, my copyclan will. There¡¯s more important stuff I need to be doing with my body.


    ¡°Excellent,¡± Grant says, betraying not a hint of smugness at having been the one to crack the conundrum. ¡°Now, there is one more event we ought to discuss.¡±


    Putting his fork down in the empty salad bowl, he glances at Sofie, as though trying to read her expression before he goes any further.


    ¡°I don¡¯t mean to impugn your abilities, but by your own admission, it¡¯s been some time since you competed at this level. Moreover, your chief competitor, Anand of the Oxen, will likely be impossible to incapacitate, thanks to the efforts of her unit¡¯s counterintelligence specialist, Gardinier. If we wish to secure an uncontested victory in the gymnastics event¡ª¡±


    ¡°We should see about tipping the scales in my favor,¡± Sofie finishes. ¡°Sure, fine by me. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll need it to win, but I know I¡¯m biased on the subject, so I¡¯ll defer to you.¡±


    Almost imperceptibly, Grant breathes a sigh of relief.


    ¡°Glad to hear it. There are, of course, far more ways to manipulate an event like that- perhaps marginally widening the aperture of those hoops you¡¯re jumping through.¡±


    What he¡¯s suggesting would be impossible, if it was physical rings and hoops she was jumping through, but the Citadel uses holographics for many of its events, including gymnastics. Meaning that if we can hack the holoprojector, we can replace the rings with ones that are just a bit more generous for when Sofie¡¯s doing her routine, and then switch them back- or even make them more punishing -when her competitors are going.


    ¡°Sure, sounds good to me.¡±


    Even being more familiar than the average person with Sofie¡¯s face, I¡¯m having a hard time reading her right now. I don¡¯t think she¡¯s prideful enough to really be bothered by all this, but at the same time, I¡¯d probably feel a little weird if I knew the sharpshooting event was gonna be rigged in my favor somehow.


    ¡°No plans to mess with my event?¡± I ask mildly, trying not to sound like I¡¯m suspicious of anything.


    ¡°Not especially,¡± Grant replies, cautious. ¡°Do you think we ought to?¡±


    ¡°Well, like Sofie said, I¡¯m not exactly impartial. And there¡¯s no reason for me to be treated any different from the others. So I¡¯ll leave it to you two.¡±


    The two of them share a look, neither looking like they want to speak first. It¡¯s almost disappointing- I thought I¡¯d cultivated more of a relaxed atmosphere, where nobody would be unwilling to speak their mind. Maybe it¡¯s just that I¡¯ve been away for too long.


    ¡°Honestly, I don¡¯t think I can judge that,¡± Sofie says eventually. ¡°Shooting stuff¡¯s not my specialty.¡±


    ¡°How about we ask Niko, then? Or his copyclan, if he¡¯s not around.¡±


    ¡°That makes sense. As Combat Officer, he¡¯s more likely to have paid attention to your shooting than either of us.¡±


    The two of them seem glad to have found an answer that doesn¡¯t require either of them to express an opinion. Hopefully, this weird reluctance to be honest with me will pass soon. If not, I¡¯m going to have to confront them about it directly, which is sure to be an uncomfortable conversation. They¡¯re not giving me much choice right now, though, I need advisors who I can rely on to tell me when I¡¯m being stupid, not ones who¡¯ll agree with me sycophantically no matter what I say.


    Closing my eyes, I broadcast a brainband shout in the general direction of Niko¡¯s room, one floor down. It doesn¡¯t really matter whether the ¡®real¡¯ him or his copyclan responds, since they¡¯re the same people, plus or minus a body.


    Hey! I need your opinion on something real quick.


    What¡¯s up? he replies casually. This isn¡¯t actually a completely uncommon question for me to shoot his way, though usually I ask in the middle of the night, and the subject is typically a little more inane.


    How¡¯s my shooting? Like, in general. I¡¯m gonna be doing it at the Championship- uh, as part of an event, not just sniping random people in the crowd -and we¡¯re trying to decide if it needs to be rigged to make sure I win.


    Apparently I¡¯m a little more nervous to hear his answer than I thought, judging by that word salad.


    Your shooting is excellent, he informs me calmly, making it clear in his tone that he¡¯s not just telling me what he thinks I want to hear. Almost certainly in the top percentile among our class, because you spent years practicing on your homeworld, while most others rely on skillsoft downloads.


    Niko¡¯s rational answer makes most of my worries evaporate immediately. Put that way, it makes perfect sense. Most Nobles are from relatively high-population areas, be it densely-packed urban hellscapes like Limbo City, or whatever nightmarish suburb Sofie hails from. Places, in other words, where firing ranges aren¡¯t abundant and doing target practice in your backyard is frowned upon. I, however, grew up on a farm-world, where nobody was around to complain about me honing my skills with a rifle.


    Oh. Uh, thanks¡ª


    What you should be concerned about, he continues, is the other units attempting to sabotage you. Your faculty with a rifle isn¡¯t exactly a secret, and preventing you from taking home a medal in that event is to everybody else¡¯s benefit.


    As soon as he says it, that, too, fits perfectly into place like a puzzle piece I hadn¡¯t known was missing.


    You¡¯re totally right. And I mean that completely sincerely, even though it probably didn¡¯t sound that way.


    I understand, he replies, and terminates the connection, though not before sending me the phantom image of a fond smile.


    ¡°My shooting is fine,¡± I tell Sofie and Grant confidently, opening my eyes. They both turn back to look at me, having gotten bored about six seconds into my silent conversation with Niko and started looking at their palm-screens. ¡°What we need to worry about is the other units trying to rig the event against me. So figure out what the best way to rig the event would be, and then figure out how to un-rig it.¡±


    It takes several long seconds for them to process what, exactly, I¡¯m asking them to do. Eventually, when it clicks, Sofie grins at me.


    ¡°You got it, boss. Good to have you back.¡±

 Chapter Thirty-One

    ¡°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.

 Chapter Thirty-Two

    For the first time since I arrived at the Citadel, I watch the sun rise over Akademos.


    At night, you can see Prime, the capital-world of the entire Imperium, clearly in the sky. It was chosen not for any strategic or even symbolic significance, but simply because it was the most beautiful planet in the entirety of Imperium space. That much is visible even here, from the surface of its second moon. Massive mountain ranges of pure jade, lapis, and sunstone. Sprawling forests of prism-trees, with leaves that change color based on the angle the light hits them at. And of course, there¡¯s the palace itself, a massive city-sized complex that serves as both the Emperor¡¯s home, and the seat of government for the Imperium.


    The palace is the only permanent settlement on the entire planet, as the first Emperor forbade by decree anyone to build anything on Prime¡¯s surface that wasn¡¯t at least twice as beautiful as whatever was paved over to construct it.


    When the sun is up, Prime can¡¯t be seen- it sinks below the opposite horizon, now only visible to anyone who might be looking up at the sky from the other side of the moon. Of course, you can only see the palace at all during a specific period of the year, since Akademos both rotates and orbits around Prime faster than the capital-world itself rotates.


    As the first rays of sunlight strike the translucent violet leaves of the trees in the Grove, just outside the Citadel, I take a ragged breath, heart thumping violently. My cuts and bruises from yesterday aren¡¯t halfway healed, and this morning¡¯s training hasn¡¯t helped. If I wasn¡¯t already regretting asking Sander to train me up for the Combat 101 midterm, I certainly am now, and not least because he insisted we start before dawn.


    The view, I have to admit, is pretty spectacular. Glittering purple leaves hang off of gnarled, crooked branches, dappling the soft, dew-slick grass. But having just run several miles through that forest in the dark, while being hunted with a crossbow, makes it difficult to appreciate.


    ¡°Iiiiizaaaaa,¡± Niko croons cruelly, his voice carrying across the distance clearly on an otherwise silent morning. ¡°You can¡¯t hide forever, honey!¡±


    It worries me a little how much he¡¯s gotten into this. Turns me on just a little bit too, but I¡¯m not gonna admit that with Sander in earshot. My personal trainer slash tormentor decided to enlist him for today¡¯s exercise, with the aim of improving my stamina while also giving me some experience in what it¡¯ll be like to be hunted by assassin''s through the jungles of Akademos- except without any of the guns I¡¯ll hopefully have managed to get my hands on by then. Because assuming I¡¯ll have made it to one of the weapons caches by then is optimistic, and not training for the eventuality that I get ambushed before then would be foolish.


    The logic is sound, but that doesn¡¯t mean I have to like it.


    According to my internal clock, we started a little over an hour ago. It feels like longer. At least half of that time has just been me running, with Niko hot on my heels. A couple minutes ago, I was able to give him the slip, and after putting some distance between us, I stopped here, behind a large tree at the bank of the river that winds its way through the Grove. The sound of the river should, in theory, mask my presence somewhat, although it also makes it harder for me to hear my pursuer coming. But really, what I needed was a moment to catch my breath.


    Now it¡¯s my turn to do some hunting.


    With a grunt of effort, I grab ahold of the sturdiest branch of the bitterbark tree, and hoist myself up onto its trunk. The way it¡¯s bent over like a hunchback works to my advantage here, allowing me to hide amongst the foliage more easily. It¡¯s hardly perfect cover, with the way these trees are all low to the ground, branches frail and crooked, but the real advantage being up here gives me is height.


    Keeping myself pressed close to the tree trunk I can, so as little of me as possible is visible, I take a breath and wait for my pursuer to arrive. There¡¯s little doubt in my mind that he¡¯ll come- Niko is a better tracker than me, that¡¯s a fact. Finding people who didn¡¯t want to be found was one of the many ¡®odd jobs¡¯ he did for the trip back in Limbo City, and those people had far more options for covering their tracks than I do right now.


    While I wait, the Grove¡¯s more permanent inhabitants begin to make themselves know, calling out with high-pitched chirps across the expanse of bitterbark trees where they make their nests. It¡¯s a good thing there isn¡¯t one in the tree where I¡¯m waiting to make my ambush, else I¡¯d probably be fending off a flock of agitated shriekbeaks right now.


    The birds that live in the Grove aren¡¯t as aggressive or vicious as their cousins that dwell elsewhere on the moon, but they¡¯re loud and irritable, hence the name. Their shrill squawks further mask any sound I might be making that would give me away to Niko, but I¡¯m not sure that¡¯s worth putting up with how annoying they are. Not to mention, any sudden movements on my part might spook them, and give my position away, which feels like it might become a problem if Niko doesn¡¯t show soon.


    After a minute or two, I start to worry that I actually did lose him, which would be unfortunate. I can¡¯t really get down from here now without sending the shriekbeaks in the trees around me scattering, which will draw Niko right to me. And that¡¯s what I want, in theory, except that it¡¯ll only happen after I¡¯m already out of the tree, and back at a total disadvantage against his crossbow again.


    I¡¯ve had enough of running. Literally and otherwise. That doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m gonna blindly charge forward and confront an opponent who, in this exercise, I¡¯m supposed to be treating like he can permanently kill me. No, if I¡¯m gonna do this, I have to be smart about it.


    Gripping the bark tight, I tilt myself very slightly to the left, trying to move without and of the birds noticing. All I need to do is get a tiny bit closer to the river, so I can stretch my tail out and dip it into the water. Shivering slightly as my extra appendage touches the icy stream, I open the pincer-like tip of its barb and grasp a small rock from the riverbed.


    Pulling my tail back, I slowly scan the area around me, choosing my target carefully. Then, after my eyes land on a tree maybe twenty yards away, with half a dozen birds happily hoping around amongst its branches, chirping back and fort, I draw my tail back and whip the rock at it.


    The stone strikes the bitterbark tree dead-on, startling the birds, who take flight immediately, their frightful cries sending every other bird around into a panic. Crucially, though, the tree I hit was just far enough away from where I¡¯m hiding that the ones nearest to me remain where they are. When Niko comes to investigate the disturbance, he¡¯ll look where the stone struck, not where it came from.


    As expected, the hunter arrives not much later, crossbow held at the ready. We¡¯re not using an antiquated weapon for my benefit, of course. The assassins dispatched to truekill me almost certainly will be using something like what Niko is carrying. Arrows and darts are the only effective long-range options for dosing someone with Mindkiller. You just can¡¯t fit a lethal dose into a bullet. And that fact is probably one of the only reasons I stand a chance of surviving on my own against the assassin''s we¡¯re assuming will be coming after me. Avoiding one arrow at a time is a lot easier than several hundred rounds per second.


    Niko¡¯s already wary when he steps into my line of sight. He¡¯s clever enough to know that I wouldn¡¯t have given away my position like that unintentionally, and therefore knows this is some kind of trap. what I¡¯m banking on is being able to spring it on him anyway. And he probably knows I¡¯m thinking that, too- but it won¡¯t do him any good.


    Still trying not to spook the remaining birds, so as to maintain the element of surprise for as long as possible, I shift my stance until I¡¯m poised upon the tree trunk like a cat preparing to pounce on its prey.


    Still suspicious, Niko is looking around the area, crossbow raised and ready to fire the moment he sees a flash of motion. I¡¯m still far enough away, and hidden behind foliage, so he doesn¡¯t notice me yet. He will, eventually, but I¡¯m not gonna wait long enough for that to happen.


    All I have to do is wait until his back is turned, then I leap off of the tree trunk, every ounce of tension built up in my body releasing explosively. I¡¯m not hoping to tackle him from this distance, that¡¯s not in the cards. What I can do is use my tail to swing off of a sturdy tree branch, flinging myself a few feet further towards him.


    At the apex of the swing, the branch snaps, proving itself less sturdy than I¡¯d previously thought, and alerting Niko to my presence a few seconds sooner than I¡¯d planned. This isn¡¯t the kind of scheme that hinges on something so trivial, though. In the time it takes for him to register the sound and start to turn in my direction, I¡¯m already on him.


    Tackling Niko to the ground is nothing new, but usually I¡¯m grabbing him in very different places. This time, I prioritize his arms, using my own to pin them in place and make sure he can¡¯t find a way to point that crossbow at me. The arrows are blunted, but getting hit by one still means I lose the game. Meanwhile, the weight of my body- including at least a few extra pounds of muscle I¡¯ve put on since I started training with Sander -holds him in place. And, most crucially, the tip of my tail slithers up to press against his neck, less than an inch away from opening his carotid artery.


    In other words, I¡¯ve got Niko exactly where I like him: completely at my mercy.


    ¡°My my,¡± I whisper, doing my best to sound sultry despite how exhausted I am. ¡°I wasn¡¯t expecting my assassin to be so handsome.¡±


    Niko chuckles, and makes a token effort to struggle against me.


    ¡°And I wasn¡¯t expecting my target to be so- unf -cute.¡±


    ¡°Cute?¡± I ask, tracing my tail across the length of his neck. ¡°I think you meant devastatingly gorgeous, pretty boy.¡±


    Before our banter, if you could call it that, can continue, I hear a faint sound behind me, and then a louder one. Footsteps, and a crossbow being nocked.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t think they¡¯d just send one man, did you?¡± Niko gloats.


    In response, I hook my ankles beneath his, and roll over, putting him on top just in time for Sander¡¯s arrow to strike him in the back. Niko flinches, because even a blunt arrow is bound to hurt, and I use his momentary lapse in concentration to wrest the crossbow from his hand and, still using his body as cover, shoot back in my second assailant¡¯s direction.


    There¡¯s no time to waste now- if I missed, Sander will be reloading right now, giving me a very short window to attack him before he can fire again. I kick Niko off of me, struggling slightly now that he¡¯s gone limp, playacting like he really was just truekilled, and kip up to my feet, ready to fight.


    Only then do I realize that I didn¡¯t miss at all. Firing blind, using a two-handed weapon with one hand, and I still managed to hit Sander right in the chest. Got to admit, that one feels good. He¡¯s holding the arrow in his hand, looking faintly pleased, the second crossbow at his side.


