by C. A. Pack
“Where did you take her?”
“We stayed in.”
“Stayed in?”
“We ate at home.”
“You ate with her parents?”
“No. Nothing like that. They weren’t there.”
“So you stayed in, because no one was there in a supervisory capacity.”
“Now you’re getting the picture.”
“I hope it was worth it.”
“It was worth every minute of it, big bro. Every minute.”
Jackson rolled over. I’m supposed to be the older, more sophisticated and worldly Roth. He’s supposed to be the younger, eager, but not quite as sophisticated Roth. Where did I go wrong?
Several targets were set up on the far end of what Romanticans now called Militairre Meadow. Five young women, each with three arrows, took a position on the field. Every time Arraba gave them the signal, they shot one arrow, until all three were fired. Everyone hit the target at least once, but no one hit the bullseye. The two best shooters for each round were told to wait at the edge of the field. The others were allowed to go back to their table under the tent. During the next phase of the competition, the remaining girls were asked to destroy flying clay and feather pigeons that they had all worked so diligently to make. Four of the women succeeded. Those four were instructed to do so again. Only one of them succeeded the second time.
Arraba approached the bench. “We have our first winners!”
RS:⌘ The results seem far from conclusive.
There was a moment of silence as the overseers telepathically communicated among themselves.
HB:✠ We would like to see all four of the archers who advanced to shooting clay birds do so again. We are assuming you have enough devices for another round.
“Yes, I’ll see to it immediately.”
HB:✠ Not yet. We’ll bring them back after the other disciplines have had a chance to compete. You can tell your sister she can begin the weaponry competition.
Arraba told the girls to take a seat until later and nodded at her sister.
Milencia’s troops lined up in much the same way as their predecessors while small wooden stands were each topped with a rock. On her signal, the militairres each fired three times. The best of them were then instructed to fire at rocks catapulted into the air. Once again, no final determination was made, and the militairres were told to wait with their platoon.
The sticks competition was a little more heated, because the women fought against each other. Some were graceful, others positively intimidating, but they all fought aggressively, trying not to be bested in front of their friends and neighbors.
Natalia’s grapplers were the last group to go. These women not only relied on the strength of their arms but also on the agility of their legs and bodies. While the grapplers battled each other on the field, the spectators learned to fully appreciate the efficiency of the militairres’ uniforms, for it was the grapplers who most needed the freedom of movement provided by pants.
Horatio Blastoe stood up after the last grappling session ended. HB:✠ We hope you will all enjoy the refreshments provided while the young women who are advancing to the final round are given their instructions. The competition will continue in a half-measure.
During the intermission, several young women inquired about joining the militairres. Dame Erato discouraged the youngest adolescents, but a decision was made to allow older teens to try out for each of the four disciplines the following week. It would, however, be a private induction process, and not a public spectacle. Some would-be militairres turned away, disappointed, and withdrew their requests to join. They only wanted to perform in front of their friends and families. However, the majority of those showing interest agreed to return in five days’ time.
Finally, the musicians stopped playing, and Dame Erato instructed everyone to find a seat.
Jackson climbed the steps to the Fantasian cupola right after breakfast. He expected to see Ava guarding the portals, but instead he found Johanna.
“How long have you been here?”
“A few hours. I wanted to let your sister get some sleep.”
Jackson smiled, but only on one side of his face, causing a dimple.
Johanna handed him the weapon. “She really likes guarding the portals.”
“She probably feels like she’ll prove her worth if she can kill some Terrorians.”
“She doesn’t need to kill any Terrorians to do that. Your sister has already gained my respect.”
“I think I’ll tell her you said that.”
“Go ahead. She deserves to hear it.”
“Why don’t you go get breakfast. I’ve got the day off, so I might as well put in some time.”
“Oh. Right. You’re not going to be here tonight.”
Jackson felt his face go hot. “Chris will be here. He’ll cover for me. You won’t even miss me.”
If Johanna saw him blush, she didn’t give him any indication of it. Instead, she turned and walked away. Quickly.
Guffle shuffled into the Juvenilia Town Hall.
Everyone who saw him asked the same question. “Did you kill the monster?”
He shrugged. “He jumped into the pond. I never saw him again.”
“Does that mean he’s dead?”
“I don’t know. We thought he was dead before. He wasn’t.”
“So now what are we supposed to do?”
Guffle snorted. “Stay away from the pond.”
“What if he comes looking for us?”
“I don’t think he will. He looked terrible. Burnt. Weak. He smelled like death. I think he went into the pond to die.”
“Now what?” Pollo asked.
“I have an idea,” Marbol said. He went into a room he often used to create gadgets and test new inventions. He picked up a bag and stuffed it with odds and ends.
Duddu leaned against the doorjamb, folding his arms. “You’re not staying?”
Marbol closed the bag. “I need to test something out at home. I want to play with sound waves. I think if I find the right pitch, we can bust through the windows of the library and get inside. Anyway, you’ve got Guffle here to help you.”
Bungie shook his head forcefully. “Breaking into the library is a terrible idea.”
