Master of Formalities

by Scott Meyer

  Hennik felt it too, or so Rayzo gathered by his smile. The bureaucracy, the crowds, the Spartan décor, the stifling odor of hundreds of uncomfortable young men, and the unspoken resentment had all seemed to invigorate the Hahn. He was in his element.

  The morning after his failed escape attempt, Hennik had emerged from his room a seemingly different person. This new Hennik was not only resigned to staying on Apios, but happy about it. He had continued his practice of nauseating suck-uppery toward Lord Jakabitus, and indeed, expanded it to encompass pretty much everyone but Rayzo. When Lord Jakabitus asked Hennik about his change of heart, Hennik said that when he realized that his escape plan was going to succeed, he suddenly knew that escape was not what he wanted, so he’d deliberately sabotaged himself to stay at the palace without losing face.

  After listening to that story, Rayzo had learned that he was able to roll his eyes hard enough to cause physical pain. He feared he might have twisted his optic nerve.

  Aside from his smug attitude and his aggressive attempts to pursue Shly, Hennik’s behavior since the escape attempt had been exemplary. It was just a ploy to make everyone drop their guard, but it was having the opposite effect, at least on Rayzo. Hennik was a ticking time bomb, and every moment that he didn’t go off brought them closer to the inevitable moment when he would.

  Rayzo put on his officially assigned sports shorts and watched as his ranking appeared. He’d had a good run at the last meet, resulting in mumbled congratulations from his father and relatively few pointers from Hennik. His rank was #4,231. He allowed himself a moment to enjoy it. Then he looked at Hennik, who had beaten Rayzo in the one and only sports match he’d ever played. His shorts read #4,230.

  Hennik saw Rayzo’s expression and said, “Don’t worry little brother. I’m sure your rank will be as high as mine someday.”

  Both Rayzo and Hennik were relieved when they were split up and sent to separate holding lounges to wait for their first match. Constantly coming up with new ways to antagonize Rayzo took a great deal of concentration, and Hennik was grateful to set aside his efforts and focus on his strategy for winning. He stood with the other competitors to watch the recitation of the prophecy on the big screen feed. The announcer’s words were piped in remotely, but at the end, the sound of all the fathers in the stands saying, “It is the prophecy,” carried through the tunnel and into the lounge as a barely audible pressure wave Hennik felt vibrating in his chest.

  While waiting for his match, Hennik pretended not to notice the other competitors talking about him behind his back, using voices that were pointedly just loud enough for him to hear. He understood the Apiosans well enough to expect resentment. They didn’t understand the Hahn well enough to know that they used other people’s resentment as fuel.

  Finally, Hennik’s number was called, along with the number 4,056, a competitor ranked nearly two hundred spots higher than him. This gave Hennik much to think about on his pod ride to the mat.

  He’ll be far more experienced than I, Hennik thought, and a more worthy adversary than Rayzo. That’s good, though. If I beat him . . .

  For an instant, Hennik saw his father’s face. His thoughts immediately took a different turn.

  When! When I beat him, my rank will go up quite a bit. If, by some freak accident, I lose, my ranking won’t take too much of a hit. I should still end the day ahead of Rayzo. I won’t lose, though. I’ve been making a plan for days. All that’s left is to act out the play I’ve written.

  Hennik reached the mat. After a few seconds, his opponent arrived. He might have been older than Hennik, but he was definitely larger, both in height and in mass. The opponent recognized Hennik on sight, which made Hennik wonder just how famous he was on this planet. Of course, he’d suspected that the ruling family adopting the child of a sworn enemy would be news, but it would be interesting to know just how familiar his image had become to the people of Apios.

  The opponent’s father arrived, followed by Lord Jakabitus. His Lordship made polite one-sided conversation with the other man as Hennik and his opponent faced off for the advantage round.

  Hennik made an effort to outslap his opponent, but his plan for this match didn’t hinge on having the advantage, so he didn’t give it his all.

  Lord Jakabitus shouted encouragement and advice, suggesting that Hennik should try to land a slap, and he might want to consider targeting the opponent’s face.

