I part my lips in wonder. “This is truly amazing,” I say.
Erita snorts, her rich sonorous voice coming loudly. “A new way of thinking, of looking at the world around you, Gwen Lark! Because your immediate environment, the world itself, is your shield, your best defensive barrier against any opponent. And you are going to use it to protect you. When all else fails, it will save your life.”
Wow, I think. This kind of creative way of looking at the world is already so “me.” But now I have an additional reason and urgency to take my inventive imagination even further.
Chapter 22
When Erita is done with our session, having shown me a variety of useful defensive tricks, Oalla steps forward, carrying her own bag of tricks—the gym bag she referred to earlier as her “personal collection.”
Oalla and I stand in the middle of the sparring floor, looking at each other.
“Gwen, it’s time to get acquainted even deeper with the mysteries of our own Yellow Quadrant weapons,” she says with a mischievous smile. “Now, remember what we’ve practiced for all these months in the Combat classes. Casting nets and knotting cords, using string and rope and other binding methods to restrain and overpower with intricacy.”
“Yup,” I say.
“Well, now it’s time to take it to the next level.” Oalla points to the bag between us. “Go ahead and open it.”
I lean forward and do as she says. At first glance, the bag is full of the typical spider web netting and tightly wound coils of cord and rope. But as I keep digging, I find unusual folded nets made out of silvery reinforced fabric that has to be viatoios, the same material from which body armor is made. “Now this is interesting,” I say, lifting out one particularly heavy viatoios net and unfolding it.
“Tell me what you think this is,” Oalla says.
“Okay . . . it’s reinforced like body armor,” I say, handling the net carefully. “Very strong unbreakable strands, probably not easy to cut through with a blade . . . and ouch, I think I just cut myself on this thing!” I lift a finger that now has a fine bloodied streak, like a paper cut.
“Yes, it is very sharp,” Oalla says with a hard expression, going into her serious Instructor mode. “Normally we wear protective gloves when handling it.”
“So, what’s different about this net, besides its ability to cut?” I say. “Is it some kind of variation on a strangling cord?” Ugh, I recall with a shudder that creepy part of Combat training that has to do with using cords as murder weapons.
But Oalla does not answer. Instead, she bends down and removes a pair of viatoios gloves from an inner pocket of the bag. Putting them on, she takes the prickly-sharp net away from me.
“Move back and watch,” she tells me.
I do as I’m told.
With a sudden lightning-fast motion Oalla unfurls the net wide and then flips it around herself, at the same time crossing her arms in a protective gesture over her face and neck, keeping her gloved hands palm-flat against the net.
The net flips back, and comes around, wrapping itself all around her body, and snaps into place, adhering to itself strangely. Oalla looks as if she is cocooned, a bizarre upright mummy shape.
“Oh, wow,” I say.
“This protective net Form is used to both shield yourself and to attack. Go ahead and grab another pair of gloves from the bag, and then come at me.”
I quickly find the gloves, put them on. “How do I attack?”
The cocoon that’s Oalla makes a mocking sound. “I leave that up to you. For this specific net, any bladed weapon of your choice will do, except firearms. Or feel free to use your fists.”
I glance around and see everyone else watching me. Aeson’s expression is tense.
“Okay.” I step forward and pretend-punch at Oalla with my gloved hand closed in a fist.
“Cross your arms before you, palms open and turned out, the same way I am doing it,” she tells me.
I nod and move my arms up.
The next instant something happens too quickly for me to understand. It’s as if a spring has been released, and Oalla’s intricate movement of hands and arms releases the net which now flips forward and around me, surrounding my own body in a tight cocoon.
I try to move but I’m completely trapped. I stare at Oalla through the open links in the net, my fingers splayed open to hold its sharp edges away from my face.
“If you were an actual enemy combatant, you would have no warning to shield your face,” Oalla says. “You would be severely cut up, and yes, completely trapped and at my mercy.”
The next moment Oalla tugs at a portion of the net, and it falls away easily, releasing me, making a light clanking sound as it hits the floor.
“The purpose of this specialized weapon is dual, to double as both protection and attack.” Oalla nods to the gloves we both have on. “Without these, it should not be used, because you will get lacerations along any unprotected parts of your body that stick out. But with the gloves on, you will learn how to keep the net safely away from you as you manipulate it, wrapping inward or casting outward.”
“Fascinating,” I say. “But what if the opponent attacks you with a thin blade and stabs you through the links? I mean, those are pretty big holes there. . . .”
Oalla smiles. “If you move properly, the only thing that can get through is a firearm or projectile weapon. If a dagger is plunged, you need only tug the net slightly and it shifts, twisting and trapping the blade away from the interior, and wrenching it from the enemy’s hands. They will also tend to lose their fingers in the process.”
I bite my lips. “What about firearms, as you say?”
She nods. “If someone shoots at you, this particular net will not protect you. However, a shielded cloak-net will.” She digs deeper inside the bag and pulls out a wide round of silvery fabric. This one is made of tiny metallic fibers that are so closely woven that it appears to be solid.
