Song of Edmon

by Adam Burch

  Miranda, my betrothed . . .

  “Look at his dark hair and raggedy clothes!” exclaims Perdiccus. “You look like a whale-turding Daysider.”

  “I am a Daysider,” I say defiantly.

  They stare.

  “You must be a good fighter,” says the thuggish one, Sigurd.

  He steps close, almost a full foot taller than me. He slams his fist into my solar plexus. I double over in pain, gasping for air. Perdiccus howls with laughter and leans against Sigurd as he slaps his own thigh.

  “Hurts so much, Sig! Can’t stop laughing!”

  Sigurd grins, but he doesn’t seem amused.

  Hanschen kneels and pulls my chin toward his face. “Not a fighter then. You must have some other qualities Phaestion thought redeemable. You’re pretty enough.”

  A chime sounds. The boys collectively sigh.

  Sigurd cuts in. “Save the new-fish hazing for Combat practice. We’re going to be late for astrophysics. Your bunk is the bottom, snail guppy. Don’t cry tonight. I hate criers.”

  “I’m really scared,” I mutter sarcastically.

  “What did you say?” The tendons in Sigurd’s neck flare like a bull’s.

  “You’re clearly the smartest of the group,” I say as I stand.

  Damn it! Stop talking, Edmon.

  The thug’s brow furrows as he tries to discern whether I’m mocking him or not. Hanschen giggles under his breath.

  “Shut up!” Sigurd commands. Hanschen quiets, and Sigurd stalks off. Perdiccus bursts into hysterical laughter before following like a hyena eel.

  Hanschen lingers for a beat. “That was dumb, snail guppy. Now Sigurd will kill you.”

  “Would it be different if I’d said nothing?” I hold my stomach.

  Hanschen shrugs. “Enjoy your licks while you can get them.”

  I walk into the classroom wearing the black military suit and shiny boots of a Julii cadet. Teacher Michio motions for me to take a seat next to the other “companions.” The kimono that’s hastily wrapped about his waist, his smooth pate, and his small stature tell me he isn’t from Tao.

  Perdiccus kicks the stool out from under me as I sit. I fall to the floor with a thud, and the other boys snicker.

  Teacher Michio lets out an exhalation of frustration. “No interruptions, please.”

  I scramble to pull my stool underneath me.

  “Where were we? Ah, yes, the propulsion force needed from a rocket to break Tao’s high gravity atmosphere.”

  Teacher Michio goes on for the next hour about Tao’s high level of gravity. He waxes on nuclear fuel production. He drones on about the synthesis of polymers for shuttle construction and the durability of high-grade transparent plastics against cosmic rays.

  Sigurd yawns. Perdiccus draws shapes on his aquatablet. Only Hanschen listens intently, but even he doesn’t appear to be taking notes. Meanwhile, I furiously write. I don’t understand even half of what I transcribe.

  Why am I here? I was so stupid to come. I miss home already.

  Then Teacher Michio says something that catches my ear. “All matter and energy is created from tiny strings that vibrate.”

  I think of Gorham and his gap-toothed smile. Everything is music, Edmon, he would tell me. Even the ancestors who have risen to the Elder Stars or those who became one with the great Mother Ocean are a part of it.

  Teacher Michio says the frequency at which everything vibrates creates the matter and energy of the known universe.

  Gorham was right! Music is everywhere and everything. The fabric of existence is music.

  I’m comforted to know that even here, I can still find the source of the thing I love best.

  Then class is over. I follow the others into the hall. Perdiccus stabs me with his stylus in the small of my back. It punctures through the fabric to my skin. The point hits just the right nerve to send my back into a spasm. I collapse to the floor.

  “Hurry up, snail guppy,” Hanschen says, smirking.

  I pick myself off the floor and hobble, trying to keep up. I look out the bay windows. Hundreds of other students are seated in a vast lecture hall below.

  “Who are they?” I whisper as I catch up to Hanschen.

  “Plebs.” He shrugs. “Lowborn.”

  “They don’t take classes with us?” I ask.

  “We’re The Companions,” he says as if it explains everything. “We lead. They follow.” He hurries into the next room.