    ¡°No,¡± I reply to Niko belatedly, unable to keep some smugness out of my voice. ¡°I figured there¡¯d be at least two.¡±


    ¡°The second crossbow might have been a bit of a giveaway,¡± he admits, rolling onto his back with a groan. ¡°Told you she wouldn¡¯t believe it was a spare, man.¡±


    Sander chuckles, which is a surprise in itself.


    ¡°Perhaps. But the presence of reinforcements can be expected regardless. This was intended to gauge your response when your own ambush turned out to be part of the enemy¡¯s plan.¡±


    ¡°And I kicked ass,¡± I brag, fully aware that it was a close call.


    ¡°Mm,¡± Sander replies, unimpressed by my reaction, but clearly aware I wasn¡¯t entirely serious. ¡°You should endeavor to avoid being put in such a situation again.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah, I get it,¡± I reassure him with an eye roll. ¡°You know, I wouldn¡¯t have had to be so reckless if you¡¯d just let me have a gun¡­¡±


    ¡°In that case, why don¡¯t we go again?¡± he suggests, without a hint of irony. ¡°I hid caches around this area before you arrived. Their transponders are now active, so all you need to do is dig them up.¡±


    Blinking twice, I check to see if what he¡¯s saying is true, and find to my surprise that it is. Three transponders ping back at me from all around the Grove, including one not too far from here.


    Part of me wants to refuse. I¡¯m still exhausted, and I want to bask in my hard-fought victory a little longer. But on the other hand, it seems unlikely that my secret anti-admirer would only send two assassin''s, and they definitely wouldn¡¯t give me any time to rest or relax before continuing the hunt.


    ¡°Alright, fine. When do you wanna start?¡±


    ¡°I was thinking¡­ thirty seconds ago,'''' a voice from behind me says. Without needing to look, I can tell that Niko¡¯s picked the crossbow up and now has it pointed straight at me.


    Still looking at Sander, I grin, and flick my tail up to sever the crossbow¡¯s string. That¡¯ll buy me a few seconds, at least. Then I start running.


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    Our second round of kinetic hide and seek goes by much faster than the first. That¡¯s not much of a surprise. Once you enter modern ballistic weaponry into the equation, things are much simpler. Still, there is one close call before I manage to get my hands on a gun, but after that, the tide turns decisively in my favor. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    None of this makes me feel that much more confident about being hunted by actual assassins, though. They¡¯re almost certainly going to be highly trained professionals, a cut above even Sander and Niko, who for all their training, skill, and inherited ability, simply don¡¯t have the decades of experience necessary to be truly called a master at any craft. Neither do I, of course, which is precisely why I¡¯m worried.


    On the other hand, it¡¯s entirely possible we¡¯re freaking out over nothing. Just because this Combat 101 midterm is a golden opportunity for whoever wants me dead to get their wish, doesn¡¯t mean they¡¯re actually going to take it. All the better for them to lull us into a false sense of security and strike when we¡¯re least expecting it. But practically speaking, it¡¯s hard to see how they¡¯ll pull that off, when opportunities to strike at me within the Citadel are rare. The whole reason this is such a rare opportunity, is because they know for certain that I¡¯ll be away from the protection the Citadel provides.


    And even if no attack comes, there¡¯s little harm in having put in a lot of extra time training. It¡¯ll just ensure that I score very highly on the midterm itself.


    ¡°So, remind me again why we haven¡¯t taken this to the administration?¡± Sofie asks idly. ¡°I mean, it¡¯s been pretty well established that they don¡¯t care that much about keeping you alive, but aren¡¯t they obliged to put up at least a token effort?


    ¡°Same reason we never told anybody about the dart trap in my room on our first day. We dunno who here is compromised, and alerting them to our plans only puts us at a disadvantage.¡±


    There¡¯s a brief silence as we both acknowledge that there¡¯s one person who we probably could trust- Niko¡¯s favorite teacher, Professor Kore, who¡¯s already keeping one serious secret for us. But given how badly my last encounter with her went, Sofie is wise not to mention her name aloud.


    ¡°Right. Whatever happened with that, but the way? Sandman never found who put that thing there?¡±


    I shake my head.


    ¡°Whoever did it covered their tracks well. Nobody could give us a name for who delivered it to my room, and the shipping manifests were either never recorded properly, or got tampered with somehow.¡±


    ¡°Which suggests insider access, hence why you¡¯re convinced it¡¯s the Emperor himself.¡±


    ¡°Well, not personally. But you¡¯ve got to admit he¡¯s probably at the top of the list of people who have a reason to want you dead.¡±


    ¡°Followed by everyone who¡¯s ever met you?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, exactly. Except for the ones who immediately fell in love with me, ¡®course.¡±


    Sofie rolls her eyes fondly and smacks my arm.


    ¡°Anyway, the real answer is probably that whoever delivered it wasn¡¯t in on the plan, they just thought it was part of your luggage or whatever. And all the other people you interviewed didn¡¯t want to give up a name because they figured you were trying to get somebody fired for some petty Noble shit.¡±


    ¡°Well, you wield Occam¡¯s razor quite deftly, but it¡¯s beside the point either way. I dunno why we¡¯re even talking about this, we should be focusing on the Championship.¡±


    ¡°Fair point,¡± Sofie replies with a shrug. ¡°Back to the topic at hand. Your plan worked- we¡¯ve got a pretty solid idea of how they¡¯re gonna try to rig your game.¡±


    My ¡®plan¡¯ in this case was pretty simple- I made sure to be seen heading to the shooting range yesterday, so that the other units would know I¡¯m planning on competing in the sharpshooting event during the Championship.


    ¡°Which ¡®they¡¯ are we talking about, exactly?¡±


    ¡°Komodos,¡± she clarifies, before taking a sip from her smoothie. The two of us are in my apartment, where I¡¯m doing my best to move as little as possible, slowly recuperating from this morning¡¯s excitement.


    ¡°Huh. Did we get new bugs in their dorm while I was gone or something?¡±


    ¡°A couple, but that¡¯s actually not how we got this intel. They seem to exclusively be discussing sensitive stuff on the ¡®band now. Which is probably something we should start doing, to be honest.¡±


    I make a face, unconvinced. In-person brainband conversations tend to be kind of uncomfortable, at least in my experience. Maybe a full-dive conference like what we did to prep for the heist would work better.


    ¡°How¡¯d you find out, then?¡±


    ¡°Put a tap on their equipment requisition order registry. They¡¯ll probably notice it eventually, but for the time being, we can see everything they¡¯re buying in advance. Including a portable grav-field generator.¡±


    Furrowing my eyebrows, I turn that over in my head for a few moments. gravity field generators are mostly used on spacecraft, and in settlements on planets with problematically low natural gravity. The exact science behind it doesn¡¯t make a ton of sense to me- I¡¯m pretty sure it involves a tiny, stable singularity that generates gravity equivalent to a massive planet without actually needing to be particularly large. How that could help the Komodos rig a sharpshooting competition in their favor, or against me, isn¡¯t immediately obvious. But after a second, it clicks.


    ¡°Ah, you think they¡¯re gonna use it to screw up my aim. That makes sense. They¡¯ve probably got whoever is competing for them practicing right now with the generator active, so they¡¯ll be able to account for it and I won¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. And even if we got a generator of our own, it wouldn¡¯t do us any good, because we don¡¯t know what setting theirs is gonna be on.¡±


    ¡°Presumably nothing so extreme that it¡¯s visible to the judges, but even so, there¡¯s a lot of potential variance,¡± I muse, now turning my attention towards dealing with this problem. ¡°Do we know who¡¯s gonna be shooting for them?¡±


    ¡°Sc¨¢thach, I¡¯m pretty sure.¡±


    That sounds about right to me. She¡¯s not a designated sniper the same way I am, but she¡¯s probably got the best aim out of anyone in the Komodo Unit¡¯s combat group. Better with a revolver than a rifle, I¡¯d wager, but many of the same principles apply no matter what weapon you¡¯re using.


    ¡°And the others?¡±


    ¡°Peregrines don¡¯t seem to be putting anyone up, or if they are, we haven¡¯t seen ¡®em at the range. Oxen seem to be going with Stojanov.¡±


    I raise an eyebrow at the unfamiliar name. Whoever that is, he never really came up while we were doing our threat assessment of the Oxen prior to the War Games.


    In response to my indication of confusion, Sofie blinks twice at me, transmitting her dossier on the Ox Unit warrior. Apparently Mikhail Stojanov is a fairly rare case of a Noble who doesn¡¯t ¡®sync¡¯ well with his Founder¡¯s cognitive pattern. His Founder, Ambrose, was a ¡®gentleman¡¯s gentleman¡¯ type, adhering to strict formal rules of etiquette at all times, on the battlefield and off. Stojanov, by all accounts, has no interest in following in his Founder¡¯s footsteps, and resents the fact that other people expect him to do so.


    ¡°So, no serious threats,¡± Sofie concludes. I¡¯m not so sure- apparently Ambrose¡¯s Regalia weapon was a lever-action rifle, which does imply a certain amount of skill at sharpshooting. But then again, if Stojanov rejects his Founder that thoroughly, maybe he hasn¡¯t practiced with those skills as much as I have.


    ¡°Hence why they¡¯re trying to screw me over, rather than make things easier for themselves. Even if I end up winning, a closer margin of victory is good for them.¡±


    ¡°Quite so,¡± Sofie says, affecting a more formal way of speaking, which makes me chuckle. I tilt my head in her direction, from where I¡¯ve been lying on my back on the couch. Noticing that I¡¯m looking her way, she waggles her tongue at me suggestively.


    Rolling my eyes, I raise a finger and beckon her closer. Obliging me, she gets up out of her chair and crosses the short distance between us, before gesturing for me to scoot over on the couch. With an exaggerated groan, I do as I¡¯m told, giving her some space to sit down, so I can lift my head up and place it on her lap.


    ¡°Good girl,¡± she whispers softly, and though I know she¡¯s only half-serious, I have to suppress a full-body shiver. ¡°You¡¯ve been working hard, I know, but you can¡¯t stop yet. The Komodos are trying to put all of that hard work to waste, and you¡¯re not gonna let ¡®em get away with it, are you?¡±


    If anybody else was trying to motivate me like this, I¡¯d probably tell them to fuck off. With Sofie, it¡¯s different, because I know the cloying, almost condescending nature of her words is a deliberate performance for my benefit, rather than a genuine attempt to motivate me. Precisely what practical difference that makes is difficult to articulate, but it¡¯s different for me, and that¡¯s what matters. So instead of replying, I close my eyes, and think.


    The metaphorical ¡®null hypothesis¡¯ here is to simply do nothing, and hope I¡¯ll be able to adapt on the fly. I¡¯ll take one shot as normal, probably miss because of the gravity-field, and use that to recalculate all my successive shots, hoping I¡¯m able to figure out exactly what adjustments I need to make fast enough that it doesn¡¯t hurt my score too badly. But missing even one shot is essentially an unforced error here. Or, well, not an unforced error per se, but knowing they¡¯re trying to force one and letting it happen is basically the same thing.


    So, assuming we¡¯re not gonna do that, what are my options? Not many, as best I can tell. Disabling the generator outright would be ideal, but presumably the Komodos aren¡¯t just going to leave it out in the open, so that would be gambling that my people can find it in time, either before the event starts, or before it impacts my score too badly. I¡¯m no stranger to taking risks, but certainty is always preferable when you can get it.


    Plus, my ego is kind of on the line here too. I¡¯d prefer not to embarrass myself in front of the entire Citadel just because whoever we send to shut the generator down can¡¯t find the off switch in time. Knowing my luck, Bret would somehow end up the only person available for the job that day.


    Just because disabling the generator isn¡¯t a safe bet, doesn¡¯t mean there aren¡¯t other things we could do with it, though.


    ¡°Okay, here¡¯s an idea. Give Ada a call, ask her if it¡¯s possible to remotely hijack a portable grav-field generator. If she tries to blow you off because of Project Barbicane, tell her this came straight from me, and it¡¯ll only take her like, ten minutes to figure out anyway.¡±


    ¡°You wanna disable it remotely?¡± Sofie asks, her tone switching smoothly back to business, even though she¡¯s still running a hand through my hair.


    ¡°Nah, no way it¡¯s got a remote kill-switch, that¡¯s way too dangerous. If you could turn off the generator for a whole city, you¡¯d destroy a ton of infrastructure in an instant. But I bet you can modify the output just fine.¡±


    It takes a moment before Sofie realizes what I¡¯m suggesting. Then her face lights up.


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s clever. You wanna make it impossible for the refs to ignore. Turn the generator way up, or way down, or back and forth, so it¡¯s obvious there¡¯s some interference. Safer than snitching, because this way we don¡¯t have to explain how we know, they¡¯ll just assume the generator glitched out on its own.¡±


    Besides basic notions of honor and propriety, there¡¯s one big reason we can¡¯t just report the presence of the generator directly to the Championship officials- doing so would expose the fact that we tapped the Komodos¡¯ requisition registry, which is just as flagrant a violation of Citadel rules. That kind of rule-breaking is common, even expected, in competition between the units, but you¡¯re supposed to at least make a token effort to cover it up. This way, we can expose the Komodos for cheating without exposing ourselves in the process.


    ¡°Bingo. Then the whole event gets put on hold until the generator is disabled. If it gets linked to Hark¡¯s people, they get disqualified outright- and if not, we¡¯ll just have a fair game, which means I¡¯ll win.¡±


    I¡¯m not actually quite as sure of that as I sound, but this is no time to be second guessing my own abilities. Even if my tactical and physical acumen both feel as though they need some improvement, I¡¯m trying to stay confident in my facility with firearms. And getting that perfect score at the range yesterday didn¡¯t hurt, although obviously it was under a lot less pressure than the Championship event will be.


    ¡°Sounds like a plan to me,¡± Sofie says with a smirk. I¡¯m really quite fortunate to have met someone who enjoys my scheming as much as she does.


    ¡°Oh, that reminds me. My copyclan seems to have figured out when the best time to pull off Grant¡¯s little ice-skate heist will be. I¡¯ll have one of ¡®em shoot you the details later, you can figure out who¡¯s best-suited to make the swap.¡±


    Probably Valent, if we¡¯re being realistic. But it¡¯s Sofie¡¯s job to make those decisions, and it¡¯s possible the Conjuror will be otherwise occupied. I¡¯m sure whoever she picks will be fully capable of getting the job done.


    ¡°Hopefully it goes better than your last heist,¡± she replies, chuckling. I raise my tail to give her a limp smack on the back of the head, which just makes her laugh harder.


    ¡°Hey, that reminds me,¡± Sofie continues, when she¡¯s done mocking me. ¡°I had something else I wanted to ask you about. Dunno if you heard, but apparently the Queen¡¯s coming here in a couple months.¡±


    Now that¡¯s a title that bodes ill if ever I¡¯ve heard one. The Queen is, as the name suggests, a Noble, one of the Three Crowns, a ¡®supergroup¡¯ not unlike the Nine Titans, but encompassing the ruling elite of the Imperium, rather than its greatest military minds. Besides her, it includes the Emperor himself, and the Prince. Each dangerous in their own right, but if I had to pick one I least wanted to run afoul of, it would be the Queen, by a mile.


    Her story- the story of her Founder, that is to say -is a fascinating one. Not least because it¡¯s a small miracle anybody even knows about it. After all, the first Queen of the Imperium was also one of the only people ever to get one over on the First Emperor. She was his greatest love, yes, and achieved Founder status at least in part on that basis, although of course her own brilliance had much to do with it as well. But once her place as a Founder was secure, she made clear to the entire Imperium that her relationship with the Emperor had, unbeknownst to him, been a fraud. She¡¯d manipulated him, wrapped him around her little finger, in order to make herself functionally immortal through an eternal lineage of Nobles, using the most powerful man alive as a mere puppet to achieve that goal. And since the process to make someone a Founder is irreversible, there was nothing he could do about it.


