Resurrection Dawn

by Marc Secchia

  With a roar, Tomaxx’s muscles bunched and gave the shove his all – only, her comparative stick of an arm did not flatten or snap quite as expected. Instead, in the grip of her right hand, the side of the purpose-built arm wrestling table folded upward with a squeal of desperately unhappy plasteel. Her left ended up flat only because the surface twisted so badly. His slam became a torsion force so powerful, her body ripped out of its position between the table legs, causing her to flip over sideways. She ended up sitting on Isska’s lap.

  Blinking. Wow!

  “Alright, Alo?” her opponent asked anxiously.

  “All good.”

  Isska grinned down at her, their canary yellow eyes bright with amusement.

  “Winner’s Tomaxx,” they said. “Unfortunately, no-one bet against Mister Muscles here, so no-one made any actual money. Bit of a shame, really.”

  * * * *

  Dad stared at her, arms folded. “Yane?”

  “Stupid, I know.”

  She wished his expression would not agree with her assessment quite so completely. Yep, he was right. Nope, no need to rub it in; a wordless lecture delivered with extra zing.

  “So, you broke a reinforced plasteel table?”

  “You can check it yourself. The remains, that is.”

  “Story’s getting better and better,” he smiled. Thanks, Dad. Incredibly supportive. “So, about the obstacle –”

  “Dinner first.”

  “Dinner?” he snorted. “Can we at least stick to the salient details?”

  “Exactly what happened today, or not?” she shot back.

  Dymand’s black brows twitched. “Alright. I guess I asked for it. Let’s fill the bottomless pit. Meantime, do tell me more, o daughter dearest.”

  Fighting talk.

  Her heart spun about to murder once more. Alodeé sighed. What the freak’s the matter with me?

  Chapter 3

  Standard 1301.05.02.08 Cal Week 17. Student breakfast.

  BAROON BEEF STEAK WITH a side of foot-long, 2-inch thick spicy capybara sausages, accompanied by fried purple tubers, spring onions and lashings of dressing. Yum! Healthy breakfast? Oh alright, she’d snack on a few token fruit in addition, mostly for the extra fructose.

  Tomaxx elbowed her slyly. “Say, local garbage disposal unit?”

  “Eh?”

  “Another sausage?”

  “Sure. Still got space, I guess,” Alodeé mused, rubbing her hollow stomach. Odd.

  “Torc’s fury, Tomaxx.”

  His tan skin reddened noticeably at the sweet alto greeting. “Ashamixx! Torc’s fury to you. Shove up, Alo.”

  “Or what, you’ll bend another plasteel table over my head this time?” she jested lightly, but shifted on the bench. “Dawn’s fires, Ash.”

  The girl punched her shoulder lightly – for her. Good thing they were not actual rivals. Alodeé thumped up against Erban on her left side as her teeth threatened to rattle around in her head. Her hand shifted …

  “Eh, leave my breakfast alone, you little carnoraptor,” Erban complained jovially.

  She pinched a tuber slice off his plate, shivering slightly. Carnoraptors were not large beasts, but the zoologists agreed that they must be the apex predators of Resurrection Dawn. Nothing and nobody stood in their way. They had a nasty habit of ganging up on their prey and were unfussy about their meat, be it living, dead, or 500 times their size – they’d eat anything, carving off great hunks of flesh with their treble row of razor-sharp fangs. A few colonists had the bite marks or bionic limbs to proclaim an encounter they had survived. Most did not live to tell the tale of an attack.

  Ashamixx was also a platinum blonde, with classic Oraman colouration and features. She wore her long straight hair in two thick braids wrapped atop her head, giving the impression of a turban. Standing 211 cents, she was shorter than average amongst her people, but she probably outweighed Alodeé four times over and had oodles of the standard Oraman belligerence to boot.

  She tapped Tomaxx on the arm. “Twelve?”

  “Fourteen,” he said.

  “What’s that?” Alodeé asked.

  Isska asked, “Did you crack the codebreaking assignment yet, Alo?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “I think I’m close, but the final parameters keep eluding my best algorithms. Ten creds says I – I’m sorry, are you broke?”

  “Yep, as usual.”

