I shrugged. “Maybe whoever flew those ships were proxies. The intelligence that sent them stayed here. It needed our ancestors to build Izu Yaxlan so it could interact with us. But either it also created Oblivion or that EI already existed. By sacrificing their lives to stop Oblivion, they gave us time to grow. To develop our defenses.” It had taken millennia, maybe the longest learning curve in human history, but we had survived. “It worked.”
Lavinda watched me with her dark gaze. “Maybe. We’re assuming Oblivion was the only one.”
Well, shit. “I hope so.”
“You and me both. At least we have clues now about what happened.”
It was a start. “When this goes public, people will have ideas about how to interpret them.”
Lavinda stiffened. “Major, listen to me. This must never become public. We don’t know what roused Oblivion. If more EIs like it exist, we can’t risk waking them up.”
That felt like a bucket of ice water. An EI of that power didn’t form out of nothing. Someone had created it, and if they created one, they might have made others.
Regardless of what happened, my people’s future had changed. The powers of the Skolian Imperialate coveted our Kyle-rich population, but now they also knew our culture itself had value, holding secrets of our past. I had always struggled to articulate to the Majdas why they should leave our way of life undisturbed. Now they knew. Cries couldn’t risk changing us. Our battle with Oblivion proved the Undercity held a key to human survival on Raylicon, perhaps everywhere. Anything that disrupted our lives might also damage the secrets locked within us. My people needed to conquer our poverty and heal the wounds of our inbreeding, but those changes had to come from us, filtered through our minds, our dreams, our way of life, for only then could we preserve what made the Undercity unique.
Friendly fire. Such a mild phrase for so cruel a reality, a mistaken attack on friendly forces during an attempt to engage the enemy. Nothing “friendly” had killed Tavan Ganz. He died because he had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—but in doing so, he saved the life of the Assembly Finance Councilor, perhaps even of Pharaoh Dyhianna. ISC told his parents he was a hero, that he worked with Calaj to stop an assassination.
We found Calaj’s body at the Vanished Sea starships. She died when Oblivion ceased to exist, but she’d held on to the bitter end, all the time corrupting its systems. I didn’t want to think what would have happened if she hadn’t managed to hijack part of the overextended EI. If Oblivion had killed her as it intended, downloading her spinal node and then erasing her brain, it could have withdrawn to Raylicon unscathed. Instead, she had held on, rewriting it from within. Gods only know what her last days must have been like, knowing she was already brain dead, that she survived only by using a template for her own mind imprinted on the EI that had killed her.
Without Calaj, Oblivion could have struck without warning. Signs existed, the glitches at Jak’s casino, Singer’s sense of the darkness, Hack’s detector, but we would never have seen the truth until too late. Gods only knew how far the EI could have spread its destruction. It had commandeered a Kyle node in Cries and reached out into the meshes that spanned interstellar civilization.
Imperial Space Command gave both Calaj and Ganz a memorial with full honors. The Majdas held it at the palace, next to the Lake of Whispers. Pharaoh Dyhianna attended, flanked by four Abaj, including the Uzan and Nazam. Vaj Majda came in her capacity as General of the Pharaoh’s Army, and the head of the J-Force attended with several of his officers.
Jak came with me. He stood at my side, compelling in his silence. Dressed in formal black from head to toe, wearing clothes that few residents of even Cries could afford, with onyx gauntlets on his wrists embedded by black diamonds, he honored the dead in his own manner. The elite of Cries also came, highly placed citizens of the city. Several started when they saw Jak, then looked quickly away. The reason he could afford his sinfully rich clothes came in part from the pockets of those here who knew him. None of them said a word.
On that day, by the lake in the coolness under the trees, Imperial Space Command honored Ganz and Calaj. Their families listened, tears on their faces. Nothing could take away the pain of their losses, but perhaps the memorial helped ease their grief.
