by Lesley Young
Scrutinizing these Kirs, waiting, I ponder how familiar their faces already are. How Pers’eus is encouraging and forthright. Shadon has taught me more than he needed to or probably even realizes about finding emotional strength within. And as much I’d like to, deep down I can’t fault Onegin for his noble intentions, wanting me to be able to protect myself, however misguided his strategy.
Kell’an. If he wasn’t such an asshole I might appreciate his little lessons, too. He does seem to think I can handle the truth, whereas my Prime treats me like a child. Or’ic. What is he to me? I realize in that moment, that the toughest part of fooling thousands of Thell’eons will be convincing them I’m united with him.
Suddenly, the Kirs stand. Holy shit, this is it. I do as Or’ic told me, and stand in front of them.
The door vanishes instantly, and I’m walloped by deafening noise. So many Thell’eons screaming and stomping. Thousands! Are they cheering? What kind of noise is that? It’s a weird sort of screeching chant. After a moment of complete panic, Or’ic pushes me a bit and I stumble out.
The noise ends. You could hear an atom form.
Hey, look at that. The expression’s accurate, my knees really do feel weak.
Quickly I look around before I begin the long walk down the aisle of Hordes toward the Order. Faces, oodles of fascinating, big, and beautiful faces, many of them women’s, are staring at me down from a colossal circle of stands. In a flash, I read mostly curiosity. Oh, no, there’s avarice. That’s on the faces of the Kirs in the Hordes waiting for me to walk past, lined up so deep it’s a blur.
What have I agreed to?
Walk straight ahead. Walk straight ahead.
I hear bristling as I pass and the Kirs turn and close in behind our Horde. The tension in the room is physically unpleasant. The clay-like, metallic odor is stronger here than on Or’ic’s ship. It’s not unpleasantly so, just strong.
Whatever. Almost at the end. Keep it up!
As I scan the faces, I make eye contact with no one, just as Or’ic ordered. I wonder just now whether he told me to do that to avoid observing their first impressions of me. Probably wise.
I walk as proudly as I can. Straight ahead, toward dozens of old Thell’eons standing on an elevated area, waiting.
The Order. Former Horde Primes who run the military side of operations. It’s not clear to me how the Order works in relationship to the Thell’eon Guardianship. I probably should ask.
When I get about 40 feet in front of the ancient-looking Kirs, I stop, and sense my Kirs settle behind me. I hear some movement. I want to look back but I don’t. I don’t make eye contact with the Order. A long period of silence makes me think I forgot something. Was I supposed to kneel or something?
“Sifter Cassiel Winters. Is this your Horde?”
Now I finally look at the one who speaks. Big. Craggy. Missing a hand. Age doesn’t erode his menacing impression.
“Yes,” I respond loudly.
I knew they would ask this. There are too many unknowns to risk answering ‘no.’ Where might I end up? Or rather, with whom might I end up?
I proceed to name my Kirs, speaking loudly, starting with Prime Or’ic. I’m about to introduce Pers’eus when another Order member steps forward. Short, abnormally so for a Thell’eon, and one mean-looking bastard. Age has done a really number on him. His jowls jiggle when he talks.
“My master, before we continue, let us address the challenge to this Horde.”
Challenge? There’s a symphony of murmuring. I want to swing around and ask Or’ic, CFA (come fucking again?), but I recall how he emphasized that no matter what, I should maintain a commanding presence.
I clear my throat.
“What challenge is this?” I ask. But no one hears me. We had an agreement. I shift anxiously, before I remember to remain still. What’ll I do if that’s jeopardized?
“Louder,” hisses Kell’an behind me.
I repeat my words, practically screaming. “What challenge is it that you speak of?”
The murmuring ends as we all wait for the explanation.
“Prime Aardon challenges Prime Or’ic,” answers the Order member.
More murmuring.
That son of a bitch!
