My breath stops, and my lips part involuntarily at his touch. I close my eyes, then open them again, moments later.
But he’s already gone. Yes, he’s the one who’s fled, the blushing coward! He left me, and closed the door between us in such a hurry.
I smile secretly, to myself, and go to bed.
In the morning, training hell begins. We wake up early, and after a quick light meal Aeson takes me to his gym and dojo—a large hall trimmed in pale wood tones with an airy high ceiling and floor-length windows with a view of garden greenery and searing white daylight. It’s filled with exercise equipment around the perimeter, while in the center is a sparring area with a smoothly polished wooden floor resembling bamboo.
“From today onward, while we train, we only wear loose comfortable clothes,” he tells me, looking me up and down appreciatively, as he sees me in my ordinary jeans and t-shirt—or rather, the Atlantean close approximation, which has been included in my new wardrobe.
“Will this be okay?” I ask, pointing at my basic outfit and yellow armband.
“Perfect, for now.” He smiles at me. His own outfit is a sleeveless black shirt and sparring black pants that shows off his amazing upper body with its perfectly defined abs and muscular arms and shoulders. The black armband hugs his left bicep. He looks magnificent, and it’s honestly difficult to focus on anything but him. . . .
“Hey, I meant to ask,” I say, recovering from staring at him like a drooling fool, “what am I supposed to wear in the Games? Is there a uniform of some kind?”
“Oh, yes.” With his back to me, his long golden hair gathered behind him in a neat segmented tail, he’s adjusting some weights on a bench, prepping it for my use. “There are different colored uniforms with symbols of each Category that all the entrants wear. You’ll learn more in a few days when we meet with the pro trainers.”
I nod, and then watch as Aeson demonstrates how to lift weights properly. I honestly find it terrifying how easy it looks when he does it, the smooth flexing of his biceps and triceps, and the beautiful form he maintains.
When it’s my turn to lie down on the bench, we start out with the lightest setting possible, and Aeson leans over me, keeping his hands on both sides, ready to take over if I need help. I begin the reps and my arms start to ache within moments. . . . Had this been Earth-like gravity, I would have been fine for much longer. But this? Ugh. . . .
“You’re doing well, Gwen. . . . Breathe. Keep your arms bent, then straighten, like this. . . .”
“I don’t think I can. . . .” I look up into his calm face as he stands over me, with his lapis blue eyes intently gazing into mine.
“Oh, but you can, I know you better, Lark. Show me one more. . . .”
Okay, if I wasn’t so in love with this guy, I would slap him right now. He’s back in his commanding officer mode, and so, “Lark” reappears. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it.
Half an hour later, after switching positions, and trying out different equipment for working various muscle groups, I am just dead. I get up and stagger a few steps, and my arms—what am I saying, my entire body is a limp noodle.
Aeson comes around me and holds me from behind so that I lean into him, feeling his hard chest against my back.
“Let’s take five minutes, to rest,” he says softly into my ear.
I moan and let him semi-drag me to the nearest seat. “Oh, I’m screwed . . . I am so screwed,” I mutter after a few deep, ragged breaths. “This is not gonna work.”
But Aeson frowns at me, and lifts my chin up with his fingers to look into my eyes. “It will work, because you will make it work.”
After a brief rest, it’s time for sparring.
Oh, my dear lord in heaven, I think. Or rather, I moan silently inside my own head.
Aeson leads me into the middle of the sparring floor, and stops directly across from me. Both he and I are barefoot for this. I am definitely taller than the female average, about 5’9”, but Aeson is very tall, possibly 6’4”, and so our heights are not evenly matched for sparring. However, it’s not an issue, as I recall, from my sparring practice with Xelio who is about Aeson’s height. This height difference comes in handy for learning how to handle a larger opponent, especially during the Games when I’m likely to be up against all kinds of people who are bigger than me.
“Are you okay? Deep breath,” he says with a smile. And then his smile fades, while a serious blank expression comes to his features.