“We have to find out if there are any more of their kind here, and we have to deal with whatever we find. Or would you rather wait until someone is choked to death while they sleep?” He looked into the eyes of each person surrounding him, and when Marbol felt satisfied his remark had hit home, he left.
Master Ryden Simmdry transported to Mysteriose for a quick visit with Proteus Bligh and Hue the Elder about the merit of installing gates in the caves storing the realm’s natural resources. At the conclusion of their discussion, they visited the entrance to every cave, and an alarmed, locked gate system magically appeared. Even the smallest of openings was gated to ensure the safety of Mysterian assets. The master then excused himself, saying his presence was required on Romantica. Proteus Bligh and Hue the Elder were left to deal with the repercussions.
The new gates didn’t sit well with a number of influential Mysterians, who felt their autonomy had been usurped. It scored even lower on the popularity scale with lesser citizens.
Dissenters crowded the discussion tiers at Town Hall to decry the gates. When the loudest opponents couldn’t come up with valid reasons why the gates were such a bad idea, other than it made them look like they couldn’t be trusted, their arguments were disregarded.
“It is too late,” Hue the Elder said. “The system is in place. And for better or worse, it is here to stay.”
A few people, however, refused to be dissuaded. They spoke together in hushed tones about measures that could be taken to destroy the gates.
Odyon practically hissed at Nero 51. “You are not trying.” The shapeshifter had asked the Terrorian to concentrate his thoughts as a precursor to transmogrifying into a beam of sound or light. The way things were going, it lo
oked like that would never happen. Not that he’d ever thought it would. But he had to make sure Nero 51 knew that he, Odyon, had done his part to train the Terrorian, and Nero 51 was responsible for his own failure.
“Take a deep breath, and hum a single note while exhaling. Like this.” Odyon closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and hummed, “Oooooooooooo….” He opened his eyes. “Now you do it.”
Nero 51 closed his eyes. “Rrrihhhhhhhhrrr….” It sounded more like a death rattle than a tone. The Terrorian opened his eyes and stared at Odyon.
“What were you thinking about while you exhaled?” Odyon asked.
“How positively useless this exercise is.”
“That is why you’ll never learn. Your mind should be a blank. Like white light. Or a whisper. You will never achieve your goal unless you release all your thoughts, relax completely, and unite with the atmosphere around you. Try again.”
Nero 51 closed his eyes and released the same strangled gurgle.
“Now what are you thinking?”
“How I’d like to wrap my tentacles around your neck and squeeze the life out of you.”
“We both know how impossible that would be for you. I suggest you clear your mind and start again.”
And so it went for the next hour.
“I’m tired of doing this,” the Terrorian complained. “Is there no other exercise you could teach me?”
“You’re not tired enough. I want you to run up and down the cupola stairs five times each way.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No. I think it will help immensely. But it won’t work if you don’t do it as fast as you possibly can. Starting now. Go.”
Nero 51 hesitated and Odyon picked up a ruler from the circulation desk and hit him. Considering it was crystal, it made quite an impression, of the painful variety.
Nero 51 ran up the cupola steps. By the time he reached the top, he huffed and puffed but knew descending the steps would be easier.
“Again,” Odyon called out when the curator returned to the bottom.
It took Nero 51 considerably longer to reach the cupola on the second climb. He also descended more slowly.
“Again,” Odyon said.
“No.” Nero 51 had reached his limit.
Odyon whacked him with the ruler. “Climb!”
Nero 51 trudged up the cupola stairs. When he returned, Odyon told him to inhale, close his eyes, and hum.
Nero 51 was too exhausted to think. “Hmmmmmmmm.” For the first time, he realized that humming had a certain vibrato that filled him, not just his mind, but even the blood in his veins. He opened his eyes when he had finished exhaling and looked at Odyon.
“There was a difference. What were you thinking?”
“I thought about how the sound vibrated.”
“You shouldn’t be thinking at all, but at least you are making progress. Go off to your private chamber and show Garpa what you have learned. I think I need a little time of my own.”
Nero 51 was happy to get away. As soon as he was out of sight, Odyon turned into a breath of air and entered the time machine.
Ozzro entered the Dramatican Library of Illumination, one of only two libraries still open to inhabitants of a realm. A soldier was stationed at the circulation desk.
“Come back, has Furst?”
“No. Still away, he is.”
“Ever returning, is he?”
“Not say, he did.”
Ozzro sighed. He needed to speak to someone about what was going on but knew the only person who could help him, besides Furst, was the father of the man he knew to be a murderer.
Someone entered the library behind him. “Morning, good.”
Ozzro turned as he saw the soldier look over his shoulder. “You, Pondor, how are?” asked the soldier.
“Fine. Seen Lenc, have either of you?”
Ozzro felt the blood drain from his face but refused to let the moment pass. “Since he fought, seen him, I haven’t.”
Pondor’s brows shot up. “Fought? Terrorians, more?”
“Not Terrorians. A Dramatican, he fought with.”
Pondor’s bushy red eyebrow shot up. “See him fight with, who did you?”
“Was dark, the night. In the shadows, they were.”
Pondor pressed on. “Hear the man’s voice, did you?”
