by Adam Burch
“It’s our history.” Phaestion shrugs. “Empress Boudika is pretty interesting, and Hektor the Mako Breaker. Of course, there is the Great Song . . .”
“You care about all this nonsense. I don’t. These people are long dead. I’m concerned with where I’m going.” I toss the aquareader to the foot of the bed.
Phaestion stops juggling. “Do you want to see how I study?” he asks conspiratorially.
I’m shocked. Phaestion’s daily activities are a secret, not just from me, but from all companions.
“Come on.” He pulls me out of the bed. I feel stabbing pain shoot up my legs with each step as we run down the hall, but I don’t care. I’m too excited. It’s the first time I’ve walked without the medical braces since my accident.
“Where are we going?” I ask, hobbling after him.
“This way!” he calls back over his shoulder.
I meet him in a pneumovator, panting from the exertion. He whispers, “Up.” The pneumovator spirals us high through the Julii tower. I’m treated to my first view outside the walls of the infirmary in months. Meridian is dark and majestic as ever in the twilight. I’d forgotten how huge and distant the glass city looks from a high tower. Still, it seems claustrophobic and oppressive to an island boy.
“We’re here!” I can tell he’s almost giddy to have someone enter his world. I wonder if it’s lonely for him, having to spend most of his days away from others his age. The doors slide open on a dark room. A catwalk leads into the center of a vast dome formed of cascading water. It’s like being suspended inside a giant bubble.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“My study,” Phaestion says. He leads me to the center of the room and calls out, “Lesson!” The entire chamber lights up as one massive aquagraphic. “Historical records mark the fall of the Miralian Empire circa 800 Post Fractural Collapse with the construction of seven arc ships . . .”
The lesson drones much like my own aquagraphic educationals, but this is obviously more impressive in scale.
“Split!” Phaestion calls. Suddenly the aquagraphic dome splits into two lessons simultaneously.
“You’re doing two at once?”
“It’s more efficient as long as my brain can retain the information.” He smiles mischievously. “Split!”
Four lessons play. “Split!” he shouts. “Split! Split! Split!”
Eight. Sixteen. Thirty-two. Sixty-four!
“How many can you do?” I ask, astounded.
“I max out at over one hundred screens,” he says as his eyes scan. “Then my retention is diminished.”
He’s showing off, the bastard, I think.
“This isn’t even the fun part. Surveillance. Julii tower.”
The aquagraphic lessons blink out and are replaced by images throughout the tower. I recognize students drilling. Vetruk is in his office. I see The Companions in Michio’s physics class.
He could just watch us any time he wanted, know everything about us, I realize.
“I see everything that goes on.” He nods, confirming my thoughts.
I point to an obscured image on the aquagraphic screen to my lower left. “Why is that one blurred out?”
Phaestion pushes my hand down swiftly. I almost lose my balance on still-wobbly legs. “Those are my father’s quarters,” he hisses, looking over his shoulders as if we, too, are being spied on.
“What about your mother? Where’s she?” I ask. It’s something I’ve always been curious about.
“I told you. She’s a sea goddess.” He releases a carefree laugh. I stare at him with seriousness, and he suddenly gets very quiet. “I don’t have a mother.”
For a moment, I see him not as some child demigod, but rather a sad little boy, all alone. I don’t know what else to say, so I quickly change the subject. “What’s that kid doing?” I ask, pointing to a naked boy in the barracks. His back is to the camglobe, but his arm is moving very quickly.
“Oh that,” Phaestion replies with a shy laugh. “It’s something with . . . your part.”
“Oh,” I say, a little shocked. “What?”
“It’s hard to describe,” he says, stammering. I’ve never seen Phaestion not quite in control before. “I tried it myself, but I couldn’t make it happen like I’ve seen. I’m told it’s because I’m not old enough, but it still feels good. I like watching when others do it.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask confusedly.
But his enigmatic smile just returns. “You’re not ready yet.”