  Where did all the creds go in their house, anyways? Dad was paid well enough. Just, they never seemed able to afford anything. Her new combat skin had to be offset against his next month’s salary.

  “Here, you may finish my steak, with commiserations for your forthcoming loss to my undoubted genius.”

  “Mmm, thanks! I’m starving. So, do you think it could be some variant on a Zephoryan Timeless Cipher, perhaps with additional masking or corrupt data inserted to throw us off the scent?” she asked. “I mean, those techniques haven’t been covered in class as yet, but since there’s a bonus element to the grade …”

  Alodeé chomped through another of the fat sausages.

  Isska’s hairless brows twitched in ways a Class 1 could only dream of as their clear grey eyes blinked in ultra-slow motion. “Intriguing idea, Alo. That’s fifteen, Tomaxx. You’ve been doing your homework, you little swot. Shame we aren’t allowed to work on this one together.”

  “Yep, we’d ace it.”

  They chatted amiably through another few intriguing, less esoteric options before she caught Yane’s expression two tables over. He made a rude gesture, a crude reference to their genderless classmate.

  Tasteful. Ignore the rat.

  “Time for classes,” another friend, Asmurti, said. She was a tiny, dark-haired Class 4 who was widely expected to sweep the obstacle trials, along with her two older brothers. Her mannerisms were quick, precise, studied. “Eat up, Alo. You’re the last.”

  “Great. Again?” She cleared her plate, wolfing four sausages in quick succession. “This meat is great, isn’t it? So tasty.”

  I’m a protein monster. Can’t get enough.

  “Don’t overdo it before we run,” Asmurti smiled. “I want the pleasure of beating you at your best.”

  Her extreme quickness was one reason she held every record in the mechanised weaponry tests and she was expected to become a Weapons Systems Specialist in the future. Many of the Class 4 crew became pilots and weapons specialists due to their unparalleled reaction speeds, courtesy of a nervous system remarkably similar to fibreglass. Nerve impulses at light speed? Insane and unfair.

  Tomaxx rumbled, “Nineteen capybara sausages, plus eleven whole steaks and heaps of trimmings. Congratulations, Alo.”

  “Huh?” she said as she and all her friends gathered up their trays.

  “It’s a record.”

  “What is?”

  Her friend said, “Biggest eater in student history.”

  “What?”

  “Though, where it all goes on that pathetic frame, I’ve no idea,” he deadpanned. “Maruski, pay up, you’ve lost your bet. Isska –”

  “Yup I only bet on three weeks’ time. Whatever was I thinking?” Isska dug about in their voluminous pockets for the requisite cred tokens, morphing a couple of extra digits to take care of the job. “Good luck on running the trials today, Alo. A carnoraptor’s fart to one measly cred says you have a sore stomach and throw up this ridiculous breakfast before you reach halfway.”

  Alodeé stared around in bemusement as all her friends started laughing. “What is this? Hold on – you’ve all been betting on me? For how many weeks? Behind my back?”

  “Couple of months. We were running pools and all.” Tomaxx gave that a big, basso belly laugh. “I mean, have you seen yourself eat? Obviously not. You eat more than a whole Oraman family put together. That, my girl, is an achievement of note.”

  My friends. Oh, my delightful friends! Thought I was helping to finish leftovers.

  Her ears burned.

  Asmurti said, “Actuall
y, Tomaxx, I win. My bet was for tomorrow morning. Yours stood at the end of the week. I’ll collect my winnings now and anything else you care to wager on the obstacle results later. I believe Alodeé’s actually managed to overeat this time. Insane metabolism, or what?”

  Overcompetitive there, missy?

  Pretending to glare down at her tiny friend, she said, “Actually, I’m still a bit peckish. Pass me that bag of drubil nuts, would you? Biochemistry’s always better with a snack.”

  * * * *

  Her Dad said, “I have noticed your appetite. Embarrassing confession of the day?”

  She aimed a plasma cannon of an eyebrow in his direction.

  “I thought you might be pregnant.”

  “Dad, honestly?”

  “You … aren’t, I take it?”

  “Dad! Go wash your mouth out with caustic, young man. On that note, where is our cred balance vanishing to, if I may ask? Support of illegitimate children?”