    He could have had her permanently retired, of course- even laid down an edict demanding that every successive Noble of her line suffer the same fate. But instead of espousing her for publicly humiliating the Emperor, the public adored her for it. She became an icon, virtually untouchable thanks to her popularity. All of it rested on a carefully cultivated image, of course- but most people understood that, and liked her more because of it.


    After severing ties with the Emperor, she threw herself into politics, and earned a second title of Queen, not merely as the Emperor¡¯s lover, but as the uncontested ruler of the Great Game, the quiet political power struggle between Nobles of her ilk and Sofie¡¯s, the type that prefer to do battle with words, poisons, and knives in the dark, rather than armies and battleships.


    Much of that status was won by default- few dared to challenge the woman who¡¯d beaten the Emperor at his own game. But those few who tried were crushed mercilessly, as an example to all the rest. Now, Nobles of her line retain that status, acting as political kingmakers, dictating through influence who rises and falls within the Great Game. Occasionally, some fool tries to take a shot at whoever urgently holds the title, and inevitably fails.


    Officially, the Queen¡¯s position in the Imperial bureaucracy is as the regional governor for the Core Worlds, which include Prime and all other planets in its system, as well as the moons of Tacitus, Akademos, and Carceri. In practice, that power is rarely exercised, because doing so would bring her closer to the Emperor, and the animus between them has remained throughout many successive generations of Nobles.


    ¡°Here?¡± I ask redundantly, to express my surprise. ¡°You got any idea why?¡±


    ¡°Officially, a routine inspection. Making sure everything is up to code. Probably gonna stick around long enough to observe the second round of War Games too. Unofficially? No clue. But I wanna impress her.¡±


    Curious, I raise an eyebrow.


    ¡°Impress how? Are you gonna do a tap-dance routine?¡±


    ¡°Not sure yet. That¡¯s why I¡¯m asking you for help, Izzy. Are you down, or not?¡±


    ¡°For you? Always.¡±

 Chapter Thirty-Three

    The last day before the start of the Citadel Championship is a hectic one, for me. Once again, Sander drags me out of bed early for some training, though thankfully it¡¯s a little less intense than being literally hunted with crossbows. It¡¯s starting to feel like I¡¯m actually adjusting to his punishing exercise regimen, judging by the fact that I no longer want to spend the rest of the day in bed after we¡¯re finished.


    Over breakfast, I record a quick video message and send it to my family back home on Demeter VII, reminding them that the Championship begins tomorrow, and that I¡¯ll be participating. While the whole thing will be broadcast live, it¡¯s not quite as well-publicized as the War Games are, so it¡¯s possible my parents weren¡¯t aware. They don¡¯t respond immediately, probably because it¡¯s the middle of the night for them when I hit send.


    After that, I head to the gym to meet up with Grant, and check in on how my fellow participants are doing with their last minute practice. On my way in, I pass Kat, who¡¯s leaving, looking upset. She refuses to meet my eyes, but I can guess what happened- she made one last attempt at improving her score, to see if she could qualify for the horse-racing event, and Grant denied her. Unfortunately, I haven¡¯t been able to set aside time to speak with her about it like I said I would, but after seeing her expression, it moves up several places on my list of priorities. Looking after my subordinates¡¯ morale is an important part of my job as commander, and I don¡¯t intend to fail at it.


    Besides Kat, however, everybody seems to be in top form. Mars effortlessly brings down a training ¡®bot on one of the highest settings, while Sofie soars through the holographic rings, contorting her body mid-air to avoid brushing against the edges, and Colleen relentlessly drills against the mechanical arm that¡¯s serving as her fencing opponent.


    Naturally, Grant still finds minor things to correct each of them on, despite not being much of an athlete himself. He¡¯s using a coaching program pulled from the brainband to take on this role, comparing their performances against top-class professional athletes in each category. Not exactly a fair comparison, but with what we¡¯ve got on the line, there¡¯s no reason not to strive to be the best.


    When I ask after her whereabouts, Grant informs me that Amalia is at the range. She¡¯s been spending quite a bit of time there since the other day, trying to bring her score up. I still feel a little guilty about how I spoke to her, but it seems to have lit a fire inside of her. Strictly speaking, there¡¯s no real reason for her to be pushing herself so hard, when I¡¯m competing in the same event, but at a much higher level. However, I¡¯m not going to complain- not when there¡¯s every chance that I could somehow be incapacitated before I get the chance to compete. If she ends up filling in for me on her own, I want her to do the best job possible.


    Of course, I should still apologize regardless, but maybe after the Championship is over.


    Satisfied with her own performance, and with Grant¡¯s approval, Sofie comes down from the gymnastics rig, a complex setup that includes various elements of different individual event equipment. There¡¯s both parallel and uneven bars, several sets of still rings arranged at various heights, a balance beam, and a pommel horse. Since there aren¡¯t enough participants to warrant multiple discrete gymnastics events, the Championship combines them all into one, consisting of a highly complex routine that incorporates every piece of equipment at different points, as well as a series of holographic rings that the contestants need to leap, vault, and flip through without touching in order to get a perfect score. It looks quite a bit harder than just shooting a series of targets.


    Wiping sweat from her brow, Sofie greets me with a tired grin and heads off to hit the showers- but in the process, she opens a brainband channel to Grant and I, so we can discuss our plans for sabotage and counter-sabotage heading into the Championship. With some critical info provided by Valent, we¡¯ve been able to put together several strategies for both rigging entire events, and incapacitating individual contestants, all while trying to figure out how the enemy will attempt the same to us, and how we can avoid it.


    The web of schemes and counter-schemes going on behind the scenes at the Championship is bound to be at least as exciting as the events themselves, if not more. Most viewers will be ignorant of all that, but those who are in the know will be keeping an eye out for any hints of intrigue. Some are even watching solely for that reason, including a few who are actively disinterested in the athletics themselves, but find the plotting to be quite entertaining. If I wasn¡¯t involved, I¡¯d probably be among them.


    Unfortunately, we¡¯ve had to abandon a couple of those schemes when it seemed like there were no good opportunities to pull them off. Emilia Heinonen still seems like the biggest threat in the long-distance running event, since she¡¯ll presumably be competing while wearing her strength-enhancing exo-dermis, but Valent wasn¡¯t able to find a plausible way to sabotage her, short of using some of the special armor-piercing bullets Ada designed to blow out one of her knees during the event. And while that might be satisfying, it¡¯s not exactly subtle.


    Sofie is more frustrated that we decided to not bother poisoning the Ox Unit¡¯s gymnastics entrant, the assassin Anand, who left a knife in my gut during the last War Games. Instead of complaining, however, she simply resolves to kick the raven-haired woman¡¯s ass fair and square, a sentiment which I wholeheartedly endorse.


    The most important schemes are still on track, though. Swapping the enemies¡¯ ice skates out for ones with blunt blades, poisoning Hector Casales before his turn in the pankration event, and thanks to a handy little device Ada whipped up, messing with the grav-field generator to expose the Komodos¡¯ cheating in the sharpshooting event. Valent should be able to put all of those plans into action once the Championship starts, but running through the details one last time helps ease my mind.


    With that settled, it¡¯s time for me to do some training of my own. Besides the morning¡¯s workout with Sander, that is. Amalia¡¯s nowhere to be seen when I arrive at the range, but I put that out of my mind and pick up a rifle.


    Having the gun in my hands does wonders to clear my head. Being on the battlefield has much the same effect- it¡¯s where I feel most at home. What gives me trouble is the world outside of combat and tactics. More variables to account for, and a wider variety of victory and failure conditions. In battle, the way you win is by killing your foes or forcing them to retreat, and the way you lose is if you die or flee. Elsewhere, you can succeed and fail in decidedly more complex ways. That¡¯s what makes me wary about Sofie¡¯s request that I find a way to help her ¡®impress¡¯ the Queen of the Great Game when she comes to visit the Citadel. I¡¯d be much more comfortable if all she wanted was for me to help plan an assassination.


    Violence isn¡¯t entirely uncommon in the Great Game, whether it simply involves sending someone into the resurrection queue at an inopportune moment, or even truekilling them, although that¡¯s obviously quite a bit rarer. But when it happens, it¡¯s either as a means to an end, or as a last resort. Killing someone to make them miss an important appointment is considered fair play, but it¡¯s a mark of a poor player to employ violence as a way of permanently eliminating a rival. Far better to disgrace, discredit, or otherwise nonlethally dispatch them.


    Besides the general desire not to get one¡¯s hands dirty, the reason violence is frowned upon as a tool in the Great Game is simple. It¡¯s not merely about increasing one¡¯s status for the sake of gaining power- although many people are, of course, largely motivated by that. The purpose of the Great Game as a form of natural selection. If you¡¯re clever enough to get ahead, that means you¡¯re best-suited to serve the interests of the Imperium. If someone else brings you down, it means you weren¡¯t fit to hold your position in the first place.


    Many people underestimate the degree to which the Nobility consists of true believers. It runs contrary to every basic understanding of human nature and its relationship to power. But that¡¯s the beauty of the Noble system. It doesn¡¯t select for the most ruthless, power-hungry bastards out there, like ordinary systems of government do. It¡¯s made up of a predetermined set of people who, with some variance between generations, all inherit similar beliefs and outlooks to what their Founders held. And the Founders were, by and large, people who believed in the Imperium¡¯s project.


    The purpose of any state is to perpetuate its own existence, or so we¡¯re told. That¡¯s how things worked in the Warlord Era, and well before it for that matter. The Imperium is different. It¡¯s a state, but it¡¯s also the most ambitious single project in human history- to destroy entropy, make all life immortal, and eradicate the existence of suffering.


    Lofty ambitions to be sure, but we¡¯ve made some significant strides. The brainband exists as a storage system for human minds, both while we¡¯re alive, and after retirement. Everybody in the Imperium gets a single lifespan, where they can inhabit a body of flesh and blood, but when that lifespan runs out, you don¡¯t pass into oblivion like people used to. Your ¡®pattern¡¯ is stored permanently within the brainband, to one day be brought back, once scarcity of resources is no longer a concern. Letting everybody have bodies and reproduce isn¡¯t sustainable in a finite universe- there¡¯s not enough biomass to go around in the long term. So instead, you get one, long life, with as many resurrections as you need, and then you ¡®retire,¡¯ in anticipation of the day that you¡¯ll return, this time without a ticking clock over your head.


    The Imperium exists to bring that future about. That¡¯s a distant concept for most people, of course- the research into creating an infinite energy source and staving off the heat death of the universe is incredibly important, but on a daily basis, it¡¯s not very exciting. So people pay attention to politics, sports, or entertainment. But what the Imperium, and the Nobles that make it up, are charged with, is facilitating that research. The state itself exists to make that research possible. And like almost every other Noble, I¡¯m fully committed to seeing that future one day.


    That doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m on board with everything the Imperium does, though. I share its goals, that doesn¡¯t mean I have to approve of its methods. But it does mean that, despite what one might expect given past Nobles of my line, I have nothing but contempt for the Meritocracy. It¡¯s not just the Nobility that they reject, but the project itself. In the name of freedom today, they¡¯ve abandoned an infinite tomorrow. Worse still, they threaten the existence of the Imperium and its project, by seeking to ¡®free¡¯ more worlds. Obviously poor Imperial governance plays a role in that. Most ordinary people don¡¯t think much about the project, because it doesn¡¯t impact their life one way or the other, so it¡¯s easier to convince them that the Emperor is a tyrant who only wants to exploit them.


    Depending on who¡¯s in charge, they might not even be completely wrong. The first Emperor wasn¡¯t a perfect man, even if his vision was powerful enough to unite all of humankind, for a time. But in my eyes, one doesn¡¯t have to be loyal to the Emperor to be loyal to his dream.


    Without realizing it, I spend something like four and a half hours at the range. Even back home, when I had nothing better to do than practice my shooting, I don¡¯t think I ever spent that long doing it. Contemplating the Imperium¡¯s future is a good way to lose track of time, apparently.


    Unlike last time, my score isn¡¯t quite perfect. I¡¯m down to something like ninety-three percent accuracy, which still isn¡¯t bad considering that the course gets progressively harder the longer it runs.


    Leaving behind a small mountain of shell casings, I exit the range, Sander in tow. By now it¡¯s getting late, and knowing the Championship opening ceremonies are beginning early tomorrow morning, I decide to have dinner early and head to bed. To my surprise, Sander countermands me, and insists there¡¯s still time for one last training session before all that. No matter how much I want to say no, I still end up acquiescing, because even though his expression will remain impassive, I know I won¡¯t be able to stop myself from seeing judgment behind them if I refuse.


    It¡¯s a small mercy that the evening training session, like the morning one, is relatively less intense compared to those of the previous days. Still, I heave with no shortage of soreness, and an empty stomach that I¡¯ll be glad to fill before I finally turn in for the night. Sander, for his part, merely nods and says ¡°Good work.¡±


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    On the day of the opening ceremony, I don my Citadel dress uniform, freshly auto-ironed to lack even the slightest wrinkle. The last time the Imperium at large saw me, I had a knife in my gut. Sure, we may have won that round of the War Games, but my personal image took a blow. This time,  I need to project strength and confidence right out of the gate.


    Grant accompanies me to the Exalt Arena. We talk strategy over the brainband on the way, while carrying on a simultaneous conversation out loud to throw off suspicion. It¡¯s as difficult as it sounds, and we may well be doing it for nobody¡¯s benefit, but if nothing else, it¡¯s good practice.


    According to him, everything is in place for today, although that¡¯s not really saying much. We Gazelles aren¡¯t even competing in anything until tomorrow, and we decided not to waste any effort trying to sabotage events we¡¯re not participating in. That gives us a little more time to prepare, which I¡¯m grateful for.


    When we arrive at the arena, he leaves to go do exactly what, while I push open the door to the locker room, and find that I¡¯m the first one there. Not exactly a surprise. Thanks to Imperium technology, I can put myself to sleep instantly, so nerves weren¡¯t gonna keep me up last night, but there¡¯s no technological fix to keep them from waking me up early. Everyone else is probably still getting ready, and that¡¯s no issue- we¡¯ve still got a while to go before the ceremony begins.


    Almost immediately bored, I wonder idly if any of the other units are ready to go yet. All seven of them will be competing in the Championship, although the upper-years are ranked separately. As a result, each event will be held twice, on different days and with different participants. That¡¯s part of the reason the Championship doesn¡¯t get ratings on the level of the War Games. Too repetitive. But really, I think it¡¯s because there¡¯s not enough blood.


    I have a feeling that this year, though, the Championship isn¡¯t going to be entirely bloodless.


    Accessing the locker room¡¯s external feed, I watch as the earliest of the early birds start to filter into the stands. Even when all of them are here, this place probably won¡¯t be at full capacity- not physically, at least. The number of people actually allowed on Akademos is pretty small, since the security of us young Nobles is considered a high priority. At least in theory. So those who are arriving are mostly either Citadel staff, be they professors, administrators, or just members of the cleaning crew who are taking advantage of some free time to come watch. Anybody else is probably a visiting Imperium bureaucrat of some kind, probably from Prime, with a security clearance high enough to be allowed into the Citadel temporarily. Or they¡¯re Nobles who remember their time here fondly, and want to take a look at the next generation.


    That¡¯s just the physical attendees, though. All together, they won¡¯t fill up even half of the available seats in this place, and having so much empty space would look lame to all the viewers at home. So, for a fairly hefty fee, it¡¯s possible for an ordinary Imperium citizen to purchase tickets for virtual attendance, watching not through the public feeds, but from a camera ¡®bot stationed in an empty seat in the stands, with a holographic avatar of themselves projected around it, so it looks like they¡¯re actually there.