“Aardon claims his Horde already has the prize which you seek and are therefore more worthy of you,” continues the short, nasty one over the murmurs.
Well, well, well. The prize is Daz, of course.
I’m slightly confused but have a sense where this might be headed. Isn’t this an interesting turn of events? Is it possible to sense emotional energy? I’m drenched in tidal waves of rage from Or’ic and his Kirs standing behind me.
The squat, ugly Order member continues. “Prime Aardon would have you know that this prize which you seek was obtained through no malice. And he says he would trade this prize, give it back to your people, to soothe feelings of ill will. You would join his Horde, compete here at the Candidacy, and continue the search for the missing sift.”
Ah, there’s the catch.
Same crapola, different smell. Maybe, maybe, I would have agreed to switch sides if he didn’t still want the other sift, too. I can’t, I just can’t deliver another person into their clutches.
I pretend, with the crowds so silent, that they aren’t really here. Ah, that’s a little easier. And I focus on the iota of pleasure I’m experiencing of lording this brief bit of power over my Prime, by delaying my answer. It’s glorious. He so deserves it. If only I could turn around and see the look on his face.
But the reality is, how could I possibly agree to join the thug who imprisoned by brother in the first place? Who I know nothing of? Sifters only have power for appearance’s sake. Look at me. At least with Or’ic’s gang I have an escape plan.
“And where is this Prime Aardon?” I shout. “Can he not speak for himself? Or is he too much of coward?”
The crowd goes crazy. Screams and yelps, fists pounding palms.
Oops. I turn slightly, hoping Or’ic will give me some direction but I can’t find him before our Horde and Kir guards huddle around me, facing the agitated Hordes, with their weapons ready, clanging loudly as they press down on ours. Uh-oh. Looks like I have just issued some kind of challenge. A pretty major one. The outer defenders are pushing back against angry Kirs. We are jostled as the Hordes sway and I panic, huddling into Onegin’s back for protection. Blades clang overhead and there’s grunting. Or’ic and Kell’an are shouting orders, like ‘hold’, or ‘flank’ or something.
I’m still huddled over when I realize the attack’s on pause. I stand on my tiptoes to peer between my defenders. Or’ic and Kell’an are face-to-face with what I can only assume is Aardon’s Horde. I can’t wait to see this Aardon’s face.
“My Masters,” yells Or’ic, glaring into a set of bright, flickering blue eyes, which sit in a chiseled square face, marred only by a deep scar running from his eyebrow down his cheek. “This Horde has no Prime to answer the challenge. I issue a stay.”
What? Blue Eyes is not the Prime? I glance up at the Order.
“My Masters,” starts the Thell’eon staring down Or’ic. “As Kir Comm’dor One, I speak for Prime Aardon and it is known why.”
Really? I don’t know why.
This Comm’dor hulk looks away from Or’ic and he spots me. Oh. There it is again. Disappointment. Ack. Really?
I push my way between Kell’an and Or’ic, realizing I need to face him directly. They must agree because they move for me.
He continues staring at me the whole time. “I ask that you give us permission to punish the sift for issuing such a heinous challenge when a Horde stands without its Prime.”
Hey!
I don’t like the look this Comm’dor is giving me.
Anticipation.
“Be quiet,” hisses Or’ic.
“My Masters,” Or’ic shouts, addressing the Order again. Uh-oh, the crowd does not like something about him speaking. “I request that you punish me instead of the sift,” he shouts at the top of his lungs. “I take full responsibility for not educating her in the Kludic.”
There’s some discussion among the Order. Regret bristles at my conscience, over what they might do to Or’ic.
I mean, someone might have told me you can’t call a Kir a coward if his Prime wasn’t in earshot! What the fuck is this Kludic?
The Order breaks out quickly.
The tension in here has actually plugged my ears.
The one-handed leader finally announces that they have decided there’ll be no punishment since the sift is new, or something along those lines. Okay. Good.