  “Alodeé!” he spluttered, colouring heatedly. Bite this stupid tongue! “Holy Resurrection Dawn – ugh, I guess I deserved that. Also, if I expected you to share in the sacrifice, then I should have at least discussed the matter with you. Bad week?”

  “Bad several years.” Double bite! Just stop it already, Alodeé.

  “Ouch,” he said, but nodded at her apologetic smile. “You know the orphans and fostering programme I set up a few years back?”

  “Oh? Oh, I see.”

  “There kind of hasn’t been a budget to run it from Central for the last two years.” Throwing up his hands, he snapped, “Not a priority. People will just get on with it out of the goodness of their hearts. It doesn’t need to be overseen, helped along, paid for in any way – I mean, where the heck do they think these kids are going to go? Sleep in the Social Hub?”

  With a firm headshake, she said, “You tried?”

  “Yup. Got about as far as trying to eat my own boots. Freaking bunch of holo-sucking, hollow-hearted, spineless bureaucrats! You’d think a Head of Settlement Security would have some sway, right? No, it’s, ‘Dymand, your people pick up the pieces when things go wrong. Do something with them. Go figure it out.’ As if my budget covers the social services side … or the time, or anything! It’s a freaking joke!”

  His expression told her everything she needed to know about the implications. Insinuation – do your job better, Head of Settlement Security and there would be less orphans to worry about, right?

  Nasty.

  “Dad. Dad. Do I understand that you’re paying all this out of your own salary?”

  He nodded miserably. “I’m sorry. Alodeé –”

  “We’ll talk about it. I do love you.” Pointing her bad fingers at him, she said, “Don’t think any general awesomeness is getting you off the hook for one sec. You’re still in deep, deep trouble.”

  “Why do I suddenly feel like the teenager in this relationship?”

  * * * *

  Biochemistry was a 2-hour drudge through some admittedly new discoveries in silicon-based cell biology, the flexible basis of some of the new forms of life colonists had discovered on Resurrection Dawn. After that, those of the class involved in the physical trials trooped down to the old warehouse and storage yard, which had been converted into the ever-changing beast fondly called the obstacle course.

  The students called it ‘the squasher.’

  The Instructor team was led by Master Bold, a Class 2 feline reputed to be crossed with tiger DNA, back in the day before recombinant DNA splicing, dicing and gene infusion became illegal. He was also the martial arts instructor. 230 cents of pure muscle and a famously volatile temper, his motto was, ‘Bruise and break.’ As in, students needed to come out bruised and a bit broken, or proper learning was not taking place.

  Alodeé had been kicked by him a couple of weeks back. Still had a twenty-cent bruise on her hip to remember how he had launched her into the air.

  “Poor form, student!”

  She picked herself up off the ground and limped back.

  “Put some effort in! Next victim!”

  Master Bold also liked to yell, parade-ground style, at his students. He claimed it improved their reactions.

  The course ran over, around and through stacks of empty containers and other useless junk that sprawled over an area 2 kloms square, set off to the side of Central beside the garbage reclamation facility. Everything recyclable ended up on the other side of a 10-met fence. Everything else landed up here, where successive classes of engineering students and instructors indulged their devious masochistic tendencies in designing a course that could properly test the strength and ingenuity of students from the whole range of Classes, apart from water-based Humanoid forms, Class 12.

  Lining up his class, Bold bawled, “Trials today! We’ve set up measures and official recording stations! The course has been extended to the full combat-approved 5 kloms length. In addition, we have a new delight for you over in the corner, called the slingshot. Let me walk you through the highlights. We start with the standard combat crawl and then the minefield steps, followed by agility tests and here, we dive into the familiar alligator swamp. Usual rules apply – if one snaps you up, you’re out, dead – braa haa harr!”

  Dead, no. Broken limb in a fast-moving steel-jawed trap fondly nicknamed ‘the alligator?’ Quite likely.

  Alodeé’s mind catalogued the new layout as he showed them the climbs, jumps, overhead holds and section of swing ropes, a jungle gym a mere 90 mets tall and 240 wide, complete with traps, falls, cages and ‘electrified’ bars, the underwater maze and then a vertical climbing wall ascent and descent, the fearsome roller pit and his new toy, the slingshot. The students paused to ooh and aah in collective admiration.