  Teacher Croack lectures on genetics. Whereas Michio was most certainly from off-world, Croack looks like the perfect Nightsider with his blond hair and muscular build. The lesson advances quickly from Punnett squares to RNA manipulation. Croack suggests the environment of Tao has mutated the inhabitants, namely us. High gravity evolved increased bone and muscle density. The low light of the Twilight Band forced Nightsiders to develop eyes more sensitive to light.

  He recounts the environmental influence on culture. “The Combat and the Pavaka have eliminated weakness and congenital disease, ha-hmm.”

  He ends all of his sentences by clearing his throat. I find it extremely annoying.

  “Strategic marriage between ruling houses has led to an elite class with superior mental and physical capacities, ha-hmm.”

  It’s hard to believe that anyone who encourages a practice like the Pavaka, a ritual burning of babies with defects or disabilities, is considered “superior” in any way.

  “The Tao Nightsider is the most perfect human form that has ever existed!” he exclaims.

  “And Daysiders?” I ask.

  The others gasp at my question.

  Croack scowls. “Ha-hmm, Daysiders are born of Tao and share similar traits, hmm, but their race came to this planet sometime after the first human diaspora from Ancient Earth and is of inferior genetic stock. One cannot compare an island Daysider to the sculpted beauty of a Nightsider. Genetics is a complicated science, hmm, but the basic principles are simple. Each person is endowed by their creators with a unique pattern of potential. The Tao Nightsider is the pinnacle of potential.” He nods with smug finality.

  I believed my father was perfect. Until I met him.

  “How do you know?” I ask.

  “The Combat.” The fact I’ve even asked annoys him. “Fighting is the art of assessing opponents’ strengths and weaknesses. The Electors are even renovating the arena to provide deadly obstacles and puzzles. In a few years’ time, the Combat will pit intellect against intellect more than ever, hmm. Body against body, in a fight for survival. The superior live to propagate. It’s a natural extension of evolution pushing humanity to its limit, hah.”

  “The strongest, most capable, rule,” Hanschen parrots.

  “Not everyone competes in the Combat,” I say. “What about those who don’t?”

  “If you’re too scared to wager your life to attain power, then you don’t deserve it in the first place.” Perdiccus laughs.

  “Power? What for?” I ask.

  “What do you mean what for?” Perdiccus’s crazy eyes widen.

  “Why want power? To rule others?” I ask. “Winning the Combat might favor someone stronger or faster, or even smarter, but how does killing make you a better leader? Why not just be free and let others be free in return?”

  “Freedom’s an illusion,” says Hanschen. “We’re all controlled by hierarchical social structures whether it’s parent and child, husband and wife, house and plebeian, whatever. Strong over weak is the primal law of nature. If you don’t choose strength, someone else will.”

  “Complex society necessitates a system of structure,” Perdiccus chimes in. “Tao democracy is based on natural selection because it is intrinsic to humanity.”

  “Why is intrinsic better?” I fire back.

  “Because it is.” Sigurd growls, silencing the rest of us. “We are better.”

  Perhaps I should keep my opinions to myself, but for some reason, I don’t care. I feel deep down, they are wrong. “Because I say so isn’t a valid argument.” />
  Nadia would be proud.

  Sigurd stands and looms over me. He’s huge, ready to hit me to prove his point.

  Hanschen grabs his arm. “Not yet. Soon,” he whispers.

  “Quiet!” Croack barks. He motions for Sigurd to sit down. “Debate is healthy, ha-hmm.” Croack chews on the words. “It challenges us.” He turns to me. “But this is not philosophy class, Leontes, hmm. The Combat is mental and physical. It favors strength but also critical thinking, ha-hmm. Our ancestors were warriors, and authority was measured by those who earned it. Strong propagated strong. It has always been thus.”

  “Just because it’s always been, doesn’t mean it always should be,” I mutter.

  “What?” His face grows red at my impertinence.

  “What about scientists or doctors? Artists or musicians? Leaders have more responsibilities than fighting. They need to think in ways other than outmaneuvering sword thrusts.”

  The room bursts into laughter.

  “Musicians!” shrieks Perdiccus.

  My face heats with humiliation.