  Predictably, the opponent won the advantage round. He asked Hennik to declare his dominant hand, and predictably, Hennik lied. The opponent failed to foresee this, and grasped Hennik by his left wrist, leaving Hennik’s right hand free to enact his plan.

  As the time counted down, Hennik thought, Everything hinges on the next thirty seconds. I have to do this right. It must seem real. Any hint that I’m faking would ruin the whole plan.

  The round began. Hennik and his opponent circled each other warily for a moment, then Hennik shouted, “Hey, watch this!”

  The opponent gave him a puzzled look. Hennik capitalized on this confusion by making a fist with his free hand, and bringing it down as hard as he could into his own crotch.

  Some say that pain is less intense when it’s self-inflicted. The idea is that if you’re in control of the pain, it is perceived as an unfortunate necessity rather than an emergency. Hennik knew as soon as his fist made contact that this was not true. Hennik sank to one knee, pressing his belly with his free arm, as if it would somehow help ease his condition. He heard his opponent gasp, then curse, then laugh. More importantly, Hennik did not hear any score chimes, meaning that neither of them had scored when he struck himself in the crotch. Hennik had suspected this would be the case, but he’d wanted to be sure for his future matches.

  Now, he just had to finish this match.

  His opponent was standing above him, confused and laughing. It was just the opportunity Hennik needed. He swept his opponent’s legs, and when the boy landed hard, Hennik quickly pinned his arms and rolled him onto his front. Hennik ran out the clock sitting between the opponent’s shoulder blades, keeping him immobile. Toward the end, when it was clear that Hennik would win this round on points, the opponent said, “Okay, fine. You won this time, Hahn, but do you really think that trick will work against everybody?”

  Hennik said, “I only needed it to work against you.”

  When the time was up, Lord Jakabitus seemed more bewildered than proud. He walked out to the mat and stood next to Hennik, who was still slightly hunched over from the residual pain. Lord Jakabitus held Hennik’s hand aloft and said, “It is the prophecy,” but his voice rose in pitch at the end, as if in question.

  Hennik rode the pod back and tried to contain his glee as he reentered the holding lounge. He wanted to rub his victory in every face he saw, but he knew that he needed to play it cool for his plan to work. While he waited for his next match, he stood facing one of the displays. His eyes were watching the big-screen feed, but his ears were scanning the mass of competitors behind him, listening for the words Hennik, Hahn, and any synonym for the word crotch.

  Hennik figured that news of the ruling family’s adopted Hahn winning his first match by assaulting himself would spread about as fast as news possibly could. The more time that went by without Hennik hearing any whispers about his performance, the better he felt. He wouldn’t have minded the story of his first match getting out, as it would have caused future opponents to underestimate him. But he did not want anyone to guess what he intended to do in his second match.

  Hennik watched several matches on the feed before he heard his number called again. He felt confident as he rode to the mat, and this time he didn’t think about much of anything, letting the spectacle wash over him.

  His opponent and his opponent’s father were already waiting at the mat. The boy was older, larger, and ranked a little over a hundred points higher than him. Hennik saw recognition and confidence on their
faces, but no amusement.

  Neither of them had heard the story yet, Hennik thought. Did these people not talk to each other?

  Lord Jakabitus was the last to arrive. The scheduling algorithm always allowed for fathers who had more than one son competing to attend all of their sons’ matches. The algorithm was quite good, but it still sometimes led to a hectic day for the father in question.

  Because Hennik wasn’t worried about winning the advantage round, he was free to experiment, and because he hadn’t been raised with sports, he had no preconceived notions about how the game should be played.

  The orthodox strategy for the challenge round was to keep the elbows apart and barrage the sides of the opponent’s head with fast, light slaps, though one might block an opponent’s arms with one’s own. One could feint slapping low, then instead slap high. There were endless variations in the high-speed chess game of the advantage round, but the basic forms and strategies were honored.