“Who are you to tell me when I’m ready?” I demand.
“Come on!” He grabs my arm.
We return to the hall with the pneumovator, and he pulls me along a maze of corridors and through a nondescript door into a small, pristine, white room. A weapons rack lies against one wall. A strange robotic suit stands in the center of the room, its back opened to the air.
“Is this—?”
“Where I train,” he says, finishing my thought.
“It’s so small.” As impressive as his study was, his training room is equally dull.
“It may not look like much, but it’s one of the most advanced physical training systems ever created,” he corrects me haughtily.
He steps into the back of the iron suit, and the metal molds close, sealing him inside.
“What does it do, exactly?” I ask.
“Stand back!” Phaestion’s voice is muffled by the helmet.
I plaster myself against the wall by the door as Phaestion lumbers toward the weapons rack. He grabs his rapier and dagger, then returns to the center of the room to begin a practice form.
He’s not practicing a form, I realize. He’s fighting enemies I can’t see.
“The helmet and suit simulate opponents!” Phaestion calls out.
“Can it simulate anything?” I ask.
“Anything and anyone.” He laughs.
All of those images of the Julii students, The Companions, all the footage of old Combats . . . he can access them with this training device!
“The suit can simulate environments,” he continues. “Vacuum or increased gravity. Intense cold or heat. And this . . .”
He puts down his weapons. The suit vibrates, slow at first, then faster and faster. The hum becomes intense, uncontrollable. A sonic vibration stronger than any siren. I cover my ears.
Phaestion, inside the suit, screams in horrific pain.
“Stop!” I cry. “Stop, Phaestion, stop!”
The vibrating ceases almost as quickly as it began. The metal peels away softly like the skin of a fruit. Phaestion steps out, panting. He kneels on the floor, and I hobble forward.
“What was that?” I ask frantically.
“I call it the Arms of Agony,” he says with a weary smile. “You remember when I showed you my siren swords?”
I remember I tried to hold them and was thrown to the ground, my nerves tingling.
“This suit is based on the same principal, only with the whole body. Talousla Karr invented it for me. It’s based on his studies that physical pain unlocks our genetic potential. If we survive, we are molded into something stronger. That was only level one.”
Only level one? I take in this disturbing thought. Pain makes a person stronger.
Then I have an even worse premonition—my friend will die trying to achieve some unprecedented level of strength.
I banish the idea quickly. I don’t want to imagine losing the only person I can talk to in this new, weird world I find myself in.
The next day, Phaestion tells me he won’t visit anymore or help with my therapy. I ask him why, and he simply says that now I can walk without the assistance of braces, and it is time for me to rejoin The Companions. I try to protest and tell him that is still terrifically painful to even move. Our little jaunt to his study has caused me to be bedridden again all morning. He simply shakes his head.
The shift is sudden. I know it has something to do with the fact that I’ve seen his secrets. I wo
nder if his father caught me with him. It doesn’t matter. I’m to be sent back with the others.
I beg him not to make me go.
“Edmon,” he says paternally, “you’ve already fought all three single-handedly—”
“They almost murdered me!” I protest.
“And you survived. You’ve nothing to fear. It’s they who should fear.” He stands.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re stronger than they are, and they know it.” He smiles. “Besides, if anyone ever took you from me, I would destroy them.”
I rejoin The Companions on the morrow. My hands shake from fear as I limp into Teacher Michio’s astrophysics class.
“Look who has come to join us,” Hanschen says slyly.
My whole body stiffens as I remember the edge of his steel breaking my skin.
“He looks stronger than a manta.” Perdiccus grins as he brushes a golden lock from his wild eyes.
I try to detect irony in his voice, but his enthusiasm seems genuine.
“If anything he’s showing orca pride,” Hanschen condescends.
“No,” Sigurd interrupts. I turn to the brawny boy who meets my gaze. A regrown pale eye has replaced the one I injured in our fight. “He’s a leviathan,” Sigurd says.