We held the tykado tournament several days after the memorial. Volunteers at the Rec Center set up risers in the main hall, organized by Ken Roy, that terraformer at the university who had helped make this happen. The Cries Tykado Academy brought mats for the contest and provided judges, only two for a tournament this small. The CTA teams wore loose white outfits with belts around their waists. The juniors had color stripes on their belts indicating their rank, and the older team wore dark belts. They all kept their hair neatly slicked back.
I paced on the other side of the room, too agitated to sit. What if our teams didn’t show? In the end, Dara and Weaver agreed to let Darjan participate. As it turned out, Pat Oey Sandjan was too young for the adult division, so she, Darjan, Biker, and a boy named Charcoal formed the junior team. The seniors consisted of Ruzik, Angel, Hack, and the other woman in Ruzik’s gang. I went to the entrance again and looked down the Concourse. No sign of them. Damn! If they didn’t arrive soon, this attempt at détente would disintegrate into an insult against CTA. Granted, the Cries Tykado Academy only agreed to the tournament because Lavinda promised to attend, but that would make it even worse if our teams didn’t show.
“Stop worrying,” a man said.
I spun around. Jak stood there, all torn shirt and rugged trousers.
“No teams,” I said.
“No. Just no Concourse.”
Ah. They were using the back ways. They must have removed the barriers the Cries police set up to stop my people from sneaking around behind the shops and cafes.
I paced over to him. “Should be here already.”
He smirked at me.
“You think it’s funny?” I growled.
He motioned toward the entrance. “Look.”
I turned—to see Sandjan and her team filing inside, all in ragged trousers and muscle shirts, with straggles of hair curling around their faces. They stared at the CTA team and the CTA kids stared back. Although I saw distrust, they all seemed more curious than hostile.
Sandjan and her team nodded to me. That was it. They didn’t want me hovering around them. I gave them space, forcing myself to stay put and respect their pride despite how much I wanted to go over there and hover.
The rumble of talk started again as visitors from Cries drifted in and took seats on the risers. Ken Roy kept the Rec Center volunteers organized, his understated presence helping it run smoothly. The Dust Knights he met today would be the ones guarding him when he visited the Undercity. A few visitors even showed up from the aqueducts, including Dara and Weaver. They looked around with an almost tangible tension, as if they expected police to arrive and haul them off to jail. Even with that fear, they came to give their support.
Silence fell over the room as Ruzik, Angel, Hack, and their fourth strode into the Center. They towered, all of them scarred and tattooed. They dressed like Sandjan’s group, but on their muscled frames the clothes looked different. Wilder. They appeared to be exactly what they were, a notorious Undercity gang.
Ruzik nodded curtly to me. His team joined Sandjan’s group, and they all warmed up, doing stretches and arm swings. My teams. We prosaically called them DK1 and DK2, for Dust Knights. Most of the CTA kids also continued to prepare, but their captains were talking to a woman who looked like their head coach. I didn’t need augmented hearing to know they were protesting.
I walked across the room, forcing myself to move casually despite my tension. Above-city charm, I told myself. Find it in yourself, Major. Somehow.
Are you talking to me? Max asked.
No. Myself. I had less charm than a rock, but I had to try.
As I approached the CTA coach, I put on a smile. It felt strange to give that expression to someon
e I didn’t know, but above-city people did it all the time.
“My greetings.” I bowed to her, one tykado master to another. “I’m Major Bhaajan, the coach for the Undercity teams.”
“Ah.” She exhaled, probably relieved as much for my above-city manner as anything else. She returned my bow. “I’m Hakela Mazim.”
I nodded toward the mats and other equipment they had provided. “We appreciate your setting this up for the students. It means a lot to them.”
She glanced uneasily at my teams, and I was aware of the CTA captains standing back a few paces, listening. Mazim said, “Your students know the rules, right?”
For flaming sake. Of course we knew the damn rules.
Charm, Max reminded me. Be civil.
I spoke in my most pleasant voice. “I’ve coached them according to the Tykado Federation standards.” I’d spent extra time making sure they understood which moves counted as scores and which were illegal. “We used the same procedures I learned on the Pharaoh’s Army team.”
“Ah, yes, good.” She nodded, trying to return my tense smile.