    It¡¯ll be a while before those get turned on, though, and I can¡¯t say I¡¯m looking forward to it. Intellectually, I know that quite a few people are gonna be watching, but it¡¯s different when you can actually see them, holographic avatars or otherwise.


    Not long after I disconnect from the external feed do I hear the sound of the locker room doors opening. The first of my Gazelles to arrive is Tai, expression betraying discomfort at being made to wear his Citadel uniform once more. He greets me with a respectful, if curt, nod of the head.


    ¡°Commander.¡±


    ¡°Tai. How¡¯re you feeling?¡±


    The surveillance specialist cocks his head to the side, as if surprised by my sudden interest in his state of mind. We haven¡¯t spoken much, for any number of reasons. He¡¯s in Sofie¡¯s Intelligence Group, so I have little cause to interact with him directly on a regular basis, and I get the sense he¡¯s not the social type even under the best of circumstances. It¡¯s still a lapse on my part, and one I hope to begin correcting now.


    ¡°Anxious. I prefer watching to being watched.¡±


    So the crowd¡¯s got him on edge too. That¡¯s a bit of common ground, at least.


    ¡°I know what you mean. Nothing worse than feeling like you¡¯re just putting on a show for someone else¡¯s amusement.¡±


    Tai makes an affirmatory grunt, studying the room around us rather than meeting my eyes. Maybe my attempt at connecting came off as insincere, or maybe he just doesn¡¯t care that I¡¯m trying.


    ¡°Not too worried about the Championship itself, I hope. You¡¯re braver than me, volunteering for two events.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re on different days, at least,¡± he says, shrugging. ¡°Besides, I like running, and they¡¯ve got two events for it. What was I gonna do, skip one?¡±


    ¡°Think that¡¯s what most of the other runners did. Probably sprinters who figured they couldn¡¯t do endurance, or vice versa.¡±


    It¡¯s a little strange that there are two different track events in the Championship, while all of gymnastics was condensed into one, and many others cut entirely. There¡¯s probably some bureaucratic explanation behind it, but I don¡¯t actually care enough to look into it.


    ¡°Each requires a different kind of training,¡± Tai explains. ¡°In professional competition, specialized bodies for different events are commonplace. My generalist build would place me at a disadvantage. Our intelligence suggests that here and now, nobody has gone so far as to get an entirely new body just for one event, so there¡¯s no cause for concern.¡±


    So this is more than just a hobby for him. Curious.


    ¡°You wanted to do this professionally? Before you knew you were a Noble, I mean.¡±


    Tai shakes his head.


    ¡°I chose to pursue track specifically so I¡¯d be able to provide something of value to my unit during the Championship.¡±


    Well now, that¡¯s interesting. It certainly implies that he knew what he was from a young age, which isn¡¯t always the case with Nobles. But at the same time, it doesn¡¯t exactly fit with my general impression of him up until now.


    ¡°Funny, I always kinda got the impression you never wanted to be here in the first place.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t. I don¡¯t. But I¡¯d rather not go into early retirement either. So I figured I should find a way to make myself useful to whoever my boss was, while I was here.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve certainly accomplished that,¡± I assure him with a chuckle. He doesn¡¯t seem to see the humor in it.


    Saving me from further awkwardness, Sofie breezes into the room next, the metallic strands of her hair done up into a ponytail. Self-consciously, I run a hand through my own hair, hoping it looks alright. I keep it short out of convenience, but sometimes that comes at the expense of my actual appearance. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°Hey, Izzy! Bow-Tai! What¡¯s the word?¡±


    ¡°¡®Waiting,¡¯ apparently. Everything good on your end?¡±


    ¡°Yep,¡± she replies with a wink. This room is probably bugged, so if we¡¯re gonna discuss our plans, we have to speak in generalities, or not speak aloud. The other units are aware of the same fact, but we bugged their locker rooms anyway, just in case.


    Slowly, over the course of the next hour or so, the rest of the participants from my unit filter in after her. Colleen is next, looking mildly disappointed when she discovers she wasn¡¯t first to arrive, followed by Amalia, who doesn¡¯t say a word to me, and then finally Mars. We chat idly for a while, saying nothing of real importance, until another door opens- not the one leading into this room from outside, but the one that leads out into the arena.


    Our unexpected visitor is wearing a white Citadel staff uniform, with the telltale green stripe that denotes them as working here at the Exalt Arena. They¡¯re androgynous in appearance, something not uncommon in the Imperium, and, I¡¯m given to understand, a reasonably solid indicator they identify outside the bounds of traditional human gender roles. Doing so is much easier now than it once was, given that you¡¯re free to mix and match primary and secondary sexual characteristics as you like.


    Whatever their deal is, they look harried. However hard we¡¯ve been working to prepare for the Championship, I¡¯m sure the arena staff has been working twice as hard getting everything ready for us. I walk over and greet them, extending a hand to shake.


    ¡°Commander Izanami, yes?¡± they ask brusquely.


    ¡°That¡¯s right.¡±


    ¡°Good. The ceremony is simple. When the Dean says your team¡¯s name, you all head out and circle the track with all the other teams. Just stop walking when all the others stop. Oh, and one of you¡¯s got to hold this. It¡¯s your standard.¡±


    They pass me a short metal rod with a single button on the side.


    ¡°Just hold it away from your body, pointing up, and press the button to turn it on. All clear?¡±


    Clear enough to me, but I glance back at the others to make sure nobody¡¯s got any questions. Everybody remains silent.


    ¡°Crystal.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± they reply, and march out without another word.


    Curious, I examine the standard for a moment, turning it over in my hands, before promptly concluding that there¡¯s nothing of interest to find and tossing it to Mars.


    ¡°Congrats, you¡¯re the standard-bearer,¡± I inform him with a chuckle.


    ¡°What, too good to wave a flag around for a couple minutes?¡± he asks jokingly. ¡°It¡¯s not even that heavy.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d be happy to, but I can¡¯t be the commander and the standard-bearer. That¡¯s far too much responsibility for little old me.¡±


    That gets a laugh from Mars and Sofie at least, while the others have mostly returned to their own devices by now- watching the external feed, or just scrolling through their palm-screens idly while they wait for the ceremony to begin.


    ¡°Not so little anymore,¡± Sofie points out, giving one of my arms a squeeze. ¡°Sandman¡¯s really got you bulking up, huh?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t think I¡¯m gonna be anywhere near his level without some serious body-mods, but I¡¯m doing my best.¡±


    ¡°Well, if you need a ¡®sparring partner,¡¯ I¡¯m always happy to help,¡± Mars offers flirtatiously, barely trying to disguise what he really means. I guess the more muscular look is already paying dividends in at least one area.


    ¡°Cool your jets, loverboy,¡± Tai calls out from across the room, not looking up from his palm-screen. ¡°She¡¯s spoken for.¡±


    All of a sudden, I¡¯m reminded exactly what it means that we¡¯ve got a surveillance specialist on our team. Sure, there are more innocent ways he could have found out about Sofie, Niko and I- we haven¡¯t exactly been trying to disguise it, and the way Sofie held me at the end of the last round of War Games was pretty blatant -but something tells me that he¡¯s got more than just a hunch.


    Then again, I could just be paranoid. Tai¡¯s probably not interested enough in my personal life to be spying on me in particular- maybe he just picked something up by chance, or simply happened to put the puzzle pieces together a little quicker than Mars. But I still can¡¯t help but feel like I won¡¯t be able to get to sleep tonight without having Sander run a full bug sweep of my apartment first.


    ¡°Sounds like you¡¯re the only one doing the speaking,¡± Mars calls back, but nonetheless drops the subject, taking the standard and heading over to where Colleen is sitting. I remember getting the impression some time ago that the two of them had something going on, but it¡¯s hard to know whether it¡¯s romantic, sexual, or just a platonic bond between two warriors. Whatever the case, they¡¯re a bit of an ice-and-fire combination, but I guess maybe opposites really do attract.


    It¡¯s only a couple more minutes before I get a brainband alert that informs me the opening ceremony is about to begin. Keeping one eye on the door, I open a partial link to the external feed, so I can watch what¡¯s happening without being completely dead to the world. The effect is roughly equivalent to having a picture-in-picture open in my mind¡¯s eye. Two distinct visual inputs, but one with much lower priority.


    Outside, the stands have filled up considerably, mainly by holographic avatars of thousands of Imperium citizens who are invested enough in the affairs of the Nobility to pay for a closer look at us. The arena itself remains empty, a single track wrapping around a green expanse in the center.


    As I watch, however, that green expanse rises up off of the ground and splits open, allowing a platform to emerge from underneath. It¡¯s got a raised dais in the middle, where the Citadel¡¯s Dean is standing, clad in an olive-green suit and flashing a smile at the crowd. There¡¯s some enthusiastic, albeit scattered, applause from the few in-person attendees, followed a moment later by artificial fanfare pumped in through the speaker system, to represent those who aren¡¯t here physically, but presumably would be clapping and cheering if they were.


    ¡°Welcome! Welcome one and all! To those joining us in person, I thank you, and to those joining us remotely, I thank you as well. I am Dean Norman Gennis, sixty-third in the line of Enora, the Tutor, and it is my genuine pleasure to welcome you all to this year¡¯s Citadel Championship!¡±


    Above the crowd in the stands, a series of holographic symbols appear- the Citadel¡¯s crest, two crossed swords pointing down, one pointing straight up. Those attending holographically can choose to display certain symbols above the stands, with the size of each determined by how many people vote for it- a way of showing which unit has the most support among the masses, without anybody being able to chant or hold up signs.


    Not very many people are excited to cheer for the Citadel itself, judging by the lackluster size of the crests that do appear. No doubt that will change soon enough, as the upper-year units begin to make their way out onto the field. They¡¯ve been around in the public consciousness longer than we have, so their fan-bases have had time to properly develop. The Locusts are big with the inner-worlds set, thanks to their well-heeled commander¡¯s insistent adherence to rules of strict military discipline at all times. Meanwhile, the Grizzlies have a broader appeal due to being perceived as humble and hardworking. Of late, the Cranes, led by the Heir himself, have had an upswing in popularity against the Orcas in their first round of the War Games.


    It¡¯s too early to tell how my unit, and the others in our year, will fare in the court of public opinion. Although seeing what kind of a response we each get from this crowd should provide a barometer for how a certain sort of person views each of our groups, at least.


    ¡°Before we bring out this year¡¯s contestants, I¡¯d like to say a few words,¡± the Dean continues. Somewhere to my right, I hear Mars groan audibly, and shoot him a sympathetic look.


    ¡°It is, as always, both an honor and a privilege to be here hosting this event. Of all my duties as the Dean of the Citadel, this is perhaps my favorite. Not to besmirch the War Games, of course- they¡¯re a vital Citadel tradition as well. But the violent aspect of that event is not suitable for all viewers, while the Championship is something people of any age can appreciate.¡±


    At that, I can¡¯t help but laugh.


    ¡°Something tells me he just hated the War Games when he was a student here, ¡®cause nobody ever had any use for the Tutor on a battlefield.¡±


    Sofie and Mars cackle at that, while even Tai can¡¯t help but snicker, despite not usually being a fan of my more mean-spirited jokes.


    ¡°It¡¯s a celebration of talent, skill, and the drive to succeed,¡± Gennis says with  grandiosity, before continuing to prattle on, although I don¡¯t hear the rest of what he says, over the sound of Mars¡¯ subsequent infuriated exclamation.


    ¡°Oh, just get the fuck on with it already!¡±


    ¡°Hear hear,¡± Sofie cheers with a laugh.


    As if he heard what Mars said, the Dean finally starts to wrap his speech up. In my mind¡¯s eye, I can see him gesture grandly around the arena, a wide smile on his face.


    ¡°And now, without further ado, I¡¯d like to introduce this year¡¯s Citadel Championship contestants! Starting with¡­ the Crane Unit¡¯s team!¡±


    Naturally, whichever unit the HeIr is leading gets to go first, whether or not they''re actually participating. To my knowledge, he¡¯s refrained from doing so for almost every Championship recent memory- which is why it¡¯s something of a surprise when he¡¯s the very first person to walk out onto the track.


    The Imperial Heir, Rayan Bousaid, strides forth with a regal bearing, his sapphire Citadel uniform proudly displaying both the symbol of the Crane unit, and the Imperial insignia, on his chest. My first thought upon looking at him is that he seems far more put-together than I would have expected, given everything that I¡¯ve heard about him before now.


    Despite being next in line to rule the entire Imperium, his current position is an unenviable one. Bousaid is effectively stuck in a state of permanent arrested development, enforced by Imperial law. Until the current Emperor''s reign ends, he¡¯s stuck here at the Citadel with us, leading a different unit each year, always the one that performed worst in their first year.


    From what I¡¯d heard, he was long past the point of trying to whip those units into shape after taking over. It¡¯s not that he¡¯s not capable- he did so quite successfully his first few years here, or so the records say. But those records are of events that happened before I was even born- meaning he¡¯s been a student here for two decades, watching other people graduate after a mere two years all around him.


    Being of the line of the original Emperor, it¡¯s not as though he¡¯s got no ambitions, either. If anything, I¡¯d imagine he¡¯s the most ambitious of any of us, myself included. Which must make it all the more intolerable that he¡¯s going to be stuck here for a very long time, unable to see any of those grand plans come to fruition.


    There¡¯s one silver lining to his predicament, at least. Because most Emperors live their full lifespan, and their Heirs are born the very day they ascend the throne, the Her is given two lifetimes, instead of just one, to prevent them all from having weeks-long reigns and being forced into retirement just after taking power. But that must seem impossibly far-off to him now. Which makes the fact that he¡¯s suddenly now putting in effort again all the more perplexing.


    My only theory right now is that he simply got bored not putting in any effort, and now he¡¯s trying again just because it¡¯s a change of pace. Whatever the answer, it certainly seems to be playing well with the crowd, because they¡¯re cheering raucously for him. Much of that¡¯s probably being pumped in through the speaker system, but the holographic symbols projected above the stands are huge, indicating that his unexpected change of disposition is playing well with the Imperium at large. Or at least the Noble-watchers dedicated enough to have paid for a holographic ¡®seat¡¯ at the Championship.


    Bousaid is flanked by five members of his Cranes, each standing with their heads held high, one of them waving their unit¡¯s holo-banner proudly, the stylized symbol of a Crane fluttering in a virtual breeze. Part of me wonders why they don¡¯t just use actual flags, but I guess it would be hard to display them properly on a fairly windless day like this.


    When the cheering has died down somewhat, and the Cranes have made some progress through their circuit of the track, the Dean speaks up again, this time to welcome the Grizzly unit to the field. The response they get is more tepid, but still respectable, though perhaps disappointing for them considering they fielded no less than seven contestants.


    Next come the Locusts, who get a big reaction from the crowd, though of course none of them react in the slightest. Their commander is nowhere to be seen- probably having decided that participating personally would be undignified -but they all remain rigidly pastured, not quite marching, but still walking in lockstep, faces expressionless, their standard held straight upright.


    Finally, the Orca emerge, to a fairly unenthusiastic reaction from the crowd, but a paradoxically large projection of their crest above the stands. Either there¡¯s a significant divide in opinions on the between those attending physically versus virtually, or their tech team somehow manipulated the projection system to favor them. Honestly, I¡¯d respect them more if it was the latter. Despite having the most intimidating animal of any unit at the Citadel this year representing them, they haven¡¯t done much to impress me thus far, but pulling off so public a stunt would do it- although the fact that there¡¯s virtually no conceivable way for them to profit from doing it does damper my enthusiasm somewhat. ¡®High risk, low reward¡¯ is rarely a smart way of doing things.