  “Music, ha-hmm? Yes, we remember your proclamations in front of Old Wusong, Little Leontes”—Croack stands over me—“music won’t save you when you have an enemy’s knife at your throat, hmm. What will music do? The power to kill is the only true power in the Nine Corridors. Those who have it thrive. That’s how humans rose from the muck to spread through the cosmos. Not by music or poetry, but by the ability to be better killers than anything else.”

  Teacher Michio said all energy vibrates. Gorham said that the universe was music.

  What if it is, but it doesn’t matter? What if survival is the only constant?

  “What about space gypsies?” I ask softly, baiting a trap.

  “Ha-hmm, spypsies?” Croack whirls on me.

  “Space gypsies practically live their whole lives in micro-g.”

  Sigurd and Perdiccus look at me confusedly. Only Hanschen nods, following.

  Croack shakes his head with frustration. “Your point?”

  “Spypsies genetically engineer themselves for space. They have sticky pads on their hands and feet, hairless bodies so air recyclers won’t get clogged, and flexible bones for more efficient skeletons. If fighting is the best measure of a man, the Combat might be the standard of perfection on Tao, but how could it be in a different environment, for a different culture, for a completely different type of person? Your rules of perfection are limited at best, arbitrary at worst.”

  “Gene-splicing is abomination!” Croack erupts. “Changing a genome in a lab is the coward’s way to superiority, hmm. Let spypsies trade in their humanity and churn themselves into genetic stew. Let the Combat prepare the righteous of Tao!”

  Our time recorders hum. Session has ended. We pick up our aquagraphic tablets and exit as Croack fumes behind us.

  Righteous? I think. He’s mistaken. His perfection will not save him. The leviathan in my dream was right—everyone dies in the end.

  CHAPTER 7

  MAESTRO

  I stand on the floor of the Julii practice arena stripped to the waist. Sigurd, Perdiccus, and Hanschen are next to me. Around us, other boys, the rest of the Julii Academy, practice with weapons. They’re lowborn, the ones I’ve seen from the bay windows of the hallways above. They drill and march. They practice martial arts against large mechanical automatons with spiked limbs and swiveling torsos.

  I feel their eyes on me. I’m the only one in the room with hair duller than gold. They cast furtive glances and sometimes stare outright.

  Yes, I am a stinking Daysider! I want to shout.

  The only other boy I’ve seen who isn’t blond is Phaestion, but he’s not here now.

  “What are those?” I whisper to Hanschen and point at the automatons.

  “Training tools. They aren’t conscious, of course, but they can observe patterns and increase difficulty to challenge our abilities.”

  I’ve heard of computers that can think. Most planets abhor them. The Great Song outlawed advanced machines when he arrived with his colonists on Tao. He proclaimed that machine consciousness had degraded human societies. Some historians argue that advanced machines were why the Miralian Empire crumbled. I stare at the mechanical dummies with fascination. Their clockwork gears seem deadly.

  “Hanschen!” a gruff voice calls. “Sigurd, Perdiccus, choose your weapons.”

  Alberich lumbers forward, now dressed in the black uniform of a Julii teacher. I’m glad to see a familiar face, but I tighten my lips, remembering that he isn’t my friend. He’s merely a trainer and still serves my father.

  Hanschen picks up a pair of short swords. Sigurd hefts a giant mace, while Perdiccus leans on a silver trident taken from a rack of weapons.

  I reach out and grasp the smooth ivory handle of a katana sword. I’ve learned the single sword is my best weapon since it’s really the only one I can use with any accuracy at all.

  “Since my departure at the end of the previous cycle, I trust you’ve all kept up your training.” Alberich nods at each of us. “Today, you welcome a new companion, Edmon Leontes. He will be observing.”

  “Lowborn,” Perdiccus says, coughing.

  “Quiet!” Alberich reprimands. “Sequential sparring. No shock vests. Mano a mano, then duo a mano.”

  Sharp weapons. No shock vests? This is not a child’s game.

  We touch our fists to our palms and bow with the sign of martial deference.

  “Don’t worry,” Hanschen whispers to Sigurd. “A fight’s a fight, no matter what the teacher says.” Perdiccus grins.