We talked a bit more, inconsequential words. It felt like torture given my utter lack of talent at small talk, but somehow I managed to avoid saying anything too stupid. Eventually we moved apart, she back to her teams and me toward the risers where Dara and Weaver were sitting.
Dara tapped the empty space beside her. “Sit.”
I could barely stay still, but Dara seemed more in need of reassurance than her daughter. So I sat next to her. I nodded toward Darjan, who was doing stretches. “Looks ready.”
Dara glanced at the CTA teams. “For them? Hardly.”
“More than you think.” We had no fancy outfits, rich parents, or nice mats, but we trained hard. I couldn’t predict how our teams would fare against Academy students; I knew nothing about the junior divisions and my only experience with adult divisions were the army tournaments I’d competed in. I knew Sandjan was a strong fighter, enough that Ruzik wanted her on their adult team, so perhaps she would do well among the juniors. I couldn’t say with the others.
Ruzik’s team looked lethal as they warmed up, but I knew them too well to be fooled. The CTA black belts intimidated them, a lack of confidence born of their doubts that they could measure up to anyone in the above-city, let alone the privileged members of an elite gym. For the sake of their pride, I hoped the Cries team didn’t beat them too badly.
Dara and Weaver were watching me. “Got healer,” Dara said.
I glanced at her, distracted. “Eh?”
“Rajin Dia,” Weaver said.
I wasn’t sure what they meant. “Dr. Rajindia?”
Weaver nodded. “Yah. Saw her.”
“Yesterday,” Dara added.
“Got birth certificate.” Weaver grinned. “Is official now. I am born.”
I laughed, glad to have some positive news. “Good.”
People all over the room were suddenly rising to their feet. Startled, I stood up and turned around. Lavinda was striding into the Center with her retinue. She wore full dress uniform, dark green trousers with a stripe down each leg, boots and a green tunic belted at the waist. The gold bars on her shoulders and the medals on her chest gleamed. Damn, she looked impressive. She created such a dramatic entrance, it took me a moment to notice that several of her “aides” were Jagernauts out of uniform, coming incognito. Huh. Odd—
Holy shit.
Behind Lavinda, so unobtrusive that no one else seemed to notice, the Ruby Pharaoh walked with her bodyguards. Given her small stature and discreet position, she looked like a minor aide. I doubted anyone really saw her. Of course the Majdas didn’t want anyone to notice her. Hell, they probably didn’t want her anywhere near this place. Yet here she was, the hereditary sovereign of the Imperialate, come to see our sports match.
Lavinda and her retinue took their seats on risers cleared by IRAS volunteers. The pharaoh sat between two Abaj, with a third behind her and the fourth in front. I couldn’t stay still any more. I got up and paced to my teams, but I stayed back, leaning against the wall, not intruding on their space. Our behavior probably seemed off to the CTA teams; they all interacted with their coach while they warmed up. We did have one trait in common; everyone seemed nervous, needing to move.
Eventually the referee had everyone take their seats. The athletes settled on the floor, cross-legged, and the first match began, with the juniors. Charcoal went up against the youngest boy on the CTA team. They were evenly matched in size, but the CTA youth seemed uncertain. Although he had learned the moves, he didn’t yet have any fighting instinct. Charcoal easily won, but the judges were frowning and talking heatedly. One of them looked angry. I wished we had an Undercity judge, but of course the aqueducts had no accredited officials.
I walked around the room again, approaching the table. The CT coach was doing the same. We reached the judges at the same time.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“Your student should be disqualified,” the angry judge said. “He didn’t use legal moves.”
I had no idea what she meant. “He didn’t do anything illegal.”
She scowled at me. “He was using some other fighting style, not tykado.”
Well, shit. If they disqualified Charcoal, they might as well disqualify everyone I had brought, because they all fought that way. I kept my voice calm. “He won the points fairly. A hit is a hit. He didn’t use forbidden moves. Contestants aren’t judged on style, just on who manages the most hits.”
