The Training Master

by Mark Crilley

  The Zarga Baffa Astroshuttle rocketed into the planet’s upper atmosphere and glided down through the clouds until we were treated to a dazzling view of rolling pink hills, strange purple trees, and towering yellow mountains as smooth and pointy as sharks’ teeth. Zarga Baffa was beautiful and weird, like a coral-covered landscape at the bottom of the ocean.

  After a few more minutes we entered a lush valley where a vast complex of glass buildings came into view. It was at least fifty miles from one side to the other, with a single dome in the center big enough to cover an entire city. The babbling of the passengers died away as the train coasted into a station just inside one of several smaller domes. We came to a stop near a purple-carpeted platform lined with marble statues of multiheaded heroes, potted plants, and silver urns overflowing with brightly colored flowers.

  PING

  The doors slid open and we all bustled out of the astroshuttle. Between the yellow-green guy’s arms flopping all over the place and the little red-suited lady with the space helmet dashing to get past me, it’s a miracle I didn’t fall and smack my head on the ground.

  A man employed by the training camp—tall, gray-skinned, and dressed entirely in white—instructed the passengers to form a line along one side of the platform. Mr. Beeba followed his every word, seeing to it that Spuckler, Gax, Poog, and I got to our proper places.

  “You might want to take a moment to think of a greeting for our training master,” Mr. Beeba said to me. “I would suggest something along the lines of ‘Thank you, O wise and learned one, for wasting your valuable energies on so feeble a wretch as I.’”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.

  “Come to think of it, forget I said ‘something along the lines of.’ You’ll be better off saying that word for word.”

  “Uh-huh. So what’s a training master? Some kind of teacher?”

  “MORE THAN THAT, MA’AM,” said Gax. “HE OR SHE WILL HAVE ABSOLUTE CONTROL OVER OUR LIVES FOR THE NEXT THREE WEEKS. THE CENTRAL PILLAR OF THE ZARGA BAFFA METHOD IS ONE’S UNQUESTIONING FAITH IN THE TRAINING MASTER.”

  I wasn’t so sure what to think of this. Being under someone’s absolute control didn’t sound like a whole lot of fun.

  DWUNNNNNnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng

  There was a loud gonging sound and the trainees silenced themselves.

  “Stand up straight, Akiko,” whispered Mr. Beeba. “Our training masters are coming out to greet us.”

  As the last echo of the gong faded away, it was replaced by strains of soft, stately music, high-pitched and mysterious, like a slow march performed on muted, alien bagpipes. All eyes turned to a pair of tall brass doors at the far end of the platform, flanked by two guards dressed in spotless white and yellow uniforms.

  I had been pretty excited to begin with, but now my heart was really thumping. What kind of training master would we get?

  The music continued for another minute or two while we waited and waited, the anticipation building. Finally the first in the procession of training masters emerged from the shadows of the doorway.

  There were twenty in all. They each wore simple black clothing with golden bands around the waist and wrists. They came in all shapes and sizes, some human, some nearly human, others more like lizards waddling on their hind legs, and at least one that glided over the ground like an elegant snail. Some of them had long beards, and a few walked with canes. They all carried themselves with great dignity, projecting wisdom and grace with every step they took.

  A really tall one walked straight toward us. He had big, fierce eyes and a thin-lipped mouth that looked more comfortable with frowns than smiles. I let out a big sigh of relief when he pivoted on one heel and crossed to a different group of trainees.

  When all the training masters had found their places, a wrinkled old man with a long blue mustache stepped to a podium at the side of the platform and spoke. “I am Odo Mumzibar,” he said, “the current headmaster of the Zarga Baffa Training Camp. It is my privilege to welcome you here today. No matter where you have come from, no matter what innate skills you may or may not possess, I promise you that three weeks hence you will emerge from this training camp stronger and more capable in every respect.

  “It won’t come easily, though,” said Odo Mumzibar, his bushy blue eyebrows drawn into an expression of great seriousness. “You will be tested here at Zarga Baffa, pushed to your limits, made to do things you have never done before. If ever you find yourself troubled by any aspect of your training, please feel free to come directly to me.”