  The round started, and the opponent landed several light slaps in quick succession on the sides of Hennik’s face. Hennik put his hands together in front of his chest and thrust them straight up, between the opponent’s arms. He then opened his hands and smeared them into the other boy’s face.

  His opponent was stunned. He had difficulty seeing and breathing because his eyes, nostrils, and mouth were all either partially or totally clogged by Hennik’s hands. His rational mind shut down altogether, and he stopped slapping, instead struggling to push Hennik’s hands away from his face. He grappled and struggled and pulled at Hennik’s arms, but Hennik had superior leverage.

  The opponent finally managed to pull Hennik’s left hand back, using both of his hands to do it. Hennik retaliated by slapping the opponent as hard as he could with his right palm. He landed several harsh, stinging blows before the opponent released his left hand and brought his arms up around his head to shield himself from further attack. He shouldn’t have bothered. He had barely started cowering when Hennik won the round.

  The opponent said nothing, nor did the opponent’s father, nor did Lord Jakabitus. Hennik thrust both arms high into the air and walked a lap of the mat shouting, “Yes! Yes!” He took up his position for the challenge round, laughing and hopping up and down to stay loose.

  “What’s your dominant hand?” he asked.

  The opponent started to answer, but Hennik interrupted, shouting, “It doesn’t matter! I’ll take your right!”

  The opponent looked uncertainly toward the VIP box. His father and Lord Jakabitus both shrugged. He extended his right hand to Hennik, who took it in his own right.

  The round started. Hennik immediately dropped to the floor and scurried between the other, taller boy’s legs, still holding his opponent’s right wrist in an iron grip. Hennik employed the technique that Hartchar had taught him and Rayzo, springing instantly back to his feet and pivoting. Hennik was now standing behind his opponent, who was hunched forward with his right arm extended back between his own legs, giving him no leverage to break free.

  Hennik pitched his weight forward to tug back on the opponent’s arm, then pulled upward sharply, bringing the unfortunate boy’s forearm up between his own legs. As Hennik’s earlier experiment had shown, the score was unaffected. Instead, the opponent instinctively rose to the balls of his feet, putting himself even more off balance.

  Hennik kept applying upward pressure with his right hand, then shoved the boy forward with his left. His helpless opponent essentially tiptoed to the edge of the mat under his own power, with Hennik exerting only minimal effort to keep him moving. Once they reached the edge, Hennik used all of his strength to pull up, sending the boy headfirst into the gutter.

  Hennik ran in circles and jumped and spun as energetically as he could while laughing.

  “Undefeated!” he cried. Un! De! Feated!”

  Lord Jakabitus said something to the opponent’s father, then bent down into the gutter to speak to the defeated opponent. Hennik didn’t know what he was saying, and didn’t care. He was too busy sending a message to everybody to listen to anybody.

  “This is my first meet, and no one can touch me! I’m amazed! I knew this game was ridiculous and stupid, but I had no idea it was so easy!”

  Lord Jakabitus walked to the middle of the mat and took Hennik’s hand. Hennik thrust both arms into the air, dragging Lord Jakabitus’s hand up with them, and shouted, “It is the prophecy!”

  Lord Jakabitus said nothing.

  Rayzo was under the mistaken impression that he was having a good day.

  His matches had been challenging, but not so much so that he hadn’t won all of them. The matching algorithm took into account not only whether or not you won your match, but also how difficult it had been. The easier one match was, the more challenging the next would be. As such, Hartchar’s instructions were to win, but not too quickly; that way Rayzo would get extra real-world practice, avoid getting matched with a much higher-ranked opponent who was beyond his skill level, and continue to increase his standing in a controlled, sustainable manner.

  Lord Jakabitus was far less vocal than usual. Instead of shouting encouragement at Rayzo to do whatever he was already attempting to do, His Lordship made polite conversation with the opponent’s father in the VIP box before the match, then sat in silence while Rayzo competed.

  After Rayzo’s first win of the day, when Lord Jakabitus came out to raise his son’s hand and invoked the prophecy, Rayzo asked how Hennik was doing. Lord Jakabitus had just enough time to say, “He won his first match, but I doubt that his strategy will work long term.”