“Salute!” he tells me.
My muscle memory takes over. I perform the Er-Du short form salute without hesitation, and all at once I’m flashing back to my Combat classes, with Oalla, Keruvat, and others. And inevitably I am flashing back to the day over a year ago when we first met—my first day of Combat at the Pennsylvania RQC, when “Command Pilot Aeson Kass” entered the room with the other Instructors and demonstrated flawless sparring techniques before our amazed class.
And now, here we are, with a universe of emotion, attraction, attachment, and stunning change between us, facing each other in one-on-one sparring for the first time. . . .
He counters my salute with his own flawless one.
And then he and I assume the Floating Swan, which is the First Form, the position with which all sparring must begin and end. The feet are placed in a wide stance, and the hands float at chest level. One hand is outstretched off to the side at a 45-degree angle, and the other pointing directly forward at the opponent, bent at the wrist, palm vertical, thumb curving inward.
My heart is already pounding like a drum, and now it begins racing. . . .
So, what exactly are we doing?
In a nutshell, Er-Du is an ancient Atlantean martial art, vaguely reminiscent of Earth Kung Fu. There are Twelve Forms in Er-Du, and they are:
Floating Swan (First Form, balanced resting state)
Striking Snake (Second Form, focused intense strikes)
Spinning Wind (Third Form, fast spin, light evasive motion)
Spinning Water (Fourth Form, slow spin, high force strike)
Bristling Fish (Fifth Form, low crouch, strike as you rise)
Flowing Fire (Sixth Form, rapid hand strike volley)
Running Scarab (Seventh Form, shielding defensive motion)
Kicking Horse (Eighth Form, roundhouse kicks, with or without back-flip combo)
Weaving Spider (Ninth Form, Yellow Quadrant specialty, medium crouch, complex finger motion to imitate weaving)
Cutting Fang (Tenth Form, Red Quadrant specialty, hand motion to imitate cutting)
Shooting Star (Eleventh Form, Blue Quadrant specialty, hand flinging of projectile bladed weapons)
Shielding Stone (Twelfth Form, Green Quadrant specialty, low crouch, complex hand and arm motions to create full-body shield from all external blows)
These twelve positions have been ingrained in our bodies with many hours, weeks, and months of practice. I am generally confident in my Er-Du abilities, and have managed to perform in the upper third of my class. I tend to do pretty well when sparring with my Earth refugee peers. Even when training with Xelio during the latter part of our Fleet journey to Atlantis, I managed to sometimes hold my own against him, at least for a few minutes, before he would overwhelm me and end the session.
But this—this is Aeson.
I am sparring with my love.
“Gwen!” he says. Apparently I’ve gone into a daydream and spaced out, right in the middle of Floating Swan, and he must see it in my eyes. “Ready?”
“Yes!”
Aeson’s gaze locks with mine.
And then he steps forward and strikes, just once.
I parry him with my forearm, and he pauses, gauging my reflexes, then nods at me.
And then comes the volley, beginning with Striking Snake, while I counter him with Running Scarab. He is moving slowly at first, testing me.
And then his movements become faster and we mix it up, Forms replacing Forms, countering one another, in a Yin-Yang co
mplementary duality, which is fundamental to Er-Du. For about five minutes I think I’m doing great. I continue to maintain eye contact, as much as I can, because it is the best way to anticipate your opponent—at least it is with my fellow classmates, the Earth refugees.
With Aeson, it is useless. His eyes hardly blink, his expression never changes, and his limbs seem to move of their own accord. I find I simply cannot anticipate him.
What’s worse is, I’m starting to gasp for breath, and he is not even breathing differently.
“Let’s take a short break,” he says finally, seeing me wilting with every move.
But I shake my head negatively. “No . . .” I manage to utter in-between panting breaths, “No break! There . . . won’t . . . be any . . . break during . . . the Games, so . . .”
He nods, his expression grave, and for a few minutes longer we continue.
