Sages of the Underpass

by Aaron Michael Ritchey

  Teddy brushed off his concerns. “That’s okay. Your dad loves it enough for the both of them. And all during the fight, Pete was bragging about you to his buddies. Who are all named after Midwest cities—Chicago, Detroit, and Columbus. I don’t know much, but I do know you should never hang out with anyone named after a Midwest city. Or play pool with them. Or lend them money.”

  “So what do I do about Danette and her critique group?” Niko asked.

  “Hold on.” Teddy smiled. “In Danette’s bio, it says she’s a member of the Sages of the Underpass. I bet that’s the critique group. And she’s fifty. That’s ballsy, giving her age. While it doesn’t matter, a lot of fans are still ageist. Sad but true. And she gives her weight. She’s not hiding a thing.”

  “How much does she weigh?” Niko asked.

  “One-ninety.” Teddy chuckled. “That’s svelte compared to a guy like me. Funny, she’s an open book, except she doesn’t include her Artist sign or her belt level. Maybe that’s why she asked you to join. She’s a trickster like you are.”

  “Hey, I was trying to even the odds. I went in there as the clear underdog.” Niko slurped down his last noodle. “Danette did mention something about Harmonic and Discordant signs. And that being a cusp wasn’t a handicap.”

  “A very wise woman.” Teddy saw Niko’s bowl was empty and he slid his over. “Go ahead. You need the calories. My hepatitis hasn’t acted up in a long time, so you should be safe.”

  “Yum. Happy Noodles with extra hepatitis. Just like Mom used to make.” Niko attacked the bowl.

  It gave Teddy the room to preach. “I’ve told you before, this single sign policy benefits the corporations, not the Artist. They look for sign slots and then slide you in. If you can’t hack it, they find another Battle Artist with that sign and try them out.”

  “Barton said he could sign Marjory because he knew that Anvil is looking for a Metallurgy. That helps her.”

  Teddy rolled his eyes. “If she can win and get fans. And actually, the winning is getting less important. There’s a guy, Yun Stormhammer, and he’s popular because he loses so much. It’s his thing. Over five thousand likes on his fan page. He’s branded himself as the Loser King.”

  Niko had heard of him. He shook his head. “It’s a weird business. But come on, Teddy, how long can that last?”

  “How long can anything last?” Teddy asked. “Yun Stormhammer is fighting Unrepresented, but he’s fighting and making a living off it. That’s better than ninety-five percent of the Artists out there.”

  “Barton would call that flash. It’s a gimmick. I don’t want to make it using a gimmick.”

  Teddy squinted at him. “Getting up with zero sharira? Gimmick. Winning and then kneeling oh so humbly in your corner? Gimmick. And we won’t talk about this afternoon’s training robes shenanigans. Open your mind, pal. Things are changing. The internet has leveled the playing field. Artists can go right to the fans and get paid by their fans. Yun has a patron link as well. I think you should check out the Sages of the Underpass and see what they’re doing.”

  “Two critique groups?” Niko asked. “With my luck, they’ll meet on Wednesday nights as well.”

  “You won’t know unless you contact Danette Parata, a hundred and ninety pounds and fifty years old, and doing well.” Teddy paused. “You know, in the old days, Battle Artists would fight with straight-up Discordant Studies. Have I ever mentioned Franklin Wash, a cusp from the thirties? He was a combination Air and Water, Sky cusping on Woda, and yet, he could manifest a big iron club, only for a second, and not very powerful, but his opponents never saw it coming. There’s a picture of him and Babe Ruth, both holding bats. At the higher level, every little trick helps. And his fans loved it.”

  “Franklin Wash?” Niko mimicked surprise. “Gosh, I don’t think you ever mentioned him. At all.”

  “You tease me because you love me.” Teddy sighed happily.

  “Like you. Not love.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Niko sat thinking. He’d eaten through the noodles and artificial meats and was left with a bowl of grease. He traced his chopsticks through the grease. “If I try and juggle the two groups, and if Barton or Andrew J. Coffey find out, they won’t be happy.” He thought of Seo-yun and the demand for her to specialize.

  “Ooh, a secret life. Who doesn’t like a secret life? We’ll have to tiptoe around. You should be worried about your mom. She’s not going to like you taking off two nights.”

  “Are you okay with working another night of on-call for me?” Niko asked.

  Teddy grabbed his bowl and drank down the bottom juices. “Oh, yeah, I better keep my energy up. Nothing says lovin’ like Happy Noodle grease.” He belched, loud and proud.

  Niko made a face. “Well, that never gets any less gross. On-call two nights a week, Teddy? Isn’t that going to cut in on your Twelve Legends gaming?”

  “I’ll live.” Teddy poured himself another cup of tea.

  “Why are you being so supportive?” Niko asked. This was dangerous territory. High school was a long time ago, and yet, in some ways, it felt like yesterday.

  “Why shouldn’t I be? We’re buds, right? Best buds? It’s the least I can do.”

  “But, you know, Taylor, junior year, that whole thing.” Niko felt uneasy talking about this. They never talked about the past.