  At each of his subsequent matches, Rayzo had repeated the same query, only to be answered with increasingly terse recitations of the sentence, “Don’t worry about Hennik, son. Concentrate on your own matches.”

  Rayzo wasn’t stupid. He could read between the lines. Hennik must be getting destroyed. Clearly his father was afraid that telling him so would be a distraction. It would also explain His Lordship’s subdued demeanor. The old man had been hoping that Hennik would be a strong competitor.

  Rayzo understood, but he didn’t feel much sympathy for either of them. Hennik had gotten off to a good start, but the honeymoon was over, and he and Lord Jakabitus both needed to understand who was the best son and the best sportsman. The fact that he was having the best single day of sports in his career just drove the point home.

  Rayzo won his final match of the meet, taking great care to do so slowly. Lord Jakabitus moped out onto the mat, held Rayzo’s hand aloft, and quietly invoked the prophecy. Again, Rayzo asked how Hennik was doing. Lord Jakabitus bit his lip, put a hand on Rayzo’s shoulder, and said, more gently this time, “Concentrate on your own game, son.”

  As he rode his pod back to the holding lounge, Rayzo thought, Wow, Father is taking Hennik’s failure awfully hard. I hate to see him unhappy, but I must say, it serves him right. You can’t let your self-esteem get wrapped up in someone else’s performance.

  Rayzo stepped out of the pod with more than a little swagger in his step. As he made his way through the crowd, he noticed an unusually high level of chatter in the room. It was late in the meet, and it wasn’t unusual for rumors to have started spreading about what had happened during competition.

  Rayzo looked around. Everyone was talking at once and stealing glances at him. He was a Jakabitus. He was used to people behaving this way. Almost everybody did. But this wasn’t almost everybody. It was everybody, and they were all doing it at once. Somewhere in the sea of furtive mutterings, Rayzo clearly heard someone say, “Hahn.”

  “What’s happened?” Rayzo asked.

  The entire room went silent. A young boy said, “I’m sorry, Your Lordship. You are Rayzo Jakabitus, aren’t you?” His shorts bore a ranking in the 9,000s. He was small, thin, and too young to know that he should be nervous.

  “I’m not a Lord,” Rayzo said, crouching to put himself
on the boy’s level, as he’d seen his mother do more than once when addressing children. “Officially, you’d call me Master Rayzo, but I’m not worried about it. What’s your name?”

  The boy smiled and said, “Mank, sir, uh, Master Rayzo.”

  “Hello, Mank.”

  “Hello. Um, I was wondering, you came here with the Hahn, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Rayzo said.

  “Is it true that he’s developed a secret sports technique?”

  “I don’t know of any,” Rayzo said.

  “They say it makes him unbeatable, Master Rayzo.”

  “I . . . I don’t think that’s true,” Rayzo said.

  “Have you ever beaten him?” the boy asked.

  Rayzo hesitated just long enough for someone to shout, “He’s on the big screen! The Hahn’s fighting on the big screen!”

  Rayzo didn’t have to make his way to a display. They were everywhere in the lounge. Hennik was standing hunched forward on a mat, preparing for the advantage round. Opposite him was a competitor who was larger in every measurable way, yet Hennik looked supremely confident.

  The round began. The opponent tried to use his superior reach to his advantage, leaning back slightly and slapping at Hennik with his fingertips. Rayzo smiled to himself, which was exactly when Hennik lurched forward and mashed his palm into the opponent’s face, pressing against his nose and blocking his mouth and eyes. The opponent instinctively grabbed Hennik’s arm with both hands and tried to pull it off his face. Hennik capitalized on his mistake by striking the competitor repeatedly, as hard as he could, in the ear.

  The opponent tried to block Hennik’s blows with one arm while holding the other hand away from his face, but Hennik had the initiative, and he easily landed enough fierce blows to win the advantage round. He celebrated by running laps of the mat with his arms raised in triumph.