“Yes, this too is a dual purpose net,” Oalla says. “I can use this one the exact same way, self-wrapping or casting outward. And if someone shoots a typical medium caliber firearm, it will shield me in most cases.”
“This is great!” I say.
“We’ll be practicing with it in the coming days,” she says, putting the special cloak-net back inside the bag. “But I’m not done showing you my special collection.”
I smile at her expressive eyebrow wiggle.
Oalla goes into another bag compartment pocket and takes out a long grey cord wound into a loop. It’s definitely an orichalcum alloy, because I see familiar sparks of gold shimmer along its otherwise slate surface.
“Now this one is my favorite!” she says in a crafty voice. And then she snaps it. The cord uncoils like a whip . . . strikes the floor . . . and strangely returns into its coiled position back in her hand.
“Oh!” I stare in wonder. “How does it work?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know!”
“Ah, come on,” I say, matching her smile.
“It’s partially magnetized.” Oalla hands the cord to me. “That is to say, it is woven out of alternating magnetized metal fibers and orichalcum fibers. So that it can hold its shape amazingly, and it allows you to shape it in unusual ways.”
I take the cord and feel its flexible slight heft in my fingers. It’s not sharp, but rather smooth and easy to handle. And as I crack it like a whip, in one of the common Combat cord weapon forms, it returns to me smoothly, and adheres to itself.
“Wow,” I say. “Just, wow.”
Oalla winks at me. “Now, Gwen, we are going to begin your first advanced cord lesson with a few practice strikes. . . .”
It’s a little after ninth hour, mid-morning when we finally break for a late eos bread. Hel shines brightly in the grand windows of the gym hall, filling it with blazing light, and we all head for one of the large living rooms of the estate.
“Nice work today, Gwen,” Erita tells me, and the other astra daimon echo her.
“Just k
eep practicing and there will be progress,” Keruvat says with a hopeful expression.
“Thanks,” I mutter. “I hope so.”
I walk tiredly like a limp noodle next to Aeson, who periodically glances at me with his serious concerned gaze—he seems to be permanently concerned now, when it comes to me. The other daimon walk ahead of us, chatting lightly, and there is occasional soft laughter. At some point Xel and Keruvat insult each other with exaggerated loud voices, acting out some kind of private joke scenario, and Oalla gives them points for idiocy.
“How are you feeling?” Aeson says, taking my hand into his own strong, warm fingers. Even though I’m wrung out, I feel an immediate pang of sensual energy race through me at his touch.
“Tired but better than yesterday,” I say bravely, looking up into his eyes.
He nods. “You are acclimating to the new gravity. In a few days you will no longer feel it as much. And by the time the Games begin, you’ll be used to it.”
I squeeze his fingers in reply, and immediately he glances at me with a different kind of intensity . . . the kind that takes my breath away.
As soon as we are settled in various lounge seats around the living room, the estate servants begin setting up for the eos bread. They bring in the usual tables and serving station.
Now that I’ve seen some of their daily life, it occurs to me that Atlanteans don’t seem to have specific dining rooms allocated in their homes (with the exception of the Fleet meal halls, which I suspect were intended to accommodate the expectations of the Earth refugees). Rather, meals are brought in to wherever they happen to be, including portable tables and seats, which are then unfolded to accommodate the diners. What an odd custom! And when they’re done eating, the whole thing is taken away, furniture and all.
But of course I’ve only seen meals at the Imperial Palace and Aeson’s estate, and have no idea how the lower classes make their eating arrangements—this level of detail was never taught to us in Culture classes.
Meanwhile, Aeson and I settle next to each other on one end of the roomy sofa, while Xelio and Erita take two of the large chairs across from us and Xel props his feet up on a low table.
“Ah, a nice light workout,” Oalla says, pulling her feet up farther down on the sofa and curling up against Keruvat. Her golden head rests against his broad shoulders and Ker puts his muscular arm around her, then plants a light kiss on top of her head. He then starts to massage the back of her neck gently with the same hand.
I glance at Aeson in curiosity. But he only raises one eyebrow and continues watching me relentlessly.
Just as my own curiosity in regard to whether Oalla and Ker are involved with each other drives me up the wall, Oalla herself relieves me of my misery.
“You see, Gwen,” she says, stretching luxuriously and running her fingers against Keruvat’s cheek and throat. “This boy knows exactly what to do to make me happy. It is why I’ve loved him all these years since we were children in Fleet Cadet School.”
I smile shyly at her. “So you two are. . . .”
“Oh, yes,” she says. “We are promised to each other.”
“They’ve been promised for years,” Erita says with a roll of her eyes, glancing at Xelio. “But there’s no wedding set. Even their parents are starting to nag and wonder.”
“All in good time,” Ker says, chuckling in his deep rumbling voice.
In that moment, a loud series of peculiar sounds comes from outside in the hallway.
Heads turn as we all glance in the direction of the noise.
I hear female voices, both familiar, and one of them is definitely Manala. She is speaking loudly and urgently, and I can’t quite tell yet what she’s saying, but then I hear a distant door slam. Then I think I hear Hasmik, also speaking. . . .
