by Jack Hanson
Salem wondered why her armor seemed to be so similar to the suit they had seen yesterday. It had a lower profile than the one that Rick had worn, yet the same large V-style visor, and the color wasn’t black. It was almost there, but Salem recognized it as an incredibly deep blue. She looked over as Paris jumped, curious.
Sand only stared at his armor. It had a series of thin Vs making up the visor, and reminded him of a knight’s outfit. The shoulder guards were heavier and thicker than he expected, and when he reached over to touch the black armor, something growled in his mind. He jumped; much like Paris had, and looked over at the larger cadet.
“Did you hear something,” Sand asked Paris, who nodded.
“Whispering, from right behind me. You?” Paris asked.
“A growl,” said Sand. The answer disquieted Paris for some reason, but didn’t seem to bother Sand, who this rested his hand on the armor and kept it there.
“Your armor,” said Clay, finally speaking up. “It’s made up of a neuronium composite, and psychically reactive, tuned to each of your specific disciplines.”
“Neuronium?” asked Salem, who turned to Jane.
Jane shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve never heard of it.”
Clay gave a wan half smile. “I wouldn’t expect you to. It’s an alloy the Illurians showed us how to make, and the reason I can do this.” He drew his sword. The weapon was blunt and stubby looking when he drew it out, but it quickly formed itself into a long, square-bladed configuration, with a space running down the middle. Coiling around each edge were two ribbons that unfolded and began to wave about menacingly. Their tips seemed wickedly sharp to the naked eye.
“How do you do that?” Jane asked, fascinated.
“It will take a lot of practice before you can independently create a weapon like this, if at all,” Clay admitted. “Dreams are unique, and each of you will never be able to create a perfect replica of something the other one does.”
“Dreamblade,” said Sand, letting the word roll over his tongue. “Why do we use them?”
“They disrupt shields, for one,” Clay said, allowing the blade to return to its former boxy shape before he sheathed it. “It’ll stop thrombium, for another, and it helps to act as a conduit for some of our abilities. Plus, you’ve seen the advantages first hand of having a malleable weapon.”
“Abilities?” Paris asked.
“Let’s take a seat,” Clay said, and the five grabbed chairs and sat, looking at their mentor expectantly. “Each of you is different, as far as what you can do,” Clay began.
“Assassin,” said Salem suddenly. “Is that why Brokehorn called me ‘the Assassin?’“
“Probably, but that’s not exactly what you are,” Clay explained. “There are different facets of war, and FOSsils personify one of those facets. You guys didn’t quite turn out like I expected”
“What do you mean?” asked Sand.
“I didn’t think you would personify offense, for example,” Clay said. “Neither did I think Jane would become a paragon of leadership, with Paris assuming the role of diplomacy, and Salem subterfuge.”
“Leadership?” croaked Jane, and Clay nodded.
“We have names for each of you,” Clay said. “Jane is Kaiserina, Paris is Herald, Nemesis for Salem, and Sand, you’re Reaver.”
“I guess that explains your silver tongue yesterday,” Salem teased as she nudged Paris.
Sand looked at his hands for a moment as the group digested that knowledge. “So that’s why they called you the Last Reaver?” he asked.
“Not anymore,” Clay said.
Sand flushed, suddenly aware of the shoes he might have to fill.
“Back to abilities,” said Paris. “What do you mean?”
“We call it Manifesting,” Clay began. “You may have seen colors, or known that if you did something it would work when you went up against Rick?”
“Even before that,” Jane responded, “I saw gold during a chess game.”
“I remember seeing green flash before my eyes when I won that race,” said Salem.
“Everything went red the day we got into that fight with Zeta Squad, Paris,” Sand said to the Rillik.
“Yeah, I remember that, and telling you how when I saw you go down, everything just went silver,” Paris murmured.
“Each discipline has a color associated with it, and don’t ask me why,” said Clay with a shrug. “You’ll see it on other FOSsils when they start Manifesting, and you can sometimes feel it.”
“That’s how you knew to stop me,” said Jane softly.
“It was. It’s how Rick and the others knew where you were. When you learn more, you’ll be able to sense the others, possibly. You’re different than we were,” Clay admitted.
“Different?” asked Salem.
Clay nodded. “We were designed as individuals, as one man armies really. Oh sure, the Kaisers and the Heralds could lead other troops, but in reality the troops became an extension of the individual. You four were envisioned as a unit. The idea was that you would fight as a team, and as a whole be stronger than the individual.”
“How long have you and Fletcher been planning this?” asked Jane.
“Fletcher has been planning this for decades, and he wanted me on board for just as long,” Clay said after a moment, and then shook his head. “I needed a favor from him, and this was the price he demanded.”
“What kind of favor do you demand from one of the most powerful men in the Empire?” Paris mused.
Clay did another one of his almost smiles. “I’ll tell you some other time, but right now, let’s get you into that armor, and let’s see what you can do in it.”
Chapter Twenty One—Dreams Before Battle
He trains my hands for battle; so I may bend a bow of bronze.