I gape. Sigurd, the most brutish bully I’ve ever known, is actually praising me? In spite of all he believes about his own race’s superiority?
“It’s good to have you back, brother.”
The high-pitched voice catches me off balance. Behind Sigurd, bright blue eyes framed by golden hair come into view. The square, open face of an eight-year-old boy breaks into a smile.
“Hello, Edgaard,” I say, my voice hollow.
My bones mend fully, and soon I can walk without a limp. I feel pain all the time, but I grit my teeth through it. I think to myself, If Phaestion can endure the Arms of Agony, I can endure this.
I join The Companions in their sparring sessions a year to the day of my arrival. I am not yet allowed to match since I am still recovering, so I watch from the sidelines.
Phaestion was right. Edgaard is a phenom. At eight, the boy moves with a speed that’s almost unnatural. His timing and balance are excellent. It’s also no wonder that he’s chosen the spear and shield as his weapons of choice.
Adopting our father’s signature . . . this is what a son should be, I think.
“Edmon, did you see?” Edgaard comes running up to me after winning first blood against Perdiccus. I try to ignore him and concentrate on the training automaton that jabs me with its mechanical barbs.
“It was a lucky shot, sluggo!” Perdiccus calls as he limps to watch my training, too.
I hate when they look at me, I think. They’re always looking, judging.
I leap over a spout of flame the training mech blasts at my feet. I feel shooting pain with the movement but force myself anyway. I land with wobbling balance. I feel my ligaments tear with excruciating pain, then almost as suddenly, pull back into taut alignment. This is the new normal—pain, damage, fast healing. I hate it.
“Yeah, you were great, Edgaard,” I spit out through my concentration. I wish the boy were dead more days than not, but the others look at him almost like a mascot. He tags along on whatever they do, but it’s me that he always looks at with a hopeful gaze, wanting some kind of approval. Ironic that all I can see is my replacement, a miniature version of my father.
The training automaton fires a spray of acid. I misjudge the timing, and it splashes my eyes. “Damn it!” I scream in agony and fall to the floor.
“Cease!” Alberich calls out.
Edgaard runs to my side and puts his arm around me. “Edmon, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say more harshly than I intend. I shove him off me and stand blinking through the sting. My tears flush out the acid, and I can feel my skin healing the burn already.
“Edmon, what level is this automaton on?” Alberich asks as he inspects the cylindrical monstrosity.
“Chaos pattern,” I respond angrily.
I should have been more aware. My stupid brother distracted me.
“Whale turd!” Perdiccus shouts, incredulous.
“I told you to set the machines for repetitive only,” Alberich says, castigating me.
“What can I say?” I mutter. “It was becoming . . . repetitive.”
“I’m impressed.” Hanschen saunters up. “And not just with your recovery.” His eyes scan me up and down, like he’s picturing me without my clothes. Even though the other Companions have been told not to harm me, they find ways to take liberties, to make me feel less powerful than they are.
“That’s enough for the day,” Alberich commands.
“I don’t think so.” I’m sick of sitting on the sidelines. I’m sick of being treated as second rate, incapable of competing. I hate them, yet I want to prove that I’m good enough to be one of them. I’m tired of being injured. I’m tired of following rules. “Automaton: training sequence advanced chaotic. Lethal force, engage.”
The gears of the cylindrical metal dummy whir to life, forcing the others back. I dive into attack mode, raising my sword to parry thrusts and cuts from the robot’s multiple limbs. Lights flash, and I dive under trip wires that fire from its base. I hold my breath as plumes of neutralizing gases are puffed into the air. I can almost feel a rhythm to the machine, a drumbeat.
Relax into it, Edmon. I feel Gorham beside me pounding on the drum.
Each melodic line may seem like chaos, but layered, they become a symphony, The Maestro reminds me with each tap of his baton.
I slice down with my sword, a final stroke, and suddenly the music ceases. Smoke emanates from the machine. A few of its limbs are bent at odd angles. I’ve won the sequence. I wipe sweat from my brow. The whole room stares at me with a look of shock.