Meanwhile, nasty Comm’dor is trying to incinerate me with his eyes or something. Does he think this makes his offer enticing?
“What does the sift say to the Horde of Prime Aardon regarding his offer?” asks one of the Order’s bigwigs. He’s extra, extra, extra, large, and not as aged as the others. Not a stitch of skin is free of brandings. Wow.
I stand up straight and look Comm’dor in the eyes. “Tell Prime Aardon thank you, but not if he were the last Prime alive in an eternity of universes!”
The crowd doesn’t know what to make of that given the collective gasp.
Oh no, did I make the right decision? I panic and add, “Our original agreement stands, however. The prize must be delivered healthy or you can assure Prime Aardon there will be retribution! My Kirs will take care of that!”
Comm’dor’s face is bright red with rage. I actually think he thought I wouldn’t turn down such an offer. Kell’an and him share a final short staring-down match (go Kell’an!) before he turns and his Horde disappears into the other Hordes.
Wished I got a good look at Aardon’s other Kirs. After that ruckus I can barely think straight. I finish the introductions, shouting over yet more ceremonial stomping, Thell’eons are big on that, and the Candidacy’s underway.
The tension on our return to our accommodations is incredible. I realize just now how perilous my situation is with this Horde. Think maybe I’ll keep my mouth shut from now on.
The walk takes more than 10 minutes, and we navigate narrow open halls that drop into an abyss, past room after room of Hordes settling into their accommodations. Yikes, there’s no barrier protection on the side of the hall that opens into the abyss. Take a wrong step, and you’ll drop right off! Unlike Thell’eons, I can’t jump to another level. Gravity’s different on their home world, which explains their large thigh and calf muscles, and propensity for leaping. A horrible feeling of vertigo cuts through me. Guess they weren’t expecting a lot of human visitors.
I’m grateful when we arrive at our room, until I realize there are no partitions, just lots of downcores. But, hey, why bother with the partitions anyway? Pretend privacy is really overrated.
Kell’an interrupts my angst-ridden internal dialogue by swinging around and getting right up into my face. “MY Kirs?! MY Kirs will take care of that!”
Hey! I’m doing him the favor here, pretending to be his sift and all! I surprise him, and myself, by pushing him hard in the chest. His animated expression suggests he’s pleased by this, go figure, whereas I’m disappointed when he doesn’t budge, but steps in even closer so I can feel his breath on my face, which I twist away from.
Or’ic gets between us. “Kell’an! Appearances! We are being watched!”
Kell’an stands down. I glance around wondering who’s watching us. Oh. Across the abyss there are other Hordes milling about in their rooms. They are focused on us, for sure.
“What’s his problem?” I whisper loudly to Or’ic, fighting a sudden urge to cry.
“The pressure is great. But my Kirs would answer the call of greatness here,” he says to the room rather than me. He continues on, encouraging his Horde, giving commands. Is this a pep talk or something? They talk about strategy and opponents but I barely listen.
Instead, I stand there watching Pers’eus move the downcores around so that one is in the middle (guess whose probably?), surrounded by the others. Guards from our Horde line the inside walls of the room.
Wow. Lots of beefcake in here. Everywhere I glance there’s an obscenely manly bulge of flesh on display.
I scan for the privy and am delighted to discover, once inside, that it’s more spacious than the other ones on Or’ic’s ship. And it has its own TriVirrorTM.33. I have been avoiding the ones in the pool area on Or’ic’s ship.
I take in a human trying to look like a Thell’eon. I would never pass for one. From what I could tell today, Thell’eon women weigh at least 80 pounds more than me and are a foot taller.
My neck bruises, courtesy of the Aeon, have faded from RISH. I take a deep breath and turn to my left, moving my hair out of the way. Okay. Okay. Pushing past the anxiety of the permanency of the branding behind my ear, I’m willing to acknowledge it’s a beautiful piece of work, and not that gigantic, really about the length of my hand. When my hair’s down you can’t even see it. I try to think of it as a tribute to Zeke, a memorial marking. This way it’s bearable.