  “Taylor Sebastian?” Teddy smiled through the hurt in his eyes. “The lovely Taylor Sebastian. And it was junior and senior year. Look, that whole thing, it was first love. I was never going to be able to compete with her. You were young, I was young, and it’s all forgiven. As long as you win. And as long as you don’t, I don’t know, give up on your dream.”

  “And what is my dream? I’m not sure I remember anymore.” Niko sighed.

  The pain was gone from Teddy’s eyes. Only excitement remained. “The dream? What do you love to do, Niko? Don’t answer. I’ll tell you because I know you. You love the Arts, the Arena, fighting. Hell, man, you’ve taken The Pranad to heart. Even the parts that don’t make much sense. To win is to eat cabbage. To lose is a spicy egg roll. The Artist will avoid the buffet on Thursday and will not eat breakfast on Friday. In the end, I don’t think you care if you get a contract or not. You just want to be in the game.”

  Niko had to laugh. Teddy was giving him scripture; he could feel it.

  Teddy didn’t stop. “The dream is being an Artist and making a living doing it. It’s not just the money and status, no, it’s more than that. You could inspire the world, or your little corner of it. Some are born to rule the world, but most of us will just do our time, nine-to-five, and get by. When someone steps up, some regular guy, and wins? It gives us hope. Franklin Wash had everything against him, growing up poor, getting poorer, being a cusp, and yet, here we are, nearly a hundred years later, talking about him. That’s the dream. That’s righteous immortality. If I can help with that? Hell, I’ll give up sleep and video games to make that happen for you. And once you get your Moveez series, I want VIP passes to Diego City Comic Con.”

  Niko held out a fist. “That’s a deal.”

  Teddy bumped his fist. “Now, it’s midnight, I’m wired on tea, and I have to get home, because yes, tonight, I will be playing unwise amounts of Twelve Legends. You, on the other hand, need to cycle and sleep.”

  Niko wasn’t going to argue.

  MONDAY MORNING, HE was at Dr. Wochick’s office, ready for another round of abuse, and to get his prana checked.

  He sat on the crinkling paper, shirtless, while Wochick smoked and frowned. He looked over the printout, stripped some of the perforated edges away, then dropped them into a metal trash can next to his desk. “Your core is better. Not great, it’ll never be great, but it’s getting stronger. The Arena Assistant who healed you on Saturday afternoon didn’t know what they were doing. None of them do. If they were smart, they’d hire apothecaries, but no, we are a vanishing breed. It’s the corporations. They want to push their technology and drive us old d
octors out of business. It’s fine. Your sharira is fine. Your knuckles will heal, and your bones aren’t such a mess. Well, whatever. How did it feel winning?”

  “You know?” Niko asked.

  “Of course I know. You’re a patient. I track your fights. This isn’t my first rodeo. I, for one, like it that you used your head rather than your prana to win. You’ll have to do that since you have a crappy core. You’ll never heal from the ‘accident.’” He air-quoted the words, his left fingers, yellow from nicotine, clutching a cigarette. He laughed grimly.

  “I’m thinking about trying to use Luna Studies, since I’m a cusp. What do you know about Harmonic and Discordant Studies?” Niko braced himself for an attack.

  Dr. Wochick raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so you’re looking to multiclass? Not a bad idea. Might as well really go down in a ball of fire. If your core were better, stronger, it would be a fine idea. As it is? It won’t make much of a difference. You’ll be weak and stay weak. So keep being sneaky. That’s my professional advice.”

  “What about Discordant Studies?”

  “What about them?”

  Niko should’ve known the apothecary wasn’t about to give him a straight answer. “Do you have a tincture, or some eJuice, for people looking to use Discordant Studies? Are there any meditations that might help me?”

  Wochick sucked in smoke and let it out slowly. “Now, suddenly, my boring, crippled, insipid Pollack patient gets interesting.” He searched Niko’s face. “Being crippled and underpowered isn’t enough for you? You want to waste your time?”

  “Is it a waste?” Niko asked.

  Wochick stabbed the air with his cigarette. “Most of the time, yes, it is. I’ve heard rumors of Artists using Discordant Studies or improving on Harmonic ones. And every now and again, some quack brews up a batch of snake oil that will give you sudden Fire Studies. Oh, yes, everyone loves to throw fireballs around. Aren’t I cute and powerful? Whatever. And then, there are rumors of ancient artifacts, from lost cities, that can give you special magic, improve Harmonic Battle Signs, so you can take over the world!

  “No, Niko, you can’t use Discordant abilities. They will be zero percent effective. One big goose egg. You, as a cusp, Air into Water, aren’t going to be able to grab a prana bow and start shooting fire arrows. And if you try to use Radiance, another Air sign? We’re talking seventy-five percent of their full power. With your terrible core, you’re barely using seventy-five percent of your current sign’s Studies. If you attempted Radiance or Sky? We’re talking less than fifty percent. I’d try Luna before I’d tackle any other sign. Even then, you’d be a stupid asshole to work on any Harmonic Studies.”

  