by Marc Secchia
There had to be two dozen men and women crammed into either side of the room, facing one another. Students could be whiffy from time to time. The odour in here was something special. Primal. Ready to be cut with a knife.
Rising from her left, a young woman said, “Alodeé. Have you recovered? We were most –”
“Be silent,” said the matron. “Out.”
Her eyes widened. Ash! And Tomaxx, here to her right, also rising at a low-voiced command in his mother tongue. Together, the couple left the room. A door clicked shut.
They’re together? Or negotiating for the – suffering lumoslugs, I’ve messed this up royally, haven’t I? Only the most superb timing from the Alodeé.
Slap into the middle of a family affair. What could she do now, but try to get an apology right?
After addressing the gathering briefly in Oraman, the blonde, hulking matron turned to Alodeé and made a curt bow. “I am Salianixx, mother of Ashamixx and these are our close family. Here is Arinaxx, mother of Tomaxx and her close family. Family is close. Family is one.”
She had never felt more an outsider.
After a rumble of assent, both families fell silent. Was this the moment she must speak?
Salianixx touched her shoulder. “Fresh ichor?”
“Four carnoraptors breached the fence on the path up to Residential 22-C, Salianixx,” she said politely. “One, having escaped the photon cannons, attacked me. Two canids came; I helped them finish it off.”
A couple of the men nodded, but most remained stoic.
“A noble battle, I’ll warrant. You said you came about a matter of honour?”
Alodeé nodded. “I came to apologise. I believe my actions caused offence – unintentionally – and now there has been further delay in setting matters right since my accident. I meant to speak to Ashamixx and Tomaxx as soon as possible, as I realise they’ve become closer recently and I … well, I literally came between them the other day. I was hiding behind Ash because I was uncomfortable wearing my new combat skin and didn’t want the boys looking at me. Foolishly, I got myself in the way when Tomaxx –”
“It isn’t that,” Salianixx interrupted gently. “That was a genuine accident. You apologised immediately.”
“Oh, but Ash …” She shook her head miserably. “I don’t understand.”
“Is there any other occasion where an Oraman might have been dishonoured, or diminished, by your actions?”
“Uh … you can’t mean the arm wrestling, surely?” she spluttered. “Tomaxx won. Easily.”
“Did he?”
“Yep. He slammed me so hard, I ended up in Isska’s lap. Plus, the table broke.”
Salianixx murmured, “Ah, the table.”
“What the – it – well …” Canid-sucking tongue, how do I wriggle out of this? No lies … spreading her hands, she said, “Look at me. I’m a stick compared to Tomaxx. Does anyone here seriously believe I bent a purpose-built plasteel table? Tomaxx had just beaten Erban in a real match. My guess is that they damaged the table before I even got there.”
Glancing around, she saw expressions of stone.
Another trajectory. Quick. Think of something Dymand would say.
She said, “I’ve known Tomaxx since he first pinched my toys in the infant crèche. He’s a man of impeccable principle. He has always acted with honour toward me and others. His heart is pure. Whatever he reported about the arm wrestling, that’s the truth. Yep. The table folded up like a piece of cheap plastic. He won fairly and he even tempered his strength so that I would not be hurt or suffer dishonour. That’s the kind of man he is.”
This can’t be about some stupid arm wrestling incident, surely?
Arinaxx growled, “Girl, my Tomaxx reported that you bent the table. Is that true?”
“I – it seemed to me –”
“They’re defending one another’s lies, is what this means!” snapped another man. “Dishonour fouls the air in this place.”
“Aye. She’s a waif! Expect us to believe a Class 1 girl bent that table?”
About that … bite the lip!
“Tomaxx said she held him up and then she bent it when he applied his full strength.”
“Against his strength, she held out?”
“That’s my son’s sworn word!”
“Lies!”
Freaking lumoslugs, it’s the account of the arm wrestling … the dishonour’s about his word, his honesty!
As related to her being a freak.
Alodeé looked on with rising alarm as the two family groups surged to their feet, yelling, thumping their chests and cuffing one another’s shoulders – arguing as much amongst themselves as between families – in their Oraman tongue. Not quite a brawl, but a healthy earthquake in motion. Stuff a bunch of hot-headed 220-cent plus warriors in a room together and watch the fur fly, literally!