Ozzro could feel sweat beading on his forehead. “Not sure, I am.”
“Who you suspect, tell me.”
Ozzro’s stomach turned to a cold lump of clay. “Cannot…” He crumpled to the ground.
Ozzro choked, afraid he would drown. He sat up suddenly to find someone had thrown a bucket of water in his face.
“Ozzro, okay, are you?”
Ozzro felt his heart rate quicken as he stared into Pondor’s eyes. His voice quivered. “Fine, I am.”
“My office, please, come to,” Pondor whispered. “Alone there, we can talk. Scared, I can see you are.”
“No.” Ozzro pushed himself to his feet. “Nothing to tell, I have.”
“Something to tell, you do have. Feel it in my heart, I can. Be honest with me, you must.” Pondor turned to one of the soldiers manning the library. “Help him, will you, to my chambers?”
“Sir, yes.” The soldier took Ozzro’s arm and led him away.
Every step toward Pondor’s office was steeped in agony. If Ozzro lied, Pondor would know. If he told the truth, Pondor would never forgive him.
Ozzro felt like he was being escorted down the last measure. Very few Dramaticans had ever been executed, but the last measure had been established following the Two Millennia War to execute war criminals remaining on Dramatica, and still remained in existence.
—LOI—
20
Johanna wished the cupola stairs would allow her to exit onto another level without having to go all the way down to the first floor. She didn’t want to run into any of the Roths. She didn’t feel like talking about Jackson, or explaining why she had tears in her eyes, or why her voice trembled.
She lucked out. She made it all the way to her residence without seeing anyone. She splashed cold water on her face and brewed a cup of coffee. Once she felt sufficiently composed, she returned to the main floor to check on new orders.
Part of her still felt numb, but she forced herself to work through the day as if nothing was wrong. She even managed to stay cool when Ava came out to relieve Jackson as a portal guard. “Hey, Ava. You’re going up a little early, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Jackson said he needs time to shower and shave before he leaves for Logan’s house. They’re going to hang out for a while before…you know.”
“Thanks for covering for him. I couldn’t do it alone. I’ll make sure you get something special for dinner later.”
Ava smiled. “Okay.”
The inside of Pondor’s office was inviting but not lavish. It exemplified the workspace of a humble justice of the people. Ozzro crumpled into a chair after Pondor motioned for him to sit down. Ozzro’s erratic breathing gave away his mounting unease.
The judge wasted no time. “Threatened you, has someone?”
Ozzro’s eyes went wide. “No.” He practically choked on the word.
Pondor leaned forward and kept his voice even. “Happened, something has.”
Ozzro thought carefully about what he would say. His voice registered barely above a whisper. “Hear a fight, I did. Like Lenc, one person sounded. Gruff, the other man was. Angry. In the shadows, he stood. Challenge him, Lenc did. A cape, the other man wore. From under it, a decimator, he removed. My eyes, I closed. Only one man I could see, when again, I looked.”
Both Dramaticans jumped when the door to Pondor’s office flew open with such force it slammed against the wall.
Dungen stomped in, his face red and his ringlets tight. “A liar, you are!”
Pondor stared down his son. “Know of this, what do you?” he asked in a neutral voice.
“To discredit me, Ozzro is here.” Dungen placed his ha
nds on his hips and leaned forward. “Move, his friend did, from him, to get away.”
Pondor nodded at his son. “See, I.” He gracefully stood and walked behind his desk. When he turned, he took in his son’s appearance. “Joined the militia, have you?”
“No. Of myself, I take care.”
Pondor nodded, then looked past Dungen at a clerk standing in the doorway. “A member of the militia, I will need.”
Ozzro’s shoulders sagged.
A hint of a smile crossed Dungen’s face. “Failed, your plan to ruin my name has. A lesson, let that be. The key, I hope they throw away.”
Mudge, one of Dramatica’s military strategists, entered the room. “Need for a soldier, you have?”
“For a police matter, it is,” Pondor said.
Mudge walked around Dungen and approached Ozzro, looking at Pondor for confirmation.
Pondor shook his head ever so slightly.
Mudge stopped as he stared at the judge.
Pondor tilted his head toward his son. “Dungen.”
Mudge swung around in time to stop Dungen from unholstering the weapon. “You fool, not me,” Dungen shouted. “To arrest Ozzro, you are here.”
“Dungen, No,” Pondor said in a steely voice. “Military, you are not. Permitted a weapon, you are not.”
“At him, look!” Dungen shouted, turning his head toward Ozzro. “Shaking, he is, because, guilty, he is.”
“Shaking, he is, because, you are my son, he knows.”
“A fool, he is,” Dungen yelled, squirming away from Mudge. He ran from the room, managing to unholster the decimator. He aimed it wildly at anyone who got in his way.
“Sir?” Mudge said.
“Some soldiers, gather,” Pondor said. “My son, pursue. The disappearance of Lenc, charge him with. And, a military weapon, illegal possession of.”
“Did not, I…” Ozzro stuttered.
“Honorable, you were. But, my suspicions, I had. Confirmed, now they are. Erratic, Dungen has become. Like his mother, he is. Unstable.”