  He raised a finger, leaned forward, and studied the faces of the trainees. “I have only one piece of advice for all of you,” he said, “and it is simply this: never give up.” He paused for a very long time, and I felt sure that he would follow these words with an explanation, or a story, or, I don’t know, something. But instead, he simply leaned closer to the microphone and repeated himself: “Never give up.”

  He stood straight, cleared his throat, and said, “Students, meet your training masters.” Odo Mumzibar then stepped down from the podium and disappeared through the double doors.

  One by one the training masters bowed to their new pupils and led them away. Mr. Beeba, Spuckler, Poog, Gax, and I were the only students still on the platform. A light breeze whistled past, and a dead leaf dropped from one of the potted plants. As we watched the last of the training masters disappear from view, it dawned on us that we weren’t getting one.

  The guards shot each other uncomfortable glances as the music came to a stop and the astroshuttle quietly floated off, turned a corner, and disappeared. I had the peculiar feeling of being the last person picked when teams were divvied up in gym class. Only worse.

  Then the pat-pat-pat of hasty footsteps came echoing from the doorway and out came one last training master, the youngest of them all, out of breath and wiping sweat from his forehead.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, clearing his throat and running a hand through his long red-brown hair. “My last class ran a little over schedule.”

  He was small but stocky, with dark, authoritative eyebrows and slightly crooked teeth. His eyes were wide set, narrow, and tinged a bright shade of violet. They were pinched into an apologetic squint at the moment, but there was no masking the confidence behind them. “I may be young,” they seemed to say, “but that doesn’t mean I’m inexperienced.”

  “I’m Chibb Fallaby, your training master for the next three weeks.”

  “Pleased t’ meetcha, Chibb,” said Spuckler, thrusting out his arm for a vigorous handshake. “Spuckler Boach is the name, but you can call me Spuck.”

  “Hello, Spuck,” said Chibb. “Good to have you on board.”

  Mr. Beeba lurched forward and bowed extravagantly. “Thank you, O wise and learned one,” he said so stiffly it sounded as if he were preparing to sing a hymn, “for wasting your—”

  “Now, now,” said Chibb. “Don’t worry about formalities with me. I like my students to think of me as a friend.”

  Mr. Beeba stuttered a bit and answered, “I—I wholeheartedly approve. Formalities are … ever so tiresome.” He coughed and added: “I am Mr. Beeba, at your service.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Beeba.”

  “I HOPE YOU DON’T OBJECT TO HAVING A ROBOT AMONG YOUR STUDENTS,” said Gax. “ESPECIALLY AN OLDER MODEL LIKE MYSELF.”

  “Certainly not,” said Chibb, patting Gax on the helmet. “I’ve trained robots many times before. They make some of the best students, actually, the older models in particular. They’re far less likely to act like know-it-alls and are astonishingly good at facts and figures.” Gax was so happy he was nearly bouncing on his shock absorbers.

  Poog floated forward and spoke in his warbly, high-pitched language. Chibb bowed and replied, “It’s certainly an honor to have a Toogolian here on Zarga Baffa. We get so few of them. But surely you should be the training master, Poog, and I the student.”

  No way, I thought. He understands Toogolian.
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br />   Poog smiled and added a gurgly word or two.

  “Very well, then,” answered Chibb. “I shall do my best.” He then turned his attention to me.

  “Now, you must be Akiko,” he said. “King Froptoppit spoke very highly of you when he arranged for your enrollment. ‘The brightest star in the Milky Way,’ he called you.”

  I felt my face grow warm. “I’m just … a kid,” I replied, wishing I could think of something more interesting to say.

  “Ah, but you’re more than that,” he said with a flash of his crooked teeth. “You are the very first Earthian ever to attend this training camp. I’m sure you will be a credit to your planet.”

  “Uh, thanks.”

  His purple eyes were warm and friendly as he took my hand in his. It seemed to me at that moment that we had lucked into the best training master in all of Zarga Baffa.

  Chapter 4

  Chibb led us through the shadowy doorway and into a cavernous space beyond, where moving sidewalks and whooshing hovercraft carried students from one part of the training camp to another. He launched into a guided tour as he walked, singing the praises of the Zarga Baffa method and listing the accomplishments of the camp’s famous former students.