“That was rip-curl!” Edgaard is the first to break the silence. He can’t contain himself. He runs to me and wraps his arms around me.
I’m too exhausted to shove him off. “Yeah, thanks,” I mutter.
“Not bad.” Sigurd stalks forward, mace in hand. “Of course, training machines aren’t the same as the living.”
The idiot actually takes a swing at me. My heart thumps in terror for the briefest moment, but the rhythm of his movement is so easy. I have more than enough time to maneuver in front of Edgaard, protect him, and still duck the blow. One, two, three . . . it’s like one of The Maestro’s carefully crafted exercises. I fire my fist forward, unthinking, and land it squarely into his solar plexus. I feel the give of his diaphragm as he doubles over, gasping for air.
“You’re right, Sigurd,” I say. He stares at me, eyes wide with disbelief. “Training machines are definitely more difficult.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man in a hooded robe, Talousla Karr, nod to me and then exit the training room without a word.
Alberich drills us until we sweat, until we cry tears from exertion. Sometimes we bleed, too, but we are always healed. I cross swords with Hanschen, fists with Perdiccus, and wills with Sigurd. I become one of them, as much as I can be. I am a companion.
Perdiccus is the first to really warm to me. Every session he greets me with a smile and a punch on the shoulder. Hanschen makes a sly comment at someone’s expense and then gives me a look, knowing that I’m the only one clever enough to understand without explanation. Sigurd is still dour—he thinks he’s better than everyone—but he accepts me, knowing that I’ve survived his beating. He watches me slowly improve. We will face each other again, I know. Forgiveness is not expected in this Nightsider world. Vengeance, however, is considered inevitable.
My growing abilities gain me acceptance, but I can’t shake my feelings of otherness. Outwardly, I mimic their behavior, I jest as they do, I fight as they do, and we compete and push one another. Inside, I feel that they will never believe I’m equal. I’m born of a race that is considered inferior. Had the surgery not enabled me to hold my own in their deadly games, I wo
uldn’t even be worth their notice. A seed of resentment and hate sprouts inside me, but I shove it down, deep as it can go. Just try and fit in, Edmon. Do as they do, I tell myself instead.
Every day I grow stronger. My mind turns to Phaestion. I haven’t seen him for months. Is he watching us? Is he training in the Arms of Agony? A part of me itches to explore the parts of the tower he showed me, the areas beyond the levels delegated to cadets.
“Edmon, stop daydreaming!” The Maestro taps his baton. “I need your sforzando to crescendo to a full, round note.”
“Yes, Maestro.”
Music is still my solace, the time when I am truly myself. In all else, I learn to behave as the others do. When cut with an insult, I return their gibes with a laugh, a counter insult, or a punch to the gut when necessary. I keep my mouth shut in classes. I desperately want to fit in with these boys. In music, I can let that drop and just dream and sing.
My mother once told me that my father forgot where he came from while trying to gain acceptance to a world that would always look down on him. Maybe she doesn’t know everything, though, I begin to think. She has oft told me how the Nightsiders are barbarians, how the islanders came to Tao long before them. She has told me that we are in touch with the Mother Ocean and the rhythms of life far more than they could ever be. It is not us who should be shamed and made to feel lesser. Now I wonder if there is a truth other than her stories.
Teacher Croack talks about evolution and how the environmental and cultural pressures of Tao have shaped its people’s morphology. I wonder if there is a possibility that what he says is true, that the Nightsider phenotype is actually more physically and mentally capable than other humans. Might it be necessary to ensure the survival of the human species in the Nine Corridors of the Fracture through the spread of Nightsider genes and culture?
Camglobes hover, constantly observing. They float above our training and circle us when we taunt one another in the sanitizer afterward. They’re there just before sleep.
Who is really watching? I wonder. Is it Phaestion in his study, my father, or someone else?