“Stop it! Stop!” she yelled.
No-one heard. Freaking honour cultures. How could she help him save face now? Either a scrawny girl who stood 64 cents shorter and weighed several hundred kilos less than him had demonstrated his weakness, or she made him a liar. Or both. Plus, this might be read as betraying his underlying feelings for her. What a canid-sucking mess – all of it, squarely her fault!
Over on Tomaxx’s side of the families, a white-haired, bent old Oraman lady had the ear of her family, bellowing … something. Sounded impressive. Suddenly, they all sat down with a creaking of couches and a rattling of weapons. A signal?
On Ash’s side, the family sat down too, rearranging clothing and feeling a few new bruises.
Salianixx, her mother, rose. “This is your sworn word?”
Alodeé swallowed hard. “I – I stand by Tomaxx’s word. It happened as he said. I cannot explain the inexplicable, but I swear he is no liar.”
“Therefore, you are the liar. Oraman do not associate with liars.”
“Salianixx!” The elderly lady rose. In a strong accent, she said, “I am Giantixx and I say – this girl is the daughter of the firewalker. That spirit runs true in her blood. We all saw the firewalker save the children of this Settlement that day. She walked through fire and breathed fire, as no other. I sense this same power upon this girl. We Oraman know that the power of the spirits can rise in a warrior according to the need.”
“Ugh, Dragon spirits, sister?” another man on that side of the room complained. “I am Arobaxx and I say – if truth lives in her word, let her demonstrate this mysterious … Dragon spirit.”
He folded his arms grimly. Oof. Yep, those muscled construction beams he had for forearms could snap her back like a twig, no problem.
And … another heated discussion erupted. Apparently, the poor table had been the subject of much examination and now they were arguing back and forth about Dragons, spirits, weird girls, Tomaxx’s alleged lies, what her accident meant, Ash’s undoubted dishonour at the hands of this man … why did I ever arm wrestle him? I’m so stupid!
Giantixx stalked over to stand beside her. She sniffed around Alodeé’s head and murmured a slew of strange words in another tongue. Her skin prickled. Then, leaning close beneath the cover of the hubbub, she said, “The Dragon spirits are real and you will prove it, Alodeé!”
“With respect, Giantixx –”
“Not another word.” With a roar, she silenced her relatives. “See what this dispute has wrought between us? Upon the word of our own and the sworn word of an outsider, we move to doubting the very spirits of our ancestors! Enough, I say. Even shame and dishonour must pale before the blasphemy spoken here this day. Alodeé will show you.”
Yep, great. It’s just that I have no idea how …
“Who has a gripper for me?”
A gripper, as it turned out, was a simple device to train and measure grip strength. Arobaxx demonstrated it for her. Squeezing the U-shaped handles, he demonstrated a grip strength of 723 kilos – ten times stronger than a strong Class 1 man, he claimed. Jolly Oraman. Everything had to be about their muscles, of cours
e.
Alodeé said, “My left is my dominant hand, but I’m still bandaged –”
“Use the right,” he said.
“Alright.”
He helped her to position her hand. The gripper was not built for a hand as small as hers, so she struggled with the width. Eventually, she eked 61 kilos or 134.5 Oraman pounds out of the device. Checking the Central database via the house holo computer, they confirmed that this was a strong effort for a Class 1 Humanoid female, but far too feeble to bend plasteel.
“There, that goes to prove that!” Arobaxx snorted.
“Not so fast,” Giantixx retorted. Alodeé jumped as cloth slipped over her eyes. “Hold that gripper, girl. Let’s do a visualisation exercise.”
Behind a blindfold? Awesome. I see it all, now …
“Tomaxx, come in!” A door creaked slightly. Boots shuffled across the carpet, close by. “So, Alodeé. Tomaxx is kneeling before you. I am holding a big sword to his throat. Can you picture that?”
“Sure.”
Not silly at all.
“We Oraman believe that to be dishonoured is a fate worse than death itself. So, if you can’t prove your true strength, I’m going to have to kill him.”