  “… and then of course there’s Z’makk Vafftron, from the planet Nulu. They say he was scared stiff of space travel when he first came here. Couldn’t go to the nearest moon without gritting his teeth and keeping his eyes shut. Now he commands a whole fleet of voltex cruisers for the Ambulan guard.”

  A high-tech door rose noiselessly into the ceiling and we passed into a section where students were soaking in hot, steamy baths and being massaged by multiarmed aliens in white and yellow uniforms. There was a gigantic swimming pool—at least ten times larger than Olympic size—and several dozen Jacuzzi-type tubs, all bubbling and gurgling with milky, warm water. Everyone in the room looked thoroughly relaxed, in the very best of health.

  Awesome, I thought. I wonder if we can extend the three weeks.

  “Maintaining the body is at the very core of our guiding principles,” said Chibb. “So is stimulating the mind.”

  Another door slid silently into the wall and we entered a great hall that looked like a beautiful library in a luxurious old castle. Students read and sipped from teacups while reclining in the glow of a gigantic stone hearth in the center of the room, where a bright turquoise fire blazed. Self-propelled book carts glided around the room, allowing students to browse without rising from their comfy leather chairs. Mr. Beeba looked as if he’d died and gone to heaven.

  “Of course, healthy minds and bodies require good food,” said Chibb as he led us into the spacious, airy Zarga Baffa cafeteria, “and we’ll see to it that you get plenty of it during your stay here.”

  I gazed around at students dining on an endless variety of exotic dishes: great bubbling bowls of silvery soup; plates piled high with blue and orange noodles, flowery multicolored vegetables, and golden-crusted fish so long from head to tail they snaked from platter to platter and from one table to another. And the aromas! Sweet, spicy, smoked, and sautéed in butter—every smell I’d ever hungered for and plenty I’d never encountered in my life. It was all I could do to stop myself from abandoning the group to sneak a bite.

  After we left the cafeteria Chibb led us around a corner and down a flight of stairs. There was less light, and the air felt colder, damper.

  “You’re going to love it here, I’m sure of it,” said Chibb. He came to a door that didn’t slide sideways or rise into the ceiling but simply screeched open on a pair of rusty hinges. “All trainees do, once they’ve survived Humbling Week.”

  “H-Humbling Week?” Mr. Beeba said. We were now in a dark, musty corridor with weakly flickering lightbulbs dangling from the ceiling. I wanted to walk more slowly because it was hard to see the floor, and what I could see of it seemed to be a happy home for roaches, worms, and worse. But Chibb was walking faster than before, and seemed to increase his speed with every step.

  “But of course. Those places I just showed you are for the advanced trainees only. You’ve got to get through Humbling Week before you’ll have access to any of that. I’m sure you read all about it in the brochure.”

  “B-brochure?” Mr. Beeba said.

  Chibb turned and cocked his head with a look of mild surprise. “Don’t tell me you didn’t get a brochure.” He then stepped forward and heaved his weight against another door, this one even rustier than the first. “I’ll have to talk to the folks in admissions about that.”

  We stumbled through the doorway and found ourselves outdoors. The air was bitterly cold. The sun had sunk so low in the sky the only trace of its glow left was on the very top branches of grizzled, leafless trees towering above us. Chibb picked up the pace and led us down a rough gravelly sidewalk that grew more and more potholed and crumbly with every step. He was soon walking so quickly we had to jog just to keep up with him.

  “Say, Chibb,” said Spuckler. “Where in the heck’re ya takin’ us?”

  “Why, to your holes, of course.”

  “H-holes?” said Mr. Beeba.

  “You’ll be sleeping in holes tonight,” said Chibb. “And tomorrow night. And the next. And the four nights after that. We call it the Seven Nights of Mud and Misery. They go hand in hand with the Seven Days of Strain and Struggle. Together they comprise Humbling Week.” He paused to leap over an enormous fallen tree trunk in the middle of the path. “It’s all about stripping away the layers of pride and overconfidence that plague inexperienced trainees.”