Bang, bang, bang!
A fist pounding against the wall makes me jump.
“Time for the first test,” snarls Kell’an.
Chapter 24
The first two days fly by. Because there’re so many Hordes, only two Kirs from each Horde compete daily. I spend more than 12 hours each day standing with my Horde and guards in an allotted observation space for each test, usually at ground level, which is superior seating because I’m a sift. When I’m not interested in a match, I steal glances at the crowds to help distract from the pain in my feet, legs, and back from standing so long. The women are attractive, but strangely enough, very similar-looking. Wide, flat cheekbones, full lips, eyes that tilt up at the side, mostly brown hair.
Humanoid men are scattered among the women; they don’t shave their heads and feature no brandings. Kell’an told me they are the ‘weak ones.’ By that I take it he means the ones who are too weak to become a Kir and are castrated at age six. How horrible. I try not stare as I’m being watched all the time and I don’t like the feeling. I think the curiosity in me is waning.
Pers’eus and Onegin killed their tests on the first day. Pers’eus’s aim, with pretty much any weapon that fires, is incredible. In the end, he stood with the remaining 12 who ranked even; impossible to better a bull’s eye.
Onegin was a maniac in H2H. He, too, bested most of the contenders and was evenly matched with four other Horde’s Kirs. I was shocked with the brutality of the test. Let’s just say he’s missing part of his ear that I’m not sure treatments can re-grow. I try not to think about whether some of the Thell’eon who fell will pull through.
Kell’an really outperformed himself. His test involved the Kuda, those whips laced with razors and firepower. Only now do I realize that the Kuda is a Thell’eon symbol, for want of a better description. Pers’eus didn’t really understand what I was asking, but through much back and forth I gather everyone’s brandings, the design on the clothes, are inspired by the Kuda.
Kell’an’s test also included strategy and time pressure. He had to complete a bunch of tasks on foot with major obstacles that kept changing while fighting off other Thell’eons, including Blue Eyes from Prime Aardon’s Horde. It was nerve-wracking and I found myself clenching my fists and cheering when he’d outsmart or outfight a competitor.
Humans love a good contest, but nothing like Thell’eons. Pers’eus told me that part of their culture includes pledging, which after some discussion I gather involves gambling on specific contest outcomes. It, too, is based on strategy. The crowds
study the contestants and take the possibility of choosing a winning Kir very seriously. When I asked what they bet, Pers’eus was confused. After a moment, he seemed to clue in and said, “Pride.”
Still, they take it quite seriously. I’ve seen the devastation on the faces of Thell’eons when their contender was bested.
Shadon’s our weakest link so far, but even so, he averaged somewhere in the middle. And since his surge war was the most horrifying contest, I thought he did terrific. I told him so after, in front of all the Kirs, too, not that it made any difference.
I guess he perceived it as conflating his ego. They’re all too hard on themselves, even with everything at stake, if you ask me. OKAY. So they’ve been born and bred for war for thousands of years. That’s gotta ruin things like sunny days, a surprise rebate of credits, and fresh-baked apple pie. But every once in a while you can stop and recognize accomplishment. And Shadon did well. Really.
The surge war contest was truly awful. They’ve set up a system so the audience watches what goes on between two Kirs through an interface with the mind. Only it isn’t like Lightvision TM.33, where you experience it. Instead, you watch it happen to them but in your own mind.
Thank the stars because this greatly dilutes the shared emotions, which is of course the horrifying part. It really is a game of Uncle. When a Kir can’t take it anymore they call “halt.” Of course no Kir would ever admit defeat, so they mostly drop from exhaustion or anxiety or a heart attack. No exaggeration. When Pers’eus explained the test a day ago, I got to thinking, what would really destroy a Thell’eon emotionally?