Artificial as the situation might be, an eerie edge in the elderly woman’s voice triggered a visceral cramp deep in her gut. She wouldn’t, would she? Unfair! How could they lay this heavy burden on me?
“Do you understand?” the voice snarled. “Squeeze, or he dies!”
Her hand jerked. “I’m trying!”
“More! Harder! Feel the Dragon spirits rising in you, girl –”
Squeeze! Tomaxx, oh no … I can’t do it. I can’t! Have to – that woman’s weird and freaky enough that she might just –
“Grandmother, don’t!”
“I swear I’ll run him through – Alodeé, NOW!!”
At the woman’s roar, heat surged up into her throat; her heartbeat no longer thudded away, but became a buzzing that vibrated every bone in her body. With a low, raw scream, she bore down with all her strength. The metal gripper squealed as she did it violence.
“Reading?” Giantixx creaked.
Arobaxx chuckled, “Topped out at 596 kilos, my friend. Girl, you’re practically Oraman!”
The room exploded into cheers.
Alodeé folded up over her bad hand, sobbing.
* * * *
Someone held her. Two people – Tomaxx and Ash, she realised belatedly. She draped her arms over their shoulders and hugged them. Not with her full strength, or she might just hug their heads off. Ash thanked her in broken words; Tomaxx with gruff honesty. He must realise what she had just been through. She only hoped – and did not hope – that he shared her feelings for him.
Did he understand what this meant?
For his honour, I did this. For his chance to be with another … 596 kilos. Goodbye, beautiful Tomaxx. Have a beautiful life with Ash.
She whispered between them, “I wish you dawn’s sweetest fires today and forever, Ash, Tomaxx. You’re a wonderful couple. I hope this went some way to helping you to be together.”
Devastated. What had she just done?
A heavy hand dropped upon her shoulder. Glancing up through the blurring of her vision, she saw Salianixx looming over her. From the other side, Arinaxx approached. The two mothers of the families. What now?
Salianixx said, “You have true courage, Alodeé. We Oraman salute you for having the courage to come here this evening to set right a matter of honour.”
“AYE!” her half of the room roared.
Arinaxx smiled, “My mother Giantixx is right. Truly, the Dragon spirits rise in your soul, Alodeé. Join with us. Be Oraman.”
“AYE!” thundered the other half of the room.
Tomaxx’s jaw practically clunked on the floor. His face! What did this mean?
“Uh … I’m honoured, but …”
But I have no freaking idea what’s going on here, alright, lady?
Salianixx said, “Few indeed receive the mark of honorary Oraman. As Shaman Giantixx has spoken, so let it be. Do all true Oraman agree?”
“AYE, AYE, AYE!!” they roared.
Grief, the base seismometers must be quivering.
They wanted her as part of their family? Salianixx’s firm nod confirmed her suspicions. Alodeé reminded herself to breathe, or she’d pitch right off her med chair. Too much, too fast, too soon! Yet, how could she refuse?
Wetting her lips, she whispered, “I’ve never been more honoured.”
Giantixx said, “Kneel, Alodeé. Receive the sacred trust of the Oraman people.” Someone pressed a pot of yellow paint into her hand. Dipping her thumb, she began to draw lines on Alodeé’s wet cheeks as she struggled to her knees. Someone held her, or she would have fallen over. “These stripes represent our sacred values. Honour. Courage. Integrity. Love. Devotion. Fellowship. Family –” a zigzag across her forehead “– because family is one!”
Someone draped smelly animal fur across her shoulders. Perfect cavewoman.
All she could think was, Hope I don’t have to take off my shirt and wander about bare-breasted now.
Faces beamed about her.
Next, she swore an oath to uphold the Oraman values, before strong hands returned her to her med chair. She slumped there, sweating and nauseous. Too much. Yep and as expected, those bruises she could see spread across her green skin like flames.
Coincidence, or portent?
Chapter 6
Standard 1301.05.16.05 Cal Week 18. Time to Fly.