  Just look at the Class 4 gang, licking their lips!

  One reached the slingshot via a 70-degree slope climb fully 40 mets tall. One required a perilous leap from the top to grab the slingshot machine, a mean-looking beast of four arms. There, one ran along a gear to wind up the arm several times in order to hurl oneself up through the air to the top of the lookout tower, located at the top corner of the course near the grinding, smoking garbage compactor.

  “Designed for some fun!” Master Bold roared. “If you make the 35-met leap to the tower, you take that fast water slide down, avoiding anything trying to knock your block off on the way.”

  Water slide? Wow, that’s a Settlement first.

  Alodeé noticed the safety nets around the tower. More lined the top of the wall. The instructors must expect a few failures and misses here. Medic on standby? Check.

  She raised her hand.

  “Student Alodeé! Shaking in our boots, are we?”

  Impressive as your tower is, not quite.

  “Standard rules, sir?”

  “Good question, student!” Bold thundered, smacking his paws together with glee. “No, you are allowed three retakes on the tower slingshot from the base of the climb, no penalty.” He quelled the murmuring with a roar, “This beauty is my personal design! I hope you enjoy it!”

  Yep. Infirmary’s going to love you, sir.

  Yane asked if the Class 10s could fly up. Zarine and her Eagle Planet cronies flexed their feathery wings happily as the rest all groaned.

  “Of course, we’ve tried to accommodate and smooth the curve against natural advantages,” Master Bold agreed. “You Class 1 kids always ace the sloughing through my alligator pit. However, get enough mud stuck on those wings, my lovely Eagles and you won’t be flying anywhere fast.”

  The whole student body chuckled at the chagrin on those handsome, sculpted Avian faces.

  “The base of the slingshot wall is also the halfway mark, where we take your second time split in case any of you slackers don’t manage to finish my course.”

  He beamed about him. Clearly, nothing would make Master Bold happier.

  “Excellent,” the Master purred. “Let me walk you through the rest of the nastiness we’ve designed for you – coming up, a laser range wh
ere you will be hunted by drones as you touch the required base stations, in the correct order. Points are naturally deducted for every time you get hit as well …”

  Master Bold initiated the holo displays that students could refer to during the obstacle run, if they had opportunity and were still alive by that point. The glowing rectangles hovered in the air a few mets away, showing the running order of students, personal best times and scores and Class best times and scores. A complex system of penalties and bonuses rewarded additional risk in some places or extra speed and demonstrations of agility or penalised misses, falls and stalls. Failure to finish the course still resulted in a score, but not a good one. Interference with other contestants meant disqualification.

  Returning to the starting area, a bare plasteel pad, Bold glared at his 149 eager victims. His gaze appeared to single Alodeé out as she bounced on her toes. He roared, “Combat skins only! Go get changed, stat, those of you who need to. Meet here in three!”

  Three-quarters of the students had worn something over their new combat skins. They peeled away into the locker rooms – old metal containers – labelled for men, women and neutrals.

  Asmurti called, “Going extra streamlined there, Alo? Where you hiding all that steak?”

  “Couldn’t say, really.” She prodded her stomach, then remembered to tie up her long hair. “Seems fine.”

  “Ready to eat my Class 4 dust?”

  “Only because you’ve drawn the starting place before me. Hope you crack that 5-klom record.”

  Exiting the container, they exchanged hand slaps. Her friend said, “You go, girl.”

  Alodeé smiled, “Dawn’s fires speed your feet, Asmurti.”

  Grief. Just keeping up with her will be a trick.

  Predictably, whistles and snickers rose from some of the males as they found out what the girls had been hiding. More than a few comments flew in return as well. The stronger men looked like old-fashioned superheroes, thankfully minus the undies-on-the-outside trick. Tomaxx … oh heavens, he’s beautiful. Alodeé hid behind Ashamixx, which was very easily done. Focus on the course. She had business to do today. No distractions.

  “Oh baby, you’re starfire!” Tomaxx growled, reaching around to slap Ash’s behind, a common greeting between Oraman of either gender. Totally missed.