    ¡°Another round of applause for our second-year student competitors, please!¡± the Dean asks of the crowd. They oblige him, and a series of symbols shoot up over the stands, each of the different units¡¯ crests, all repeating multiple times at multiple different sizes. Once again, the Orca symbol is the largest, which makes me suspect my hunch was correct- followed shortly after by the Cranes, then the Locusts, and finally the Grizzlies.


    ¡°Each of them will be sending forth a representative to compete in the very first event of their division, pankration, shortly after the opening ceremony concludes. But before that, allow me to introduce to you our first year competitors, beginning with¡­ the Peregrines!¡±


    Anton¡¯s people walk out onto the track in a loose cluster, seemingly without anybody to serve as a leader. The Starhammer isn¡¯t among them, but even if he was, I doubt Anton would be of much use in that respect. Once they¡¯re actually on the field, Warren Harvey, a tense young man whose stiff posture calls to mind the Locust unit¡¯s team, takes charge to lead the others forward, flanked by Mannix Devlin, the red-haired, scar-faced warrior who holds their unit¡¯s standard high. Only two others accompany them- a lithe, smirking type who I have to use the brainband to identify as Soo-Jin Choi, and a muscular blonde who I vaguely recall being called Avis.


    ¡°Should have figured she¡¯d be here,¡± Mars says of her, using a silent brainband pulse to make sure we all know who he¡¯s talking about. ¡°Wonder what she¡¯s competing in, though. She¡¯s scrappy, but she¡¯s no wrestler, and there weren¡¯t enough people to have a boxing event this year.¡±


    That¡¯s right- he mentioned some time ago that he had a friendly fight with her. Nobody can offer up a decent guess as to what she¡¯ll be doing in the Championship, though, so we all fall silent, waiting to see if our unit will be called up next.


    From the in-person attendees, the Peregrines get little more than polite applause, while even the artificial cheers fail to liven things up, and the few projections of their symbol that do appear are pitifully small. Despite the fact that they¡¯re our direct rivals, I can¡¯t help but feel some pity for them. Their poor showing against Hark¡¯s people during the War Games has made them the laughingstock of the Imperium, and fielding only four contestants here would seem to indicate they don¡¯t expect to do much better during the Championship. The way things are going, I¡¯d be shocked if the Heir didn¡¯t end up in charge of that unit come next year.


    ¡°Next- the Ox Unit!¡±


    Tellis is the first to emerge, not a single crease visible on his uniform, fiery orange hair carefully combed to look just a little bit wild. His optimistic smile and generally bright disposition makes for an odd pairing with Anand¡¯s onlyx-black hair and eyes, to say nothing of her skeletal black ¡®wings,¡¯ which she appears to have cut slits out of her uniform to display- which I have to imagine is against regulations.


    Several other members of their unit follow, but Heinonen is the one who catches my eye, her cherry-red ego-dermis gleaming in the morning sun. The design is somewhere between a sports car and an ancient knight, with a single black slit on the mask to see through, though I suspect she doesn¡¯t actually peer through it- more likely she observes the world through a brainband feed from some micro-camera on the armor¡¯s chassis. Maybe multiple cameras- threes-sixty-degree vision is a useful. hint to have in a fight.


    The armored Ox is wearing the jacket from her Citadel uniform over the armor, presumably because the rest of it won¡¯t fit. I doubt that¡¯s regulation either. Chen Lu¡¯s the one who holds their standard, and the crowd greets them more enthusiastically than they did the Peregrines, but only just so. They haven¡¯t given the people much to cheer for yet.


    If the Oxen are going to develop a dedicated fanbase of any kind, I¡¯d imagine it would mostly be made up of the same type of people who like the Locusts¡­ except Starling¡¯s people don¡¯t display the same kind of military rigidity that the Locusts do. And thanks to the dissent we¡¯ve sown within their ranks, it seems unlikely that Tellis is going to be able to enforce that kind of discipline.


    I wish I could say that I¡¯m totally unconcerned with that sort of thing, but unfortunately, public perception has at least some bearing on my long-term plans. Some Nobles are foolish enough to believe that, because they occupy unelected, effectively hereditary positions, the opinions of their lessers don¡¯t matter. They¡¯re wrong. No matter your position in the Imperial bureaucracy, you rely on non-Nobles working below you in some capacity- and if they hate your guts, they can make your life very difficult. In my case, the people I¡¯m playing to are the career officers and marines in the Imperial Navy, who I¡¯ll be commanding if I manage to graduate from the Citadel alive. They need to see that, unlike many past Nobles of my line, I¡¯m going to be a reliable, competent leader.


    Most people would jump at the chance to serve under one of the Nine Titans- indeed, getting assigned to one of their fleets or armies is a highly coveted prize that only the best of the best ever obtain. But the Bane of Tyrants has no existing fleet like the others do. Not after the Deceiver Fleet lived up to its name for the last time, and turned coat against the Imperium, to become the First Fleet of the Meritocracy. That was a long time ago, but the Deceiver Fleet has yet to be reconstituted, both because of its shameful legacy, and because Nobles of my line haven¡¯t exactly stuck around long enough to put an entire fleet together by themselves.


    That task will fall to me, and since my line lacks the prestigious reputation of the other Titans, I¡¯ll basically be forced to make do with volunteers. Right now, the best case scenario is that I end up with a group similar to my Gazelles- talented people who have been overlooked by the system for one reason or another. But I¡¯ve been exceptionally lucky with this group- there¡¯s only one Bret among them. Everybody else is both reasonably competent, and tolerable interpersonally. I can¡¯t count on that ratio staying the same for an entire fleet.


    So what I¡¯m trying to do now, is signal to various people within the Navy at large that I¡¯d be a good boss, someone worth working for, who isn¡¯t gonna betray the entire Imperium or get them killed on a pointless suicide mission. And if I¡¯m successful, maybe the crop of people volunteering to join my new fleet after I graduate will be a little less ragtag.


    It seems that at some point during my musings, the Komodos were called up and made their appearance, led by Hector Casales, their grizzled, musclebound Master-at-Arms. Only three others accompany him, including my presumed opponent for sharpshooting, Sc¨¢thach, who holds the team¡¯s banner, looking unenthused.


    I wasn¡¯t paying attention when they came out, so I didn¡¯t hear the crowd¡¯s reaction, but a quick glance up at the holographic projections above the stands indicates that they¡¯re reasonably popular with the audience, probably owing to how comprehensively they crushed their opponents during the last War Games.


    That¡¯s all three of the other units in our year, which means...


    ¡°And finally, last but not least...¡±


    Scrambling to my feet, I head for the door, gesturing to the others to follow. Mars hefts the standard in his hand, ready to deploy it the moment we step out of the locker room.


    ¡°The Gazelles!¡±


    The Dean¡¯s words are practically drowned out by a roar from the crowd, as we emerge from our locker room and walk out onto the track. It¡¯s suddenly much harder to gauge the relative intensity of the crowd¡¯s reaction, now that we¡¯re outside and hearing it for real, rather than through a brainband feed- but it certainly feels as though we¡¯re being greeted quite enthusiastically.


    Glancing up at the stands, I see our unit¡¯s symbol, the gazelle depicted mid-leap, projected at significant sizes above the audience. At that, I can¡¯t help but grin and allow my tail to sway side-to-side behind me as I walk. Looking over my shoulder would be poor form, but I can hear Mars doing much the same with the standard in his hands, the holographic flag surely waving in the ¡®wind¡¯ above us.


    The six of us slowly make our way around the track, keeping our distance from the Komodos ahead of us, and the Cranes behind. We¡¯re actually kind of lucky in going last, because we don¡¯t have to walk for quite as long as all the others, before the Dean finally calls for one more round of applause for all eight of this year¡¯s teams.


    I¡¯m actually a little miffed that he didn¡¯t call for cheers for the first-year units alone, because it robs me of the chance to judge our popularity relative to our peers alone. Instead, I have to do my best to pick out the Gazelle symbols among seven others now projected above the stands- still respectably large, but overshadowed by many of the upper-year units. It could be worse, though- the Peregrine symbol is now virtually impossible to find unless you squint, overshadowed by even the least-popular of the upper-year teams.


    ¡°Now that everyone is here,¡± the Dean proclaims, grandiosity swelling in his voice once more, ¡°the Citadel Championship can officially commence!¡±

 Chapter Thirty-Four

    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.


    ¡°¡ªcan¡¯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, Sc¨¢thach 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 Sc¨¢thach¡¯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.


    Sc¨¢thach, 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 Sc¨¢thach¡¯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, Sc¨¢thach 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 Sc¨¢thach 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.

 Chapter Thirty-Five

    ¡°I don¡¯t get it. Why not just kill yourself?¡±


    Sofie sighs.


    ¡°Nicky, you can¡¯t just ask someone--¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m serious!¡± my Combat Officer protests. ¡°Pull your plug right now and- bing, bang, boom -you¡¯ve got a fresh new body, back in fighting shape. What¡¯s to stop you?¡±


    ¡°Muscle memory,¡± I reply, wincing as Sander applies another dab of regenerative gel to my wounded shoulder. ¡°A fresh body would need time to develop it. Sure, they bake as much of that in as possible during the rez process, but artificial aging can only do so much. As far as we know, Sc¨¢thach hasn¡¯t been resurrected since she came to the Citadel- maybe ever. She¡¯d have a significant advantage over me if I was in a body that was just a few days old.¡±


    Yesterday¡¯s debacle at the sharpshooting event is all anybody wants to talk about, here and on the social feeds. They want to know who put the gravity field in place, who was responsible for it going haywire, and how it managed to flip around and point my own bullet back at me. Some speculate that the entire thing was part of some plan of mine, while others have pinned it all on the Komodos. The truth is a mix of both.


    Hark and her people planted the grav-field generator in the first place, and we were the ones to hijack it during the event, but my best guess for what happened at the very end is that Hark- or, to be more precise, one of her tech people -managed to take back control at the last moment, and make me shoot myself. A clever improvised gambit, I have to admit.


    Feeling miserable- because of both my wounded shoulder and my wounded pride -I spent all morning in bed, recovering. The first two Championship events of the day came and went, with the Komodos securing their first victory in a one-on-one horse race, Kayla Whitehall triumphing over Tellis Ayedar of the Oxen.


    Only with an offering of burgers and milkshakes were Sofie and Niko able to get inside my apartment, for an emergency strategy session over lunch.


    Niko¡¯s suggestion of discarding this damaged body for a new one isn¡¯t bad, and if all I needed was to be able to shoot, it¡¯s absolutely what I¡¯d do. But I don¡¯t just need to shoot, I need to be able to shoot perfectly, and without a body that has some muscle memory built up, that¡¯s not in the cards.


    Regenerative gel has done plenty for the external injury itself, and numbed most of the pain, but it can¡¯t make muscle and bone knit itself back together by magic. The emergency operation I had after they carried me out of the Exalt Arena on a stretcher was only the first of several surgeries I¡¯m going to need before my shoulder is back in good condition. The doctors did tell me that discarding the body outright would be an option, but I¡¯d already decided by then that I wasn¡¯t interested.


    Our ancestors made do with one body for their entire lives. Sure, plenty did so by avoiding pain and injury, but plenty of others bore the scars of battle and still survived without the use of resurrection technology. I¡¯ve got no interest in becoming so reliant on it that I need to kill myself over a single bullet in the shoulder.


    ¡°So, what¡¯s the plan? We¡¯re just gonna let Hark walk away with a win, uncontested?¡±


    While Sander re-bandages my shoulder, I shake my head grimly.


    ¡°Nah, not a chance. We¡¯ve still got one more card to play. Amalia.¡±


    Niko blinks twice, confused.


    ¡°Seriously? I thought you said that she--¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t on my level, or Sc¨¢thach¡¯s? She isn¡¯t. But the do-over isn¡¯t until the last day of the Championship. We¡¯ve got the better part of a week to get her on my level.¡±


    Now it¡¯s Sofie¡¯s turn to look skeptical, slurping down her chocolate-and-strawberry shake. She¡¯s cheating a little, with food like this- her gymnastics event is coming up tomorrow. But it¡¯s a stressful moment for all of us, and I¡¯m confident she¡¯ll win no matter what. Unlike me.


    ¡°You really think you can make her world-class in just a couple days?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m gonna try, at least. Get in contact- tell her to attend the pankration event tonight. I¡¯ll talk to her then. And if I fail, if I can¡¯t coach her... Niko, I want you to get your hands on a bodyjack. Get in touch with the Recluse if you have to. He¡¯s used them before.¡±


    Imperium law states that no mind may inhabit more than a single body at any given time. The most common way to get around this is through the use of a bodyjack- a device that allows you to seize control of another person¡¯s body from afar. Naturally, they¡¯re contraband. But if anybody knows how to get their hands on one, it¡¯ll be the Recluse, our safecracking ally from the Salzwedel job. Before I got him out of that chair, he used them to puppet people on heists, turning his allies into extensions of his will so that he could disable security systems halfway across the Imperium without ever leaving his home in Limbo City.


    Niko frowns, and I can tell what he¡¯s thinking- that there¡¯s little chance Amalia would ever agree to let me borrow her body, even for something like this. But all he says is ¡°Got it.¡±


    ¡°Good. Now get to work.¡±


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    There¡¯s a tense energy in the air at the pankration event in the evening. Feels like being surrounded by sharks- and it¡¯s my blood in the water that has them in a frenzy. Can¡¯t hurt that this is undoubtedly going to be the bloodiest event of the entire Championship.


    Mars didn¡¯t seem concerned by that prospect when we spoke- if anything, he was excited. That didn¡¯t come as much of a surprise, knowing how his Founder made his name. He, along with many other Imperium soldiers, was captured by a warlord after their foolhardy general¡¯s ill-conceived strategy failed. Rather than simply slaughter his captives, the warlord kept them alive to fight for his amusement in an arena. Mars¡¯ founder not only survived for years in the arena, but managed to organize an uprising. In contrast, a couple wrestling matches must seem like small potatoes.


    ¡°You wanted to speak with me, Commander?¡± asks Amalia, slipping into the seat beside me. Her voice is characteristically quiet, but pitched up so I can hear her over the din of the crowd.


    ¡°Yeah, I- well, first, I need to thank you. For giving me a hand, when I... shot myself. So to speak.¡±


    It was hardly intentional, but the bullet that hit me was the same one that I fired. And though realistically, there wasn¡¯t anything I could have done to prevent what happened, I¡¯ve still found it difficult not to blame myself for being careless. All the others had already stopped shooting when it became obvious what was going on- I could have easily done the same, and avoided this predicament.


    ¡°There¡¯s no need to thank me, I was only--¡±


    ¡°C¡¯mon. I was a total bitch to you the other day. You¡¯d have been well within your rights to let me sit there and bleed until the paramedics came. But you didn¡¯t- so, thank you.¡±


    Amalia turns to face me, meeting my eyes for perhaps the first time since our altercation at the range the other day. There¡¯s no trace of malice or resentment in her expression.


    ¡°Apology accepted, Commander. Now, what else was it you wanted to discuss?¡±


    The success of my awkward attempt at making peace feels like a burden lifted from my shoulders- which is nice, since one of those shoulders is freshly injured, and I¡¯ve already got way too much resting on it.


    ¡°The do-over for our event. I won¡¯t be able to compete. If we¡¯re gonna win, it¡¯s got to be you doing the shooting. And I don¡¯t much like the idea of letting Hark have the win after all the trouble we¡¯ve gone to. So you and me are gonna train every day for the rest of the Championship, until you can shoot just as good as me. Sound good?¡±


    Maybe it would have been more tactful to couch this ¡®request¡¯ more carefully- assured her that she¡¯s a fine sharpshooter already. But I don¡¯t think Amalia needs her ego stroked like that. If she does, this plan is probably dead on arrival.