WITH THE HEAVY BANDAGING removed from her fingers, Alodeé was finally able to use the sanitary without leaving that arm dangling outside. Standing in a heated rush of moist pellets, she listened to a thumping ‘Soul Drum Megablaster’ compilation. Legendary Oraman music. Thanks Ash! This stuff certainly cleared out any residual ear wax.
“Alodeé!” Dad thumped on the bathroom door.
“Yep, Dad? Skimmer’s here?”
“No, the neighbours don’t like being woken by earth tremors.”
“Funny, Dad. Command: reduce volume twenty percent.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s epic – you’ve got to feel the beat.”
“That’s like being thumped over the head by a supercharged Oraman war hammer!”
“Fair enough.”
“Hurry up. I also want to get clean at some point this week. Girls, showers – honestly.”
Fine. Switching the programme, Alodeé twirled about as her hair was washed, foam-conditioned and brushed into sleek softness inside of 30 secs. One must look good for take-daughter-to-work day. Air rushed within the sanitary enclosure, completing a rapid blow-dry and the very necessary taming and braiding thereafter. Stepping out, she checked her body in the full-length mirror. Still sadly too skinny, but at least her appetite had stabilised. Only eight sausages at a time now. Most of her girlfriends ate no more than half a sausage in one sitting.
Donning a privacy robe, she called, “Dad! Dawn waits for no man.”
“Definitely not if he waits for a woman,” he said, showing her the way. “Out, you rascal!”
Quickly ducking behind the dressing screen, Alodeé called up her combat skin, boots and – another first – proper lightweight combat armour. Don’t forget the mini survival kit at the belt, all-purpose nanodagger and a compact CLB-1015 assault rifle, a less sophisticated weapon than her father’s, but effective in its own right. Check. Yep, Dad’s idea of work did not include an actual office – this was practical Ranger training.
He probably has nightmares about paperwork. Aargh! Not the paper – noooooo!
Although, the word ‘paperwork’ was ridiculously antiquated. Even out here in the colonial Styx, no-one used actual paper anymore. Not for official business involving forms, databases and filing, anyways; that was all holo-digitised. Artwork was another matter. Instructors insisted upon students getting mucky with the original media and equipment. Pencils and paper? Charcoal? Actual paint? May as w
ell crack open a museum.
Ooh, a rubanana for the road? Might get hungry … she scoffed four.
Dad rushed out and whipped through the dressing screen in the nick of time. “Don’t want to be late for our flight.”
“Ooh, a flight?” Her pointy ears pricked up.
“Oops, did I say – never mind, kiddo. Last one to the skimmer’s a rotten rubanana!”
“Don’t forget your boots,” she lied, and with perfect timing, elbowed past him to be first out of the airlock.
They hopped together into the two-person skimmer, lying almost prone as the low canopy hissed shut overhead. As the acceleration pressed them back into the moulded seats, Dad checked in with her. Yep. Noticed that twinge, had he? Ruddy nosey no-good security snoop! Two weeks after her recreational crushing, she still had a few achy spots, but one could only be grateful not to have been ironed into a pancake and ground into dust. The dislocated elbow was fully healed. Two fingers of her left hand still resembled gnawed-upon, unhappy sausages, but the swelling was well on its way down now. They even bent a little. Bonus.
Speeding past the Social Hub, the skimmer scooted down a wide grey boulevard leading through the Industrial area to the ironically-named Spaceport, just beyond the tall blast barriers. Not that anybody was seriously planning to fly back into space, not until they could figure out how Resurrection Dawn scrambled all systems, sensors and scanners. Suicide mission? Sure. Alodeé gazed about eagerly as they slowed to cross the busy hangar floor, purring out to where a row of sleek Explorer AVACS craft waited with forward-swept, predatory intent. The all-purpose vehicles could fly, dive, burrow and basically be landed inside an active volcano without any trouble.
Dad directed the skimmer to his personal AVACS. Arresting all-black paint job, fire-orange flares on the wings, scanner stubs and weapons ports and more than a few mods Dymand liked to make for himself. His time with the Parsec Blazers had taught him many legal and less legal mods. Besides, he always had an eye for sleek curves, he liked to say. Must be what had attracted him to Mom, although she had the impression an untold story lurked beneath what she knew so far. Dymand never spoke of it.