Until I collapse. I plop down then roll over and lie on my back panting on the wooden floor, and he stands above me with a concerned look.
“Enough!” he says. “It’s the gravity, Gwen. Today is the first day, and you’ve had enough.”
“Hah!” I say, from my position on the floor. And then as I catch my breath, I start laughing. “I’m such dead meat . . . such pitiful dead meat!” I gurgle.
Aeson bends down and offers me his hand, then helps me stand.
“Look at me,” I say, staring up into his eyes as I stagger upright. “How can you look at me and not think it’s hopeless?”
“It is not,” he says grimly. “I know you, and I know what you can do.”
I smile sadly at him, then force myself to grin. “Okay then. If you say so, my sweet Prince.”
His expression lightens at the sight of my silly, pitiful grin. “Tomorrow we repeat, and we’ll go longer. And I promise, by then I will not be holding back.”
“Wait, what?” My mouth falls open. “You mean you were holding back just now? That was holding back?”
But he merely watches me with a faint smile.
Oh, crap!
It’s late morning when, after a short break, Aeson takes me to another section of the estate, where a long gallery is set up as a shooting range. Adjustable targets are placed against the distant wall, and near the entrance I see cabinets containing various guns and firearms locked behind glass.
I recognize many of these Atlantean weapons, ranging from heavy assault rifles to medium handguns and light miniature needle guns that can be hidden between fingers. We’ve been taught their use during Qualification classes, and then continued to practice regularly during general Combat classes in the Fleet during our space journey. Everyone was expected to achieve basic minimum competence in the use of firearms, but only the Blue Quadrant went on to specialize and hone expert skills.
Aeson opens up the weapons locker and takes out a mid-range handgun, the standard issue kind used by the security guards, and several ammo cartridges.
I watch his precise movements as he checks the gun, checks the energy charges, and then sings a sequence to call up a small control panel. The panel activates various target motion scenarios, and I see the targets begin to move along the distant wall with its reinforced backstop.
I expect Aeson to start shooting, but instead he hands the gun to me.
“Show me what you can do,” he tells me with a calm, blank expression.
I take the gun. I glance into his cool eyes—talk about intimidating! And then I start firing at the targets.
When I’m done, it appears I’ve hit about 75 percent of them in the optimum center area A, landed a few outer B, C, and D regions, and missed a few altogether. Not bad for me, who normally manages to miss about one out of three times.
“Not bad,” he says, resetting the targets and the score. “We’re going to work until you hit 100 percent, and your aim is within a point-five deviation from center A.”
“Considering my level of mediocrity and suckage, that might take a few lifetimes,” I say. “And all we’ve got is about a month.”
But Aeson glances at me and one of his brows goes up. “You are forgetting, you now have quite an advantage.”
“What?”
He chuckles. “You have me.”
Aeson is right. After about twenty minutes, I notice a marked improvement. Just twenty minutes under his supervision and I’m already firing with more confidence, keeping a better stance, and holding the gun with more balance. My score numbers go up, up, up, inching very slowly, but in the right direction.
Aeson constantly comes up behind me and adjusts my hands and arms, straightens my posture, and makes simple but incredibly astute comments that help me more than any weapons instructor had in the past. After a few initial moments of being distracted by his pleasing proximity and his touch, I come to my senses, get a grip over my hormones, and start paying real attention to what he says. He also makes me fire with and without ear protection, since there will be none in the Games arena.
“During live combat, professional soldiers wear head gear which minimizes noise exposure,” he says. “And here you have these headsets for shooting range practice. But in the Games, there will be nothing. A complete free-for-all. Over the years, entrants have learned that if they wear earplugs, they sacrifice their sense of hearing that could alert them to other dangers, so ear protection’s not an option if they want to last longer.”
“I see.” I listen to him, having removed my headset protection for the latest round. My ears are already ringing, even though Atlantean firearms are less noisy than their Earth counterparts.