    Instead of immediately responding, she takes that in silently for a few seconds, then draws breath to respond- but before she can do so, the voice of the Championship announcer booms over the arena¡¯s public address system, drowning out all conversation.


    ¡°Citizens of the Imperium, please welcome the competitors for the Junior Division Pankration Event!¡±


    On command, the four competitors emerge from opposite corners of the arena, clad in tight, sleeveless wrestling singlets that cling to their musclebound bodies in all the right ways. Idly, I wonder about the degree to which they were deliberately designed for sex appeal, or whether that was just entirely an unintentional byproduct.


    Mars seems to be a little uncomfortable in his singlet, but still manages to project confidence as he strides towards the leftmost of the three rings in the center of the arena.


    ¡°Tonight¡¯s event,¡± the announcer continues, ¡°will consist of two rounds. The first round will eliminate two of our four competitors. In the second round, the two winners will face off for first place, while the two losers will share the position of third.¡±


    That explains the presence of the third, central ring, then. It¡¯s also a bit larger than the others, presumably to reduce the chance of an unsatisfyingly short match ended by ring-out.


    ¡°In the East Ring, Chen Lu of the Ox Unit will face Hector Casales of the Komodo Unit.¡±


    A cheer goes up for the two of them, and Casales spreads his arms, drinking in the adoration of the crowd with a wide grin visible beneath his mane-like white beard. Old though he may be, Casales is massively musclebound, a complete juggernaut, as I found out through hard experience in the ring with him. Chen Lu, on the other hand, has a more lithe physique, befitting the man who won the swimming event just a few days ago. I don¡¯t exactly love his chances in this fight.


    ¡°In the West Ring, we have Mannix Devlin of the Peregrines, versus Mars of the Gazelles.¡±


    As Mars raises his fists to the sky, I join in the cheers, enjoying the way that the Gazelle symbols projected above the stands seem to outnumber the Peregrine emblems. Devlin, for his part, merely folds his arms and scowls.


    While all four of the wrestlers make their way into their respective rings, I turn back to Amalia and raise an eyebrow.


    ¡°So? What¡¯s the verdict?¡±


    ¡°Hm? Oh- of course. Yes, I¡¯d be happy to train with you. But let¡¯s focus on giving Mars our support for the time being, shall we?¡±


    ¡°...yeah, sounds good.¡±


    Mars and Devlin are sizing each other up from opposite sides of the ring, waiting to be given the signal to begin. Presumably Chen Lu and Casales are doing the same thing, but I don¡¯t see much point in watching that match when I already know how it¡¯s gonna end.


    ¡°Begin!¡± bellows the announcer, and in an instant, the two of them are on each other. There are no points to be scored in this event- you only win by making the other man submit, or by breaking their body to the point where they can¡¯t possibly fight anymore. Rarely does it come to that, but I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if we saw it tonight.


    Moving a bit faster than Mars, Mannix strikes first, delivering two body blows, each of which Mars catches after they hit, using them to pin Devlin¡¯s arms in place. He uses that pin to pull the Ox warrior towards him, before delivering a knee to the gut.


    The crowd- or at least, those that are choosing to watch this fight -lets out a sympathetic cry as Devlin grunts in pain, before rearing back and slamming his forehead into Mars¡¯ nose. That¡¯s enough to dislodge his grip on Devlin¡¯s arms, freeing the scarred man to wrap his arms around Mars¡¯ waist, in an attempt to lift him up and flip him over Devlin¡¯s head. An audacious, showy move- but unlike in scripted ¡®sports entertainment,¡¯ Mars isn¡¯t just going to sit there and let it happen. He hooks a leg behind Devlin¡¯s knee, and uses it to break the man¡¯s stance, causing him to drop to the ground, arms still wrapped firmly around Mars.


    Now on one knee, Mannix strains against Mars, trying to push him to the ground, while Mars slams his two fists down on Devlin¡¯s back over and over, like he¡¯s trying to shatter his opponent¡¯s spine. With each successive blow, the crowd¡¯s cheers seem to get louder and louder, my own voice among them. A quick glance to my left, however, shows that Amalia doesn¡¯t seem to be quite as enthused by the wanton violence as the rest of us. If there had been a better venue for us to convene at, I¡¯d have chosen it, but this happened to be the event happening tonight.


    You know, I whisper to her over the brainband, if you¡¯re not enjoying this, you can go- Mars won¡¯t hold it against you or anything.


    No, I- I¡¯ll stay, she replies. I just wasn¡¯t expecting this to be so¡­


    At a loss for words, she falls silent, watching while Mannix throws himself to the side, dropping both of them to the ground, where he immediately attempts to pin Mars.


    Extreme? I offer, unable to keep a faint note of amusement out of my voice.


    Yes. The way the Dean spoke during the opening ceremony, I thought the Championship would be more reserved than the War Games.


    The other events tend to be, for the most part. Pankration is kind of a special case.


    Even though Mannix has a knee on his chest and an arm pressing against his throat, trying to force a submission, Mars continues to strike him, alternating body blows from the right and left side. Each hit has a visible effect on Devlin, but it doesn¡¯t seem to be enough to dislodge im, and I worry for a moment that Mars isn¡¯t even going to make it to the final round. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Seeming to realize that very possibility, Mars switches tactics, stead reaching up to wrap a hand around Devlin¡¯s own throat. If this was a real fight, without any rules whatsoever, he¡¯d probably be trying to gouge the other man¡¯s eyes out instead- but even though pankration is markedly bloodier than any other Championship event, it¡¯s still not quite that bloody.


    It seems unlikely that Mars will be able to choke Devlin out first, since the other man has a he¡¯d start on him, but he realizes that, too. Instead of trying in vain, he uses that grip on Devlin¡¯s throat, along with a hand pushing against his chest, to lift Devlin up into the air- raising the knee off his own chest in the process -then flip the man over his own head and dump him unceremoniously to the ground. It¡¯s an incredible feat of strength, one that the crowd rewards with a triumphant roar.


    Rising unsteadily to his feet, Mars gulps down air greedily, but that maneuver has only earned him a moment¡¯s respite. Mannix is already back on his feet, and moving to grab Mars from behind this time. Without so much as glancing over his shoulder, Mars drives an elbow backwards into Devlin¡¯s stomach, which must already be badly bruised from the beating it¡¯s taken, driving the wind out of the Oxen¡¯s lungs.


    Before modern resurrection technology, this sport was done with blows to the head prohibited, for fear of causing permanent damage. That¡¯s not much of a concern nowadays- which is why the only reaction from the crowd when Mars wheels around and delivers a right hook straight to Devlin¡¯s jaw is a cheer.


    Swiftly kneeling down, Mars raises up one of his opponent¡¯s legs and locks it in place, attempting to pin him and prevent him from getting back up. When Devlin stirs and begins to struggle, Mars simply starts to bend the joint of his knee backwards, inching towards the point where the bone will snap.


    With furious, futile force, Mannix struggles, swiping at Mars from his position on the ground- but the Gazelle warrior has wisely chosen a position just out of his opponent¡¯s reach. Devlin attempts to sit upright, but with his leg held in place, he can¡¯t even manage that much- and eventually, have twisting in pain as his leg comes ever-closer to breaking, he slams a fist against the ground, signaling his submission.


    One final cheer goes up from the crowd, so loud I can¡¯t even hear my own voice amongst the multitude. Mars releases his grip, and Devlin¡¯s leg falls flat, limp as the rest of his battered body. My champion isn¡¯t in much better shape, though, despite attempting to project strength as he stands and raises his fists to the air.


    A quick glance to the other side of the arena tells me what I already knew- Casales won his match much faster, and with significantly less fanfare. The main difference is that Chen Lu isn¡¯t going to be walking away from this match at all- he¡¯s being carted away in a stretcher, not unlike how I was just yesterday.


    There¡¯s no chance Hector had to win the fight like that- he chose o, no I can guess why. A protracted fight, where you force your opponent to submit, means a higher chance of you being injured. If you break the enemy with as much efficiency as possible, you¡¯ll walk away relatively unharmed. Which gives him an even greater advantage over Mars going into the next round.


    ¡°Your first-round victors!¡± the announcer proclaims, close-ups of both Mars and Hector appearing on the holo-screens over the stadium. ¡°The next round will commence in just fifteen minutes!¡±


    A round of applause for both winners goes ¡®round the arena. Hector doesn¡¯t react beyond a smile, while Mars pounds his chest twice, then raises a fist to the air once more, before finding a nearby bench and taking a seat, chugging down nearly the entire bottle of water once it¡¯s in his hand. Sweat has drenched his scalp, along with no small amount of blood from when Mannix headbutted him.


    ¡°Well,¡± I remark to Amalia. ¡°That was a hell of a thing. I¡¯m gonna go get something from the concession stand- want me to bring you anything back?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ wouldn¡¯t mind a lemonade,¡± she says slowly, looking concerned for Mars as he tosses one empty bottle to the side and grabs another, pouring half down his throat and the rest right over his head.


    ¡°You got it.¡±


    One advantage of the Championship mostly being attended via hologram is that the lines for food and drinks are significantly shorter than they would be at any other stadium of this size. Only a handful of people are in line before me when I get there, most of whom are wearing Citadel staff uniforms.


    It¡¯s a mere minute or two after I¡¯ve gotten in line that I hear behind me the sound of someone clearing their throat. Turning around, I find myself face to face with a woman who looks to be the same age as one of my younger mothers, wearing a shawl made from hexagonally segmented glass. A single glance is all it takes for me to tell she¡¯s a Noble.


    ¡°Izanami, yes?¡± she asks, looking quite pleased to have run into me.


    ¡°The one and only,¡± I shoot back, flicking my tail from side to side to punctuate my point.


    ¡°Chantal Bellerose,¡± she says, extending her hand to me.


    ¡°A pleasure.¡± Wincing slightly, I reach out with my injured arm to shake. Bellerose seems to realize her error a moment later, when she sees a hint of the bandages around my shoulder beneath my sleeve, and keeps the handshake short.


    ¡°I¡¯ll admit, I was hoping to run into you.¡±


    ¡°That so?¡±


    She smirks, like I just asked a ridiculous question.


    ¡°Of course. The girl they brought the Gazelle Unit out of retirement for? I doubt there¡¯s a single Noble out there who isn¡¯t at least a little bit curious about you.¡±


    That notion is enough to bring a smile to my face, despite the faint twinge of pain in my shoulder. While Chantal¡¯s name is still fresh in my mind, I blink twice to run a quick brainband search on her, curious as to what her position in the Imperial bureaucracy is. She didn¡¯t introduce herself with her Noble line, which usually gives you a decent idea of who you¡¯re talking to, so I¡¯m forced to make do with what information is publicly available.


    ¡°Yeah? Seeing me constantly fuck up and get shot or stabbed isn¡¯t making people write me off?¡±


    While the words were supposed to be ironic, they end up sounding more bitter than I intended. Probably unavoidable, but Bellerose just laughs.


    ¡°Some have, no doubt, but those are the sort who have forgotten that they, too, suffered growing pains at your age.¡±


    The results of my search arrive, flooding my mind with new information as though I¡¯d always known it. Her Founder was called the Vizier Resplendent, an advisor of high status in the Imperial Court. That explains her presence here as well as anything- she must live on Prime, which is practically right next door in cosmological terms.


    ¡°Have you drawn your own conclusions yet?¡± I query, raising my eyebrow.


    Once again, she laughs, producing a melodic sound that reminds me in no small way of Sofie.


    ¡°Your potential speaks for itself, but beyond that, I am reserving judgment. Now- turn around. You are next in line.¡±


    When I blink twice this time, it¡¯s simply as a gesture of surprise, until I put together that she wasn¡¯t delivering some ominous invocation, but merely letting me know that we¡¯ve moved forward in the actual line we¡¯re both standing in.


    After ordering- a lemonade for Amalia, and a hard seltzer for myself, mango-flavored -I wait by the concession stand for Chantal to finish her own order, so I can speak with her. In the back of my head, I know the clock is counting down until the final match begins, but something about this woman intrigues me. Plus, it couldn¡¯t possibly hurt to have a friend in the Imperial Court.


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome to join me in our reserved seats,¡± I offer, falling into step with her smoothly. ¡°They give us the best views.¡±


    ¡°Indeed they do,¡± she says, offering a subtle reminder that she herself was once a student here. ¡°I would accept, but I am here with my children, and I don¡¯t think they would take kindly to being abandoned.¡±


    Right- of course. People her age have families and children. No time to hang around with a bunch of baby Nobles. I try to keep my cheeks from flushing with embarrassment.


    ¡°My sympathies,¡± I reply, attempting humor. ¡°I do have a quick question for you, if you don¡¯t mind terribly.¡±


    Bellerose bows her head gracefully.


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°By any chance, do you have some familiarity with the Queen? She¡¯s supposed to be visiting here soon, and one of my officers seems dead-set on finding a way to impress her, but we don¡¯t have a clue how to actually... do that.¡±


    For once, Chantal doesn¡¯t seem amused by my words, but rather intrigued.


    ¡°We are by no means close, but I have had encounters with her in the past. If advice is what you seek, I would suggest that you aim to entertain, rather than impress. She is not the sort to see equals- the best you can hope for, especially at your age, is to be a worthwhile diversion. And what she finds most diverting... is to see someone utterly humiliated.¡±


    With a respectful nod, Bellerose turns and heads back to her seat, her glass shawl tinkling softly in the evening breeze, leaving me to consider her words. Surely she¡¯s not suggesting we debase ourselves before the Queen- no, I would imagine she means that we need to find a foe and crush them, in full view of the Great Game¡¯s deadliest player. Not to make her fear or respect us, but simply because she would find it entertaining. Something tells me Sofie won¡¯t be particularly satisfied with that, but I¡¯m inclined to believe someone like Chantal when she says it¡¯s the best we can hope for.


    Amalia doesn¡¯t ask what took me so long when I get back to our spot in the stands, just accepts the can of lemonade with a quiet word of thanks. Several more of my Gazelles are in attendance this evening, but they¡¯re sitting at the far end of our seating area, having received word from Sofie that Amalia and I weren¡¯t to be disturbed tonight. That order was mostly given when I thought the two of us might end up arguing, but I can¡¯t say I mind having the personal space.


    Down in the arena, Mars and Hector are preparing to square off. The latter is as unflappable as ever, while the former- despite having recovered somewhat -still seems visibly more exhausted. If I was a bookie, I¡¯d have ten to one odds of him winning this. Of course, I¡¯m not a bookie, and I stand to make more money off of Mars winning this, than gambling on him losing. Which is why it¡¯s not going to be a fair fight.


    ¡°And now,¡± thunders the voice of the announcer, ¡°the final round. Fighting for the gold, Hector Casales of the Komodo Unit, and Mars of the Gazelles!¡±


    Both men step into the ring, accompanied by fanfare from the crowd. A forced smile is affixed to Amalia¡¯s face as she applauds politely.


    ¡°May the best man win! Begin!¡±


    Without so much as a second¡¯s pause, Casales moves, displaying an impressive speed despite his hulking frame. He let me have the first hit when we fought, but that was far from a serious fight.


    Moving with all the inexorable force of a hovertrain, Hector throws a punch too powerful to be described by a word so small as ¡®jab.¡¯ Mars isn¡¯t quick enough to raise his arms and block in time, and staggers back when struck. Though he has the presence of mind to attempt a grapple, Casales denies the maneuver effortlessly, breaking Mars¡¯ grip without breaking a sweat.


    Grimacing, Mars takes another step back. It¡¯s not a move that inspires much confidence- even those who¡¯ve been cheering for him enthusiastically up until now can only muster some vaguely encouraging noises. They all imagine that they know how this is going to end.