—Psalms 18:34
Jane was pleased as her dreamblade took shape before her eyes, becoming an elegant epée, the sides sharp enough to shave steel. It was one of the few successes for them in a week that held little but disappointment and frustration. The initial skill and mastery they had demonstrated when they had defended Clay from his would-be assassin had not returned with any sort of regularity. It had only been when they were exhausted that they demonstrated any exceptional ability whatsoever. Furthermore, it wasn’t long before fatigue stopped them as dead as any weapon possibly could.
“You’re all doing really well,” said Clay as the team sat around him. Jane saw that all of them had managed to form a blade, each more unique than the other. Paris’s weapon put her in mind of a cleaver with a sharp point, while Salem’s was a spiraled horn. Sand’s dreamblade had just finished shaping itself, becoming a sword with two points at the top.
“It’s about all we’ve done well, sir,” said Jane, looking at what she had wrought.
“We’re all in new territory,” said Clay. “Describing how to Manifest is like trying to teach you how to make your heart beat. It’s either natural or it isn’t.” He sighed, and looked at his hands. “I’ll have to go to Elysium, sooner or later. There’s no helping it.”
“Why just you?” asked Salem.
Salem was still having reservations about her aspect being subtlety, and wasn’t sure what that said about her. It was some consolation that she was able to visibly Manifest an ability when Jane could only project her tactical lines into their minds, and that was only with Paris acting as sort of natural boost for Jane. She had been able to Manifest her invisibility with the team present, and by herself. The amount of pride she felt in that ability surprised her even as it pleased her.
“I don’t know how the others will respond,” Clay admitted.
“They didn’t have anything to do with the assassin, sir,” Salem said.
Clay shook his head. “Maybe they didn’t, or maybe that was the backup plan if the attempt went south. We’ve never been a
ble to use our empathy on each other to tell if the other person was lying. If I go there and they take me, you four will still be here.”
“Well, shouldn’t we go with you then, sir, so that doesn’t happen?” Sand asked. He had come the furthest in what he was able to do. Clay had described the abilities of a Reaver as ‘raw,’ without the refinement that the other aspects possessed. This lack of finesse was countered by the sheer power that Sand could draw on. His speed and precision were startling, and his blows were nearly as powerful as Paris’s. Sand also had Clay’s regenerative ability, though nowhere near the degree the original Reaver possessed.
“It wouldn’t be five against five,” Clay said. “They’re comfortable in their skins, and they have their Scytheclaw companions if it comes to battle.” He shook his head. “I’ll have to go alone, and ask for their help and—”
“Sir… why would they be so mad at you?” asked Paris. He blanched when he realized he had cut off Clay. His own powers had been limited to a constant understanding of spatial angles and distances, which seemed useless to him. At least, until Clay pointed out that he’d have perfect aim and the ability to call for indirect fire with sniper-like precision. His very presence seemed to serve as a charge for Jane’s ability as well, and made the mental gestalt they all shared much clearer than when he wasn’t there.
Clay hummed before answering, shaking his head. “You’ve got to go back to the beginning. Fletcher was in charge of Project Dragoon, and so they see him as responsible for everything that was done to us. He was responsible for saving us as well, after Jerusalem. They look at it as saving his investment; I take it as atonement,” he said.
“All this history,” said Jane. “You throw these names out like it’s nothing, and then refuse to expand on it. It’s pretty frustrating… sir.”
Clay looked at her for a moment, and his gaze wasn’t the usual stoic visage when he was challenged about his privacy. This time it was with regard, and perhaps sympathy, but that was hard to tell with someone so circumspect about his own feelings.
“You’re right Jane, and I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to be left in the dark,” he said.
He stood up and paced for a moment. “I’ll tell you a little bit. You’ve all seen the statue of Ale’mah, yes? You talked to Fletcher there?”
His students nodded, following him with their eyes as he began his story.
“She died defending me,” Clay said, getting the words out in a rush. “She was everything to me, my best friend, closer than even the other FOSsils, and then she was gone. All I know is my world shattered as I held her head and realized that she was gone forever. I was truly as alone as I had ever been,” the man said, swallowing hard before continuing. “I looked, and saw the Khajali standing there, and thought that maybe I could find my peace there, but I was too well trained.” He made the last bit sound like an admission of guilt. “I don’t really remember the rest, just waking up later with emptiness inside me and Fletcher by my bedside. The others were scared of what I was now, what they could have been, and it made them nervous being around me. So there was that divide between us, and I latched onto the only thing I had left, my duty.”
He turned to them, and it surprised them to see he looked like he was holding back tears.
“I’m sorry that I talk to you about these things, and that I throw these terms around that you don’t understand, and then get so mysterious about it all. I forget that I’m not back among my old comrades, and that you don’t know what was what. Having to describe it all again is like ripping off the scab. It is good, that I am not so lonely anymore, to be with those who are like me, and to not feel like an outcast.
“I am sorry for the secrecy and for agreeing to bring you into this world, into this service for my own selfish reasons. I am afraid that if I tell you everything at once of my history… our history… you will hate me for what I did to you, and I couldn’t blame you for that. I’m just scared of being outcast again.”