Coach Mazim spoke up. “I have no objection to the way he fought.”
The judge didn’t look any happier with Mazim than with me, but what could she say? Charcoal hadn’t done anything prohibited. He just fought better than the CTA boy.
“Give us a few moments,” the other judge said. “We’ll give a ruling.”
I gritted my teeth, but I moved away from the tables with Coach Mazim. The judges conferred in low voices. I wondered why they bothered. They came from CTA. They had no reason to let my students win.
“I’m sorry,” Mazim said in a low voice. “I don’t agree with them.”
I nodded at her unexpected comment, too tense to speak. After a moment, the judges beckoned to us. When we came back to the table, the angry judge spoke stiffly. “The style is unusual, but as far as we can see, no rules were violated. The tournament may proceed.”
I exhaled. Probably they didn’t want to look bad with Lavinda Majda here. I headed toward my teams. They were all frowning, both the junior and the adults. Sandjan and Charcoal strode over to me.
Sandjan spoke tightly. “Bad news?”
“What say?” Charcoal asked.
“No problem,” I told them. “Just needed team info.” I nodded to Charcoal. “Good fight.”
He grinned with relief and stood taller.
The next bouts were more evenly matched, one between Darjan and a CTA girl, then Biker and a CTA youth. Darjan lost by a narrow margin and Biker won. Darjan didn’t look upset; she’d made a good showing, and she seemed glad for Biker. In the fourth match, Sandjan faced a girl with a champion’s stripes on her belt. They started slow, taking each other’s measure, bouncing on their feet like maestros tuning their instruments. Then they launched into the bout, legs kicking, bodies spinning, fists jabbing. At the outset, the CTA student seemed too confident, but I could see her reevaluating as they fought. They seemed to forget the rest of us, concentrating on the sheer pleasure of a strong bout. In the end, Sandjan just barely managed the win. As she and the CTA student bowed to each other, the audience burst out with applause.
So it went. In the first adult match, Angel faced a tall woman. The audience fell silent as the competitors walked to the mat and bowed. This was different, a top tykado athlete in Cries matched against an adult gang member. The Cries student surpassed Angel in skill, but Angel had better flexibility. She also seemed to rattle her opponent with her unusual style. Angel executed her kicks and spins with a differen
t rhythm than most tykado students. Several times, she did a roll or a flip. I didn’t see the point, and strict tykado adherents never used such moves, but nothing in the rules prohibited gymnastics. Although the angry judge scowled, she let the match continue.
Someone sat next to me. Startled, I turned. “Colonel Majda. My greetings.”
“Major.” She nodded toward the fighters. “You’ve some talented students.”
“My thanks.” I wondered why she had come over. “Do you know the CTA teams?”
“Not really.” She was watching Angel. “That girl’s style looks familiar.”
I didn’t see how Lavinda could have a clue about Angel’s style. “From where?”
“Have you ever heard of a game called Bronze Warrior?”
Ah, hell. Angel never played Bronze Warrior. However, all of my Dust Knights has a similar fighting style, including Hack. When it came to gaming, he was the undisputed virtuoso at Bronze Warrior, and he played by stealing mesh resources from the city. If I didn’t watch my words, I could implicate him.
I played dumb. “Is that a thing kids do?”
“It’s a strategy fight game. Our army techs designed it.”
Great. That meant Hack was stealing from the army as well as Cries. The military ran all sorts of mesh games, looking for talent. It also let them monitor the most adept cyber warriors.
Time to be noncommittal. I said, “Ah.”
“We’ve been following a gamer called the Hack Master.” She nodded toward Angel. “Your student has a fighting style similar to that gamer.”
I wanted to groan. Couldn’t Hack come up with something more subtle than Hack Master? I said only, “I’m sure she doesn’t play holo-mesh games.” Which was true. Angel had no interest in fighting on the mesh. She preferred the real thing.
Lavinda continued to watch her. “I’ve never seen anyone else with that style.”
I kept my response to a grunt. I’d have to talk to Hack. He needed to be more circumspect.
The Bronze Skies Page 34