  Poog and Gax exchanged puzzled glances. They were probably thinking the same thing I was: that the whole thing must be some sort of big mistake.

  “But we’re not inexperienced,” I said. “We’ve rescued people before, and taken care of bad guys too.”

  Chibb turned to me without breaking his stride, chuckled, and shook his head. To my astonishment he ignored my comment altogether. “By the end of the week you’ll all have been ground down into powdery little wisps of your former selves. It’s unpleasant, to be sure. Almost unbearable, actually. But it’s a crucial part of our operation.” He came to a stop and gestured to the path ahead of us, which rose almost vertically to the top of a fifty-foot hill. “This is as far as I can take you. So long. Grunn Grung will bring your evening meal.”

  He turned and strutted back down the path without waving goodbye.

  “Gr-Grunn Grung?” Mr. Beeba said.

  “You’ll love him,” said Chibb without turning around. “Everyone loves Grunn Grung.” It was hard to tell if he was joking.

  Chapter 5

  “I assure you… ngh … King Froptoppit told me nothing …oooph … about Humbling Week,” said Mr. Beeba as we began to negotiate the nightmarish path to the top of the hill. It was a mix of thick mud and sharp-edged stones, as if it had been calculated to make you slide two steps backward for every step forward, and to slice your elbows up in the process.

  “Aw, quit yer moanin’,” said Spuckler, who—though he had Gax tucked under one arm—was farther up the hill than the rest of us. “I think ol’ Chibb’s got it right. A kick in th’ pants is just what we need. Roughin’ it for a spell never hurt nobody.”

  Mr. Beeba groaned, as if to prove that it was already hurting him quite a lot.

  “IT WON’T BE LONG NOW,” said Gax, craning his spindly neck to monitor our progress. “WE’RE ONLY TWENTY-SEVEN AND ONE-THIRD METERS FROM THE TOP.”

  Poog, who could have floated straight to the top of the hill if he’d wanted to, chose instead to stay at my side, humming quietly to himself. I turned and gave him a smile. Based on what Chibb had said about Humbling Week, I knew I’d need all the moral support Poog had to offer.

  It took us at least half an hour to get to the top of the hill. When we got there—bruised, bleeding, and sopping wet with icy-cold mud—an infuriating discovery awaited us: the other side of the hill was nothing more than wooden scaffolding with a rickety stairway leading straight back down to the
ground. The “hill” was an artificial obstacle. It was carefully designed to guarantee that a grueling half hour of pain and suffering always stood between us and a good night’s sleep.

  “Well, I’ll be ding-dong-daggled,” said Spuckler. He was inspecting a pipe that spat an endless stream of cold water down the path, ensuring that it stayed muddy at all times. “These fellers mean business.”

  “I don’t care what they mean,” said Mr. Beeba, already making his way down the stairway. “I mean to have a nice hot shower and get a good night’s rest.”

  I had no idea what awaited us at the end of the path, but I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be hot showers. I wiped as much of the mud from my face as I could and dragged my aching body down the stairs, one step at a time.

  The path continued for about a quarter mile before abruptly plunging into a marshy dead end. On the other side of a swamp (one that I suspected had been artificially created by the same people who had built the hill) stood a rough stone wall carved out of the side of a cliff. In the wall were several dozen holes of varying shapes and sizes.

  We trudged the last mushy yards through the swamp and crawled up onto the narrow patch of dry land at the base of the wall. From here we could see that most of the holes were occupied by other beginners like ourselves, some of whom I recognized from the astroshuttle. The yellow-green guy was already there, fast asleep in a hole near the ground. The little woman with the red leather suit was also there, seated on the edge of a hole farther up, furiously trying to get dried mud off her boots. From every hole came moans of pain and exhaustion.

  “You know what?” I said. “The Fowlerville mall is starting to sound pretty nice right about now.”

  “Hey, c’mon, ’Kiko,” said Spuckler. “Buck up. We gotta show these Zarga Baffa guys we ain’t a bunch of wimps.” He led the way to a cluster of five empty holes reserved for us. “Now, which hole d’ya want? I call this big’un over here.”