Their empathy was still developing, but they could feel the waves coming from the man, threatening to drown them in the all-consuming sorrow he held such tight rein on. There was a great deal of pain underneath the façade of control he projected, and having grown up in a society that prized stoicism, they knew how hard it was for him to admit his feelings.
Jane stood up first and, followed by the rest, crossed the short distance and embraced him. His body stiffened, and Jane wondered idly about the last time someone touched this man in a way that said “I care about you.” He finally allowed himself to be held by the four cadets he had trained for so long, relaxing in their grip.
“We wouldn’t be who we are without you, sir,” said Jane.
“You are Epsilon Team, just like we are,” added Paris. “If it hadn’t been for you bringing us together…”
“…We couldn’t have been whole,” finished Salem. “I wouldn’t have known the good friends that I have now.”
“There are five members of Epsilon, and there always has been. That day on the parade field, on Fatima, and when Rick came for you, we were always looking out for each other,” said Sand.
There was a moment where Jane thought he was going to lose it, and wondered how long it had been since the man had a good cry, but he recovered quickly, and the waves of emotion that had been battering them disappeared. He gave them a squeeze back, even managing a smile of sorts. “I…I’m glad to see I did right by all of you,” he said.
“Sir, you tell us what you want us to know. We trust you,” said Jane, speaking for the group, it seemed.
“Call me Clay when it’s just us down here,” he said, disentangling himself gently. “Thank you for that trust,” he added, and then let out a little sigh. “I’ll see you tomorrow, team. It’s all been a little sudden, but thanks for understanding, and for not hating me.”
Clay turned, running a hand through his short hair as he headed for the elevator.
They watched him leave, the yellow utility klaxons lighting the shaft as he ascended upwards into the Cave. Jane stared upwards for a moment.
“Do you think it was worth it?” she asked no one in particular.
“I think,” Sand began, and then paused for a minute before continuing, “I think only they could answer that.”
Paris stood, giving his dreamblade a few exploratory swings through the air. “I’m sure they’ve asked themselves that every day, and still don’t have an answer. It’s something that you can worry yourself sick thinking about,” he said.
“Long experience, huh?” said Salem as she slid past him, heading to the casket-shaped locker and locking her dreamblade in place. She placed a hand on her armor’s breastplate, and heard absolutely nothing, which she thought was strange at first since the other armors all responded to touch. When she placed it in the context of her role though, it made sense.
Paris wasn’t sure if Salem was being honest or catty, and decided not to respond, only shrugging his shoulders as he locked up his dreamblade. Jane and Sand followed suit. Jane ran a finger over her armor, the action bringing a smile to her face for a reason Paris could almost understand.
“Have you been able to catch up with Pairna yet?” asked Salem.
Paris looked over at her, as the two walked ahead of Jane and Sand towards the elevator. “No, I haven’t. He hasn’t been responding to my messages,” he admitted.
“Is he embarrassed about hiding what was going on from you?” Salem asked.
Paris gave a shrug of his massive shoulders. “It’s complex, to be honest with you,” Paris admitted.
“Really?” said Salem. “The vids and classes all make them out to be the honorable warrior race like the Bhae Chaw. Isn’t there something about losing face in there?”
The Rillik shook his head. “It’s a lot more complex than the Network puts out there. It’s a simple paradigm to understand, so I can see why they do it. They believ
e in close combat as a way of life, they live by a complex system of rules, and their word is their bond. So they’re made out as Bhae Chaw with big spears and scales instead of fur, and a penchant for other species’ females, but only in certain circumstances, so it’s alright.” He went on as they boarded the elevator. “He could have any number of reasons he doesn’t want to talk to me. He thinks he did wrong by me, so he doesn’t wish to face me in case I do something stupid. Maybe he thinks that his time as my tutor is over, so he doesn’t want to interfere with what Clay is teaching us. It’s up in the air, and I don’t want to pry.”
Salem thought to respond, and found herself nodding instead. There wasn’t a whole lot she could say to that, and she didn’t want to needle the Rillik further, so she listened in on the conversation Jane and Sand were having as the elevator ascended.
“I don’t know how I do the lines,” Jane admitted to Sand. “In a way, they’ve been with me for a while, and just appear when I need them.”
The lines took very little out of them physically, at least in Salem’s experience, unlike the increased speed and strength.
“Funny, mine works the same way,” said Sand, leaning against a rail. “I mean, I know when it’s coming. It’s like a humming in my fingers and toes that runs down my arms, and everything slows down for me. I can’t call it, though. It’s just not there until I need it to be.” He shrugged, looking out into the empty cave as they arrived at their destination. The smell of the dinosaurs was not that of reptiles, but something faintly spicy and more birdlike than anything. There was a light breeze blowing that had cooled down the night, and the four walked back to their barracks, casually talking about nothing in particular. They were not to talk about their unique status outside of the Cave, yet it was a freedom more than it was a restriction, and allowed them to remember that they were still teenagers.