“So, I’ll have you practice both ways. You will learn to continue to fear the gun, but not the sound it makes.” He looks into my eyes as he says it. “Because the nature of the sound changes, based on the kind of gun it is, the distance, type of ammunition, and many other useful factors. You will learn all of it, and you will learn to recognize different guns and their distance to you. It is just as important as being able to fire it.”
“How come you’re so smart?” I say to him, teasingly.
But he is not laughing. “Gwen, you did well today,” he says, never taking his gaze off me. “Tomorrow, we practice more. And I’ll teach you how to look at targets and really see them and know how to aim and fire by instinct.”
We break for dea meal, and then a couple of hours of rest. Aeson forces me to lie down for an hour nap, and I’m so beat that I don’t protest. In fact, I’m asleep as soon as I curl up on the sofa in one of the large living room chambers with grand windows overlooking the panorama of the city.
I open my eyes about an hour later, and Aeson is pacing quietly nearby, talking into his wrist comm to someone. “Yes, she’s awake now,” he says to whomever is on the other end. “Come over, and bring Tiago.”
I yawn and sit up. “Oh wow, I actually had a nap. . . I hardly ever have naps! The effects of this gravity are ridiculous. Okay, who’s Tiago?”
And then it occurs to me, This is the first time I’ve fallen asleep right in front of Aeson. . . . Oh no, did I snore? Did I drool? But then I remember that he’s seen me in even worse condition, right after the Qualification Semi-Finals when the medical techs repaired my burned hand and the bullet wound in my other arm. . . . So, yeah, too late for me to worry about that kind of thing now.
Aeson ends the call and comes over. “Feeling better?” he says softly, brushing back a few strands of hair from my cheeks. His touch sends prickles of awareness along my skin, and the sensation wakes me up completely.
“Yes,” I say. “And ready for another round of training. What’s next? Bring it on! And—Tiago?”
“Tiago Guu is one of the Games strategy experts. He’s a media personality and host of Grail Games Daily, a popular show that profiles and analyzes the Games each year.”
“Oh.” I look up, distracted momentarily, to watch a servant carrying a tray with an iced pitcher of juice and glasses, which he places on a side table nearby.
Aeson takes a glass and fills it, then hands it to me. �
��Tiago knows everything there is to know about Games strategy, having analyzed each year’s events for as long as I can remember. Anu is bringing him here so he can talk with you.”
“So, Tiago is not a trainer?” I take a sip of the juice.
“He’ll be one of many experts who will help you prepare. Strategy is just as important as physical ability in the Games. In your case, probably more. So, you’ll want to pay close attention to him.”
“Gotcha.” I nod and take another sip, while Aeson pours himself a glass also. He then calls up a smart wall TV panel and we settle in to watch the latest Pre-Games Trials and commentary, on six simultaneous screens, flipping channels back and forth and resizing one then the other.
At one point I stop and listen to what seems to be some kind of Atlantean stand-up act during the intermission between matches. The sports commentators make room on their panel for a comedian, who launches into a routine that’s mocking Earth refugees.
“You know what they’re all doing, Maga?” the comedian says with a wiggle of his thick dark eyebrows. “All ten million of them? They landed all over the planet, and now they’re all sleeping it off! The gravity of Atlantis is too much, they say, too much for them. So what do they do all day? They sleep! And then, Maga? When they wake up, what do they do?”
“You tell me, Futo, I have no idea what Earth refugees do when they wake up,” the commentator says.
“I tell you what they do. They go right back to sleep!”
Laughter is heard in the background.
“Yes, it’s gravity!” Futo the comedian continues. “Blame it all on gravity!”
“We’ll be sure to do that,” commentator Maga replies. “But now, looks like we have another Warrior match-up lined up for our viewers—”
I shake my head with a sad smile and look at Aeson. “Okay, that’s pretty bad. . . . So not funny it’s pitiful. And yet—” I pause, thinking about all my friends lying around the room in a passed out stupor of exhaustion, just the other day. . . . And then I think about myself, waking up just now. Oh, lord. It’s true.
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