  “What about trio a mano?” asks Hanschen innocently. “There are four of us now that Edmon’s joined. Mano a mano. Duo, then trio, right, Master?”

  “I’ve said Edmon will not be participating.” The seneschal shakes his head. “He will observe and work on forms.”

  They all sigh with indignation.

  “Master Alberich,” Hanschen pleads, “Edmon has to participate. He’s one of us now. He can’t be a companion without training with us. How do you expect him to command others without the respect that comes from fighting back-to-back?”

  My eyes narrow with suspicion. I’m not one of them.

  “I understand. That doesn’t change my decision.” Alberich knows he’s being baited.

  The whole arena watches. There’s no mistaking their glances. I feel their contempt, their amused satisfaction. I haven’t felt this scrutiny since my audience with Old Wusong. I’m exactly what they expected—a Daysider, weak, not fit. Alberich has confirmed it by not letting me participate.

  Hanschen’s right, I realize. They will never respect me if I don’t fight.

  “I’ll fight.” The words leap from my mouth before I’ve even formed the thought.

  “No,” Alberich says flatly. “Sigurd, first position.”

  The thuggish boy scowls and steps forward.

  “I said, I’ll go first,” I repeat.

  I step in front of Sigurd. He growls. “I could school you so easily if I wanted to.”

  “Then do it, bully,” I return coldly.

  “Quiet!” Alberich booms.

  He strides toward me, his voice tight. “Edmon, I know you want to prove yourself—”

  “I don’t want to,” I plead. “I have to.”

  “These boys have trained their whole lives—”

  I take a deep breath. “They’re all watching . . .”

  It’s true. The drills have stopped. All of them are slowly gathering around, like sharks smelling blood. Someone releases a camglobe in the arena. It floats through the hall capturing images, broadcasting them somewhere, for someone, I don’t know who.

  “They think I’m weak,” I confide. “Do you think they’ll ever accept me if I don’t even try?”

  “Edmon, you are weak,” Alberich states flatly.

  His words slam me like freezing water.

  “I’ve done my best to teach you, but you aren’t ready. If you think letting them watch yo
u bleed like a stuck seal will convince them, you’re wrong. No one respects a dead man. And if they do, you’ll be dead anyway.”

  Death may not care, but they all do. My father does. I do.

  I know what I must do—say something so harsh, he won’t want to protect me.

  “Is that why you called for mercy when my father took your hand, instead of facing your death like a real man?” I ask.

  His face pales, then his expression hardens. He walks out of the match circle inscribed on the floor.

  I ready my sword. Boys circle the ring, watching. “Mano a mano,” Alberich calls out.

  Sigurd steps forward, but Hanschen raises a hand. “Save the best for last,” he says.

  Sigurd scowls but lets Hanschen take position opposite me in the circle.

  Hanschen twirls his dual short swords with aplomb.

  My katana has greater reach, but Hanschen’s blades have a speed advantage. He surprises me. He bats my sword aside quickly with one and slashes with the other. I twist at the last instant. It saves me from certain death, but the edge still grazes my shoulder. I dive-roll, then pop up into a crouch. I whip the katana behind me wildly in hopes I might catch my opponent. Hanschen’s too clever for that, though. He stays well outside of the arc of my swing.

  I guess we’ve started, I think.

  Hanschen cleans the red of my blood from his blade with a finger. “Daysiders bleed easily, don’t they, snail guppy?”

  He leaps into the air, raising both of his swords. I’m reminded of my days on the beach drilling, over and over, the lessons with Phaestion, his voice in my ear—

  Watch the movement of the elbows, the knees, the shoulders, the hips. Don’t be there when they strike. Take the outside angle . . .

  I sidestep, raising my blade. I could end this now with a killing blow. Instead, I drag the katana across Hanschen’s upper thigh, and his leg opens. He smashes to the floor, howling in rage.

  “Submit?” I ask.

  He lashes out with his blade, catching my face. Blood fills my vision. I scream, more from shock than pain.

  Are my eyes gone?

  Hanschen’s fist slams into my chest, knocking my sword from my grasp. It clatters to the floor. I clamber to reach it.