Their voices are punctuated by silence, then a loud thud, followed by a weird sound of something heavy being scraped or moved across the floor. . . . Then moments later Manala’s voice sounds again, and it appears to be pleading in tone.
Then, another period of silence. Another thud, and more scraping. At least it’s getting closer. At this point I am ready to spring up and go outside.
And then I hear Manala again, and at last I can distinguish her words.
“. . . Oh, sweet Khemji, clever, wonderful Khemji! Please, just a little more! That’s it, up, up! Come on, there you go, sweet noble Khemji! So brave, so wonderful!”
Then comes the same thud.
Followed by a frustrated exclamation from Manala, which is echoed by Hasmik.
“Oh, no . . .” Oalla says, sitting up. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Oh, yes,” Aeson says, with an almost resigned expression. And he gets up.
I follow him. “What is it?”
We step around the servants still busy prepping our meal at the serving station and Aeson goes out into the hall, while I pause at the doorway peeking out.
An amazing sight greets me.
“. . . Clever, delightful Khemji!” Manala stands in the middle of the long corridor with her back turned to me. And she is holding a leash that happens to be attached to the biggest, fattest black cat I have ever seen in my life.
The cat is not merely huge, but the size of a miniature pony—or maybe it’s the size of a lynx or a puma, or even—I don’t know—a frigging baby lion, whatever! It is huge! However, it is shaped as a normal, regular domestic cat, with medium-short hair, and oh yes, a head the size of a grapefruit or, better yet, a melon. Did I say it was huge? Oh. My. God.
The black cat has very round, yellow-gold eyes, opened wide in an almost surprised look, or maybe it’s a terrified look, I don’t know—it is staring, frozen like a deer caught in the headlights.
The cat is wearing a body harness around its fat belly and underneath, front and back, so the leash is comfortably attached to a spot at its back, and doesn’t even come anywhere near its neck.
“. . . Come, oh, my sweetest, prettiest little Khemji!” Manala continues a litany of words.
Seeing Aeson and me in the hall, the cat takes a couple of steps.
And then it plops down hard on the floor with a thud—yes, the thud that we heard from inside the living room—and it rolls on its back slightly, legs up, and ends up on its other side. It simply lies there, playing dead. Except for its tail—which it swats hard against the floor a couple of times.
“. . . Aww, no, please! Sweet, brave Khemji!”
Manala stomps her foot, then pulls at the leash and braces with her legs and drags the cat a couple of feet down the hall—the cat remains a dead weight. Then all of a sudden it stands up, shakes itself off, attempting to shake off the body harness. Then it takes about three more steps, looking very guiltily at Manala and then, plop . . . thud. Down it goes again.
“. . . Khemji!!” Manala wails and pulls the leash and drags Khemji another three feet.
It is then that I notice that Hasmik is a few steps behind them in the hallway. She is holding her hand over her mouth, and it is hard to see what her expression is. . . .
“Manala!” Aeson says after a few long seconds of watching this. “Come, the floor has been mopped enough, you can let him loose now—all the doors are shut. He’s not going to escape anywhere. And—how many times must I repeat, always call me when you get here, when you have him with you. I could’ve carried him from the car for you.”
“I know. . . .” Manala glances at us with an anxious look. “But I didn’t want to bother you, not today, I know how busy you were going to be with Gwen—”
“Oh, Manala . . . Manala.” Aeson’s lips are in a tight line, but I can tell he is holding back a smile.
“All right, janik, it’s safe now, yes? So let’s take off the harness, okay?” Hasmik says, coming up from the back and joining Manala as they work to liberate the cat from its torture-walking contraption. As though realizing that freedom is at hand, Khemji rolls over on his back, then side again, and undulates his spine, thumping his tail against the floor.
And then just as suddenly he rushes forward and trots up to Aeson, rubbing himself against Aeson’s legs. And wow, a rattling engine-loud sound comes from Khemji, and it’s a purr!
“Oh, Khemji, what an adorable boy you are!” Manala exclaims. “You love Aeson, don’t you? Yes, you do! Yes, you do!”
“What a beautiful giant kitty cat!” I say, grinning. “He really is like a dog!”
“We just had to come by and visit,” Manala says to me with a slightly shy smile. “I know you wanted to see Khemji, so I brought him. Gennio was sweet enough to drive us here.”
“And I helped, just a little,” Hasmik adds, coming up to me as we all watch Aeson bend down and stroke the cat’s back and run his hand along its smooth fur.
“Wow,” I say.
“Janik pisik! Shat medz katu! I mean, the cat is so big!” Hasmik continues speaking quickly. “He does not like it when anyone else handles him, so no one could carry him. And, Princess Manala says, no cat carrier. He had to be put on a leash just to get him from the building to the flying car. Oh, Gwen-janik, it took soooo long . . . you have no idea! And this was going on all the way to the car—he would walk a little, fall over, then the Princess would start dragging him on the ground—”
And Hasmik widens her eyes at me, at the same time holding her mouth tight so as not to burst out in laughter.
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