    Cracking his neck to the left, then the right, Mars gestures for Hector, who¡¯s been standing motionless some distance away, to come at him. Obligingly, the hulking, bearded man approaches, taking three slow steps before suddenly exploding into action. He was offering Mars a chance to tap out without being seriously hurt- and Mars refused. Now it¡¯s on.


    But as Hector approaches again, something unexpected happens. Unexpected for everyone else, at least. He stumbles. It¡¯s not the sort of thing that¡¯s supposed to happen in a fight like this. Too small, too mundane, for a battle between two Nobles. But it¡¯s the kind of thing that happens to everybody at one time or another- nothing to raise an eyebrow at. Which is why nobody will suspect that it was more than just an ordinary slip-up. That is, unless they happened to run a test on Hector¡¯s blood- in which case they¡¯d discover traces of a custom-made toxin designed to induce minor muscle spasms when exposed to a certain pheromone trigger. A pheromone that Mars is currently dripping with, having doused himself with it when he poured a water bottle all over himself between matches.


    The pheromone is odorless, of course- much as the toxin was completely tasteless when Valent slipped it into a meal Casales ate three days ago. It¡¯s lain dormant since then, waiting to be activated at this very moment. Now, it¡¯s created an opening, and Mars is going to exploit that opening to the fullest extent possible.


    Darting in, Mars delivers a series of punishing body blows, trying to repay the damage he¡¯s already taken fivefold. He manages to get four hits in before Casales recovers, and seizes his shoulders, forcing him into a mutual grapple.


    This state of affairs lasts only a few moments, before another spasm runs through Hector¡¯s body, weakening his grip for a crucial moment. Mars doesn¡¯t go for the headbutt, though- I already warned him about Hector¡¯s reinforced bones. Instead, he takes the opportunity to toss Hector over his shoulder, slamming the bigger man onto the ground with a resounding noise.


    Dense artificial bones are a boon in melee combat, but they also have certain flaws- like making you heavier. Which means that when someone tosses you around, you feel the impacts worse than someone with a fragile, ordinary skeleton would.


    Bones aren¡¯t the only thing I prepped Mars about, either. The most important piece of information I provided is that Hector isn¡¯t going to give up. Even knowing he¡¯s at a disadvantage- and he has to know by now what we¡¯ve done -he won¡¯t submit so long as he can still stand. Which means Mars is going to have to break him.


    Easier said than done, especially since one of the benefits of those reinforced bones is how hard they are to break. Our little trick hasn¡¯t completely swung the fight in Mars¡¯ favor, it¡¯s just evened the scales a bit. Whether or not he actually wins will still come down to skill, ingenuity, and luck.


    Without wasting time, Mars bends down and presses a knee against Hector¡¯s back, then loops two arms beneath the other man¡¯s. It takes the crowd a moment to realize what he¡¯s about to attempt, then a series of shocked murmurs go around the arena. Some people are still cheering- but those are the people who just want to see bloodshed. They couldn¡¯t care less who wins, so long as somebody gets hurt.


    Pulling Hector¡¯s front half up with his arms, while holding the back half down, Mars is attempting to break his spine. Success would mean crippling his opponent¡¯s body, and winning the fight- but it doesn¡¯t look like Casales is going to make it easy. Though his face is twisting in pain, he still struggles to escape the position Mars has put him in, and thanks to his reinforced skeletal structure, actually accomplishing his backbreaking goal is clearly going to take Mars a while.


    This goes on for more than a minute, Hector¡¯s back arching up centimeter by centimeter as he fights back every step of the way. For a moment, it looks as though he may be about to break free, before another spasm hits, and his back bends another half-inch as he lets out a roar of fury. More than the pain, it must be the humiliation that¡¯s getting to him- there¡¯s a wild look in his eyes, something I¡¯ve never seen so much as a hint of before.


    Mars has put him in a position of near-total helplessness, neither his legs nor arms in any position to strike at his opponent. Flailing around would be both futile effort, and further humiliation. Instead, he bows his head, seemingly accepting defeat- then thrusts upward, towards Mars.


    The sound of his spine breaking is audible even up in the stands, thanks to the Exalt Arena¡¯s noise amplification. But in the same moment, the back of Hector¡¯s head connects with Mars¡¯ nose, already weak from having been struck in the same spot by Mannix in the previous match. Shock and pain make Mars reflexively release his grp on Casales, allowing him to roll himself out from underneath his opponent.


    Despite clearly no longer being able to move his legs, Hector is stoic- either because he literally can¡¯t feel the pain, or because he¡¯s so furious that he¡¯s managed to suppress it completely. Either way, he isn¡¯t about to give up. Despite everything, I¡¯m impressed. He allowed Mars to break his back as a tactical move, just to get one more hit in. And now, having created an opening, he¡¯s ready to exploit it, even without the use of his legs.


    Lifting himself up with one arm, Casales grabs the back of Mars¡¯ head, and slams it into the ground, producing a spray of blood. Then, with his opponent now prone, he drags himself closer, using the weight of his now half-limp body to keep Mars pinned while he repeats the move twice more.


    The spasms hit again, and I see Hector¡¯s legs twitch involuntarily- but he doesn¡¯t even register the motion. There really isn¡¯t any other word for what he¡¯s doing except incredible. Amalia¡¯s jaw is practically hanging open in awe.


    After the third slam, Mars stops moving- whether he¡¯s unconscious or dead isn¡¯t entirely clear, but Hector doesn¡¯t pause to check. Instead, he raises an elbow and brings it down on Mars¡¯ back, clearly targeting his spine. He starts from the neck, but moves on from there, producing break after break with far greater ease, given that he¡¯s applying greater force to weaker material. In the span of just a few seconds, he¡¯s hit Mars in at least half a dozen spots, each time producing the same stomach-turning sound.


    A few people were still cheering after the third hit, but by the last one, the arena is utterly silent. Even the people here just for the bloodshed have found themselves unable to muster any enthusiasm for this display.


    Finally, the announcer speaks, his typically thundering voice now unsteady.


    ¡°Victory... goes to the Komodo Unit.¡±


    Two separate teams of paramedics are already rushing towards the ring, stretchers at the ready. If Mars is even alive, he¡¯ll be in no shape to speak with me anytime soon. Trying to keep my expression neutral, I put a hand on Amalia¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get out of here. We¡¯ve got a lot of work to do if we¡¯re gonna pay them back for this.¡±

 Chapter Thirty-Six

    I don¡¯t attend another Citadel Championship event for the rest of the week, even those in which my people are competing. It¡¯s a breach of etiquette, and much is made of it in the gossip feeds, but the reason is simple. I¡¯m training.


    Not for myself, besides some basic maintenance exercises that don¡¯t aggravate my injured soldier. This time, I¡¯m acting as the trainer- trying to compress everything I know about sharpshooting into a compact package for Amalia before the time comes for her to compete in the event that gave me the injury in the first place.


    Teaching proves more difficult than anticipated. Amalia is a model student, of course- the fault lies with me. My facility with sharpshooting is what one might call an ¡®unnatural talent.¡¯ Though my skills are my own, the talent that allowed me to pick them up so quickly came from my Founder. In a certain sense, I didn¡¯t even learn to shoot- I just remembered. And that doesn¡¯t make a great basis for instruction.


    Amalia¡¯s own talent is nothing to sneeze at. She¡¯s already quite talented... but her Founder was a scout, not a sniper. And there¡¯s a world of difference between ¡®good¡¯ and ¡®great.¡¯


    Part of me is still pretty convinced that you can¡¯t teach greatness. For that, we have a backup plan. The bodyjack. It¡¯ll let me take control of her body as though it were my own. But that¡¯s not the sort of thing I¡¯m willing to order her to let me do, and I still haven¡¯t asked if she¡¯d allow it of her own volition. So, for now, we train.


    Though I don¡¯t attend any further Championship events, I do keep an eye on their outcomes while we¡¯re training. Thankfully, we¡¯re able to rack up a couple wins- Colleen walks away with a gold in fencing, to nobody¡¯s surprise, although Tellis gives her a decent fight, and Sofie puts on an impressive performance in the gymnastics event. Our attempt to cheat at the speed-skating event doesn¡¯t work quite as well as I¡¯d hoped it would, but a second place finish doesn¡¯t bother me much. On the other hand, Tai seems quite frustrated to have lost the sprint to Heinonen, who showed up at the event outside of her armored exo-dermis for the first time, and blew the other three out of the water.


    By the final day of the Championship, Hark¡¯s Komodos and my Gazelles are neck and neck, with three victories each. The Oxen have a mere two, while the Peregrines have none at all. Admittedly, they didn¡¯t put forth many competitors to begin with, but it¡¯s still a historically weak showing.


    It feels appropriate that the entire Championship should come down to the sharpshooting event. Not quite as appropriate as if Hark and I were actually facing off head to head, but it¡¯s close enough. It¡¯s generated some significant chatter on the gossip feeds, too- or so Sofie tells me, at least. News that I won¡¯t be participating because of my shoulder dampened enthusiasm somewhat, but the fact that I¡¯ve been personally training Amalia managed to leak- not shocking, since we¡¯ve been spending hours at the range each day -and that¡¯s reignited discussion and speculation about who¡¯s going to win.


    ¡°Are we sure cheating is off the table?¡± Niko asks me, the night before the final event. In the other room, behind a sound-dampening wall, Amalia is still practicing, and in the back of my mind, I¡¯m keeping track of the time between each shot, making a note of each time she hesitates before firing.


    ¡°¡®Fraid so. What happened last time was an embarrassment, they¡¯ll be on high alert to make sure it doesn¡¯t happen again.¡±


    My Combat Officer sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. This whole situation is enough to make anyone miss the simplicity of warfare, where accuracy only matters as far as putting as many bullets in your target as possible.


    ¡°You¡¯re gonna have to use the bodyjack, then. No way around it. You tried your best, but she¡¯s just not ready for the big leagues.¡±


    As he speaks, I mark another pause, and wince internally. He might be right, but I¡¯m not quite ready to admit failure yet.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t giving her enough credit. She¡¯s come a long way in a short time.¡±


    ¡°Sure. She was in the ninetieth percentile before this, now she¡¯s maybe in the ninety-fifth. But you and I both know that¡¯s not gonna be good enough.¡±


    ¡°Now you¡¯re giving Sc¨¢thach too much credit. She¡¯s good, sure, but rifles aren¡¯t her specialty. Amalia¡¯s on her level, or at least close- she just needs to get past whatever¡¯s holding her back.¡±


    Niko shoots me a skeptical look. It¡¯s not judgmental, per se, but I do get the sense that he¡¯s wondering if I might have another reason for not wanting to go with the bodyjack plan.


    ¡°I don¡¯t recall if we ever conclusively established that this is a psychological problem, rather than one of skill,¡± he points out, not unfairly. Of course, he¡¯s also polite enough not to reference the third option, which is that I¡¯m just not a very good teacher.


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s the only angle we haven¡¯t approached this problem from yet,¡± I reply, trying not to sound too helpless. This whole situation has me feeling doubly useless, not only because I can¡¯t even shoot with my injured arm, but because I can¡¯t seem to teach properly either.


    My breathing techniques and some adjustments to her form, along with a lot of intensive practice, has been enough to get Amalia to her current level, but nothing I do seems to be enough to push her the last little bit over.


    ¡°Mm. So, what do you think the problem is? Can¡¯t be empathy- she didn¡¯t have any trouble shooting people during the War Games, and these targets don¡¯t even have faces.¡±


    Rather than responding immediately, I fall silent, and try to form as complete a picture of Amalia¡¯s psyche as I can. Naturally, I¡¯m not just working off of guesswork and surface-level impressions, here. I¡¯ve got psychological profiles on every member of my unit, compiled by Sofie and Grant, to draw from as well.


    The main trait I keep coming back to is that she¡¯s a team player. At every opportunity, she¡¯s the first to volunteer, to make herself useful, to reach out and help someone who¡¯s struggling. It¡¯s an admirable quality, but the more I think about it, the more I start to wonder if that¡¯s what¡¯s holding her back here. What¡¯s a team player to do without a team to support? Sure, she¡¯s representing the Gazelles in the abstract, but in practical terms, she¡¯s going to be on her own out there. Winning or losing on her own merits, not through helping others and being helped in turn.


    The Imperium places a strong emphasis in working as part of a collective in its basic education program. Operating as an individual is counterproductive to society. Amalia has clearly taken that idea to heart- and now here we are, asking her to do exactly that.


    Rather than try to explain my thesis to Niko in words, I simply transmit the idea to him over the brainband, the simple logic of it clicking into place for him just as it did for me. When it¡¯s finished, he scratches his chin for a moment, thoughtful, perhaps trying to find a flaw in my reasoning. I won¡¯t pretend it¡¯s bulletproof- trying to guess what the inside of someone else¡¯s head is like is an imprecise science -but it¡¯s the best guess I¡¯ve got, and one the psycho profile would seem to support.


    ¡°Yeah, I could see it,¡± he admits eventually. ¡°But how are you gonna get around it? This isn¡¯t the kind of problem you can fix with an inspiring speech.¡±


    ¡°Those aren¡¯t my strong suit anyway,¡± I laugh. ¡°Nah, I was thinking we¡¯d just use drugs.¡±


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    An hour later, with the sun now fully past the horizon, Niko and I watch Amalia prepare to begin another practice routine at the range. It¡¯s set to the highest difficulty, the same one she¡¯s been suing to train for the past several days, consistently failing to match my score. But there¡¯s a crucial difference, this time.


    Just because I don¡¯t adhere to Hark¡¯s strict, rigid tactical style, doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m not a pragmatist. Psychological problems are too thorny and complex to unravel on such short notice, but they can be suppressed through the judicious use of combat drugs- the very same kind that keep Myrmidons from hesitating when gunning down their foes.


    We haven¡¯t put Amalia on anything serious- just a dose of Midnight, the same combat drug I use when I¡¯m fighting seriously. To my surprise, she expressed no reservations before taking the pill, just tossed it back and picked her rifle back up.


    ¡°Start.¡±


    Without so much as a glance back at the two of us, Amalia shifts her rifle into position, her movements mechanically precise. As soon as the first target blinks to life, she takes aim and fires, not a moment¡¯s hesitation between the actions.


    Silent, Niko and I watch as the program progresses, each target shifting position, each time slightly smaller than the last. Counting out the seconds between each shot in my head, I¡¯m pleased to find that the irregular gaps, sometimes too long, sometimes too short, have evened out into a steady rhythm.


    When I¡¯ve watched her before, Amalia has taken pains to mimic the breathing techniques and positioning tricks I¡¯ve shown her, but in a way that almost seems unnatural, like she¡¯s putting on a performance for me. Now, she does it without thinking, inhaling and exhaling at precisely the right moments to keep the rifle from swaying in her grip. Every time I see the butt of the rifle kick against her shoulder, positioned precisely to dampen the recoil, I feel a sympathetic twinge of pain in my own shoulder, and for a moment I almost feel envious of her.


    Isn¡¯t this basically still cheating? Niko asks me over the brainband, presumably to avoid breaking Amalia¡¯s concentration by speaking aloud. It¡¯s not really necessary- while the Midnight is in effect, she wouldn¡¯t register it as more than a vague background hum.


    Only inasmuch as having reinforced bones is cheating in the pankration, and they still let Casales participate. Besides, they wouldn¡¯t bother with blood tests even if this was strictly against regulations. Anyone with an artificial organ that secretes the stuff- like me! -could bypass one easily.


    Niko shrugs, not seeming to buy that completely. This is a performance-enhancing substance of a certain kind, but it¡¯s not like taking Midnight alone would make you better at shooting. All it does is make it easier for Amalia to concentrate- in essence, it temporarily helps her operate closer to peak capacity. That¡¯s a far cry from using a targeting implant to see your bullets¡¯ flight paths before you fire.


    Besides- the good people of the Imperium will be tuning in tomorrow to see a competition, and this climactic final match wouldn¡¯t be half as entertaining if one team walked away with an easy victory. Even if they did notice the Midnight in Amalia¡¯s system, I suspect they¡¯d willfully ignore it, knowing it would make for better viewing if they let her compete with the advantage it provides.


    ¡°Done,¡± Amalia says a few moments later, without a hint of pride or satisfaction in her voice. Her words are so often inflected with emotion, it¡¯s disconcerting to hear her speak under the influence of the combat drug, which offers clarity and focus at the expense of passion.


    Behind her, the target display has gone down, replaced with a score sheet that reads 97.5% in large font. Several points higher than her previous average- though just a few shy of my own. Niko glances at me, eyebrow raised, as if asking ¡®you think that¡¯s good enough?¡¯


    ¡°And how are you feeling?¡± I ask neutrally, trying not to indicate pleasure or displeasure at her score.


    After considering the question for a few moments, Amalia cocks her head to the side and answers.


    ¡°I can¡¯t say that I care for the sensation, but the benefits are undeniable. We¡¯re the results to your satisfaction?¡±


    ¡°¡­yeah, I think so.¡±


    As the words are leaving my mouth, a terrible thought occurs to me. Right now, before the effects of the drug wear off, she¡¯s in a state of near-perfect rationality. No emotion or sentiment to get in the way of things. If I ask her now, there¡¯s no way she¡¯ll say no¡­This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    ¡°But just in case, there¡¯s one more thing I want to ask of you.¡±


    <hr style="font-weight: 400">


    The bodyjack trigger weighs heavily in my hand as I take my seat in the stands for the final event of this year¡¯s Citadel Championship. On the back of Amalia¡¯s neck, hidden by her locks of curly brown hair, is a small spinal implant that, when I trigger it, will give me complete control of her body.


    Walking alongside her to the Exalt Arena this morning, I could tell she was uncomfortable with its presence. Anyone would be- having your very autonomy in the hands of another, able to be snatched away at a moment¡¯s notice, is a terrifying thought. Only someone unbound by the shackles of emotion would ever agree to having such a device installed. Someone on a drug like, say, Midnight.


    Obviously, I¡¯d be worried that her discomfort would distract her, hurt her chances of winning in the competition, except that she''ll be on Midnight during that part too. She can¡¯t be seen popping a pill on the field, and its effects don¡¯t last very long, so instead, there¡¯s a tiny capsule on the roof of her mouth, ready to be opened with a flick of her tongue.


    If all goes according to plan,I won¡¯t need to use the bodyjack. Thanks to the drug, and my training, Amalia will be able to do this all on her own. But if something happens-if she falters -I can take control.


    Naturally, I feel sick to my stomach. I could only manage to ask her to install the bodyjack when she was under the influence of a drug that made her only capable of seeing the simple, rational reasons why it would be a good idea, and not the base, emotional reasons that it was repulsive to even think of. But I¡¯m also glad, because knowing that it¡¯s there, having the trigger in my hand, lets me feel like I¡¯m in control.


    I¡¯m lucky to have met people like Sofie and Niko, who aren¡¯t disgusted by me for doing something like this. But then again, we¡¯re all Nobles- doing terrible things in the name of victory is practically written into our personality matrices. Amalia is the outlier, here. Really, she¡¯s far too nice to be one of us. I know, because if I was in her position, and someone had manipulated me into installing a bodyjack for them, I¡¯d already be scheming up ways to kill them permanently. But her? I think she¡¯s already forgiven me.


    Strange to think that she held a grudge longer for me being rude to her the other day than she will for this. But then again, there was really no good reason for me to be acting like that, while this, despite being a violation, was a perfectly rational move. Maybe Amalia is more like the rest of us than I thought, if she can respect that.


    Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Niko wraps an arm around my shoulders, inviting me to relax. His presence scratches some primal itch in my brain, makes it easier to forget my worries. That¡¯s a dangerous power for someone to have over me. Good thing it¡¯s in the hands of someone I can trust.


    ¡°Citizens of the Imperium!¡±


    When the Championship announcer¡¯s voice booms out over the public address system, the din of the crowd quiets slightly. I¡¯m still curious as to exactly who the guy is, but solving that mystery is pretty low on my list of priorities at the moment.


    ¡°We have reached the final day of this year¡¯s Citadel Championship. But before tonight¡¯s closing ceremony, we have one more thrilling event for you. Rescheduled after a technical mishap, we are proud to present to you, the junior division sharpshooting competition.¡±


    That¡¯s the official story, though I could probably count on one hand the number of people who actually buy it. Somehow that¡¯s supposed to be less of an embarrassment than just admitting that everybody is cheating in these events all the time.


    ¡°With that out of the way, please welcome our three contestants!¡±


    A round of applause accompanies Sc¨¢thach, Stojanov, and Amalia as they walk out from each of their respective locker rooms and onto the field. I can barely bring myself to join the chorus, watching as Amalia stiffly strides towards the shooting range set up in the middle of the arena, trying not to betray any of the discomfort she clearly feels.


    ¡°Contestants, take your positions,¡± the announcer instructs imperiously. All three of them comply- Sc¨¢thach with her usual swagger, Amalia keeping her head high and her shoulders locked in position, Stojanov looking like he¡¯d rather be anywhere else in the world.


    ¡°Draw arms.¡±


    Each of them picks up the rifle waiting in their lane. I see Amalia shiver, and know immediately that she¡¯s popped the Midnight capsule. A little early, but it¡¯s a potent enough dose to last her through the entire event.


    ¡°Begin!¡±


    Two sharp cracks ring out immediately, followed by a belated third from Stojanov. Perhaps surprised by the fact that Amalia reacted just as quickly as her, Sc¨¢thach glances to the side, as though to verify that the woman she¡¯s facing off against is the same one who was barely an afterthought during the first round of this event.


    In that moment, however, Amalia has already taken aim and fired again, putting a hole straight through the second holographic target, and taking the lead. Realizing her error, Sc¨¢thach snaps back to her lane and does the same. It¡¯s starting to look like I might not actually have to use the bodyjack. Sc¨¢thach is good, but she¡¯s also overconfident- a flaw I understand all too well. Having raw talent is ultimately worthless, if you¡¯re up against someone who¡¯s willing to work harder than you.


    Almost unconsciously, I begin to tap my fingers to the rhythm of Amalia¡¯s shots, the steady beat not deviating once from her firing pattern. To my right, I see Niko nodding in approval.


    Above the stands, both on our side and elsewhere, I see Gazelle emblems rising to match the Komodos. A few small Oxen, about as unenthusiastic as that unit¡¯s own representative, and no Peregrines at all, likely both because they¡¯re not participating here, and because their performance throughout the entire Championship has been unimpressive, to say the least.


    Watching Sc¨¢thach shoot, I find- unsurprisingly -that the way she handles her rifle seems less confident or practiced than the way Amalia does. She¡¯s still a damn good shot, but it¡¯s not as at home in her hands than a revolver or a sword would be. And that slight edge might just turn out to be what Amalia needs to win this.


    ¡°Color me surprised,¡± Sofie drawls, echoing my thoughts with an ironic tint. ¡°She might actually pull this off.¡±


    The two of us haven¡¯t spoken much over the past couple of days- training with Amalia has eaten up most of my time, and my free hours have largely been dominated by Sander¡¯s unforgiving workout regimen, and surgeries for my injured shoulder. Fragments of bone and lead had to be extracted before the joint could begin regrowth- but now that it has, I¡¯m properly on the road to recovery. With any luck, I should be back in peak condition by the midterms.


    ¡°Told you so,¡± I start to gloat, fully prepared to pretend that I never had any doubt in my mind at all. But before I can even finish the thought, I notice something down in the arena.


    Since the shooting started, there¡¯s been a fairly consistent pattern- two shots, Sc¨¢thach and Amalia, followed by a third just a moment later. But just now, that pattern broke. Two shots, and then nothing. Stojanov has stopped shooting. And he¡¯s not throwing in the towel, either. Instead, he¡¯s taken a step back, out of his lane, and turned his rifle to the left. Pointed straight at Amalia.


    Possibilities flash through my mind. Theories as to who might be behind this. Maybe I wasn¡¯t the only one who thought about using a bodyjack- maybe Hark is borrowing the Ox Unit contestant¡¯s body in a last-ditch attempt to cheat us out of a win. Or maybe this was Tellis¡¯ plan all along. Knowing Stojanov wouldn¡¯t win, he¡¯d instead deny Hark or I our chance at victory. Or it could be something else entirely- but the outcome is the same. He¡¯s going to shoot Amalia, and the Komodos will win by default. Or, at best, the entire Championship will be declared a draw. Neither outcome is one I¡¯m willing to countenance.


    Only one problem- Amalia still hasn¡¯t noticed a thing. The ¡®combat autism¡¯ state induced by Midnight is a form of hyperfocus. Everything around you is tuned out. She¡¯s barely registering the cheers of the crowd, even as they¡¯re turning to gasps of horror and shouts of warning. Chances are, she won¡¯t even register the gunshot until the bullet is halfway through her skull.


    My hand clamps down around the bodyjack trigger, and in a disorienting rush, I¡¯m somewhere else. Someone else. Amalia¡¯s body feels more or less like my own, minus some lingering pain in my shoulder, and plus some weight in the skull area- belatedly, I remember the amber ram¡¯s horns she wears. Mostly hollow, otherwise she¡¯d barely be able to lift her head at all, but still heavy.


    All of that is just a distraction, though. I¡¯m not under the influence of the Midnight in her system- it¡¯s just her nervous system I¡¯m controlling -but I can still ignore extraneous information when necessary.


    Tilting my head- her head -to the side, I hear a gunshot, muffled by the earplug she¡¯s wearing. There¡¯s a blur of motion visible in the corner of my eye, and I hear a sound like a window breaking, which I only realize later is the tip of Amalia¡¯s leftmost horn being shot off.


    Flipping the rifle in my hands round, I spin and slam the butt of it into the side of Stojanov¡¯s head. It all happens in a flash, and I barely even get a glimpse of his face, but judging by the rictus expression he¡¯s wearing, he isn¡¯t in any more control of his actions than Amalia is right now.


    The blow knocks Stojanov to the ground, and he releases his grip on his weapon. For a split second, I consider putting a round in his skull, like he was about to do to mine- or the one I¡¯m borrowing right now, at least. But he¡¯s out cold, and that would be a waste of time. The event isn¡¯t over, and Sc¨¢thach hasn¡¯t stopped shooting.


    In a practiced motion, with help from both my own reflexes and muscle memory I drilled into this body, I turn back and flip the rifle the right way around, before taking aim and putting a hole through the next target. That brief interruption let Sc¨¢thach get a single shot in, erasing the minor advantage her previous lapse in concentration created. Now it all comes down to skill.


    Giving Amalia her body back isn¡¯t an option- the disorientation would slow her down, and we¡¯ve lost enough time already. I¡¯ll have to apologize after- even if I did just save her life. Instead, I summon all my focus, and keep shooting. There¡¯s only about a minute left in the event, and the two of us are neck and neck.


    I expected to feel disoriented, inhabiting someone else¡¯s body, but what¡¯s really disorienting is how at home I feel. A few minor differences aside, Amalia and I are actually quite similar in build, and thanks to our intensive training over the past several days, her body reacts just as I¡¯d expect my own to, in this situation.


    Being in the midst of this, having the rifle in my hands and the ticking clock hanging over my head, somehow feels less stressful than sitting in the stands, waiting to see if I¡¯d have to intervene or not. I ought to thank Hark- if this is her doing -for giving me the excuse to get involved.


    The one thing that does throw me off about being in Amalia¡¯s body is the lack of a tail. It¡¯s not quite like losing a limb, but there¡¯s still a distinct lack. Normally, I¡¯d be flicking it back and forth like a grandfather clock, to help keep time with my shooting, but not having that doesn¡¯t seem to be having much of an impact on my performance.


    Before long, my internal clock alerts me to the fact that the end is fast approaching. Resisting the impulse to glance at Sc¨¢thach and see how she¡¯s doing, I eject another shell casing and take my next shot, exhaling through Amalia¡¯s lungs as my finger squeezes the trigger.


    One, two, three more shots- then we¡¯re done. The final target blinks out and isn¡¯t replaced. Automatically, I ready another round, then stop and lower the rifle, taking a deep breath.


    ¡°The competition is now over,¡± the announcer informs us unhelpful. Glancing over my shoulder, which takes a little more effort thanks to Amalia¡¯s horns, I find that Stojanov has been removed at some point- presumably by Citadel staff who hauled him off while I was focused on my shooting. ¡°The final results are presently being calculated- please have patience as we wait to learn who has triumphed.¡±


    Almost as soon as he¡¯s finished speaking, a chant goes up from the Gazelle section in the stands: ¡°A-ma-li-a! A-ma-li-a!¡± And, belatedly, I remember whose body I¡¯m in. Or, more precisely, who should be inhabiting it.


    Hey, ¡®malia, you there?


    There¡¯s a long stretch of silence inside my head before she responds.


    I¡¯m here, commander.


    She¡¯s quiet, but not cold.


    I¡¯m gonna hand it back off to you. Try not to give anything away, ¡®kay?


    All right.


    Closing Amalia¡¯s eyes, I hit the psychic trigger to disable the bodyjack. A moment later, I¡¯m back in my own, familiar body. Down two horns, up one tail.


    Immediately, I snap my own eyes open and look down at the field. If Amalia¡¯s feeling any disorientation from being back in the driver¡¯s seat, it doesn¡¯t show, though she¡¯s no longer wearing the same smug grin that I was when I left her body.


    It¡¯s strange- I should, by all rights, feel vindicated about the bodyjack thing, since it came in handy, but for some reason that just makes me feel more guilty.


    A results screen is being projected above the field, with the word ¡®CALCULATING¡¯ superimposed over it. As the crowd watches with bated breath, the word slowly fades out, and is replaced with three columns, showing the Komodo, Gazelle, and Ox symbols and a 00% beneath. Under that are rows for the number of hits, misses, and ¡®perfect¡¯ hits.


    Slowly, the percentage symbol beneath each starts to tick up. The Ox Unit¡¯s stops first, at 67%- hard to know if his hit rate would have ended up lower or higher if Stojanov had kept shooting, instead of trying to kill Amalia. The other two just keep going up, well into the nineties, before they start to slow down.


    In the seat beside me, Niko has leaned forward, fingers tented, watching the results slowly finalize as though the harder he stares, the more likely it is that we¡¯ll win.


    Both counters stop at the same time, on the same number- 96.5%. And then, a second later, the third digit in our counter ticks up by one. A win- by the barest possible margin. A percent of a percent.


    Our section of the stands erupts. Not cheers so much as screams, people applauding so hard their hands must be red and raw. It¡¯s not just this event we¡¯ve won, but the entire Championship- and while I¡¯m not deluded enough to think that we¡¯re the underdogs, I do think that there¡¯s a reason so many people were rooting for us, over the Komodos. It¡¯s a triumph of freedom and creativity over strict adherence to rules and procedure. Or, that¡¯s the narrative people have spun for themselves in their heads.


    Down on the field, Amalia seems to be smiling. She deserves to feel pride from this- it¡¯s her win, both in the minds of those watching, and in reality. Even if I¡¯d never taken control, I have full faith we¡¯d still have won. Though, in truth, I feel some pride myself from having been the one to fire the final few shots.


    ¡°Your Citadel Champions,¡± booms the announcer¡­ ¡°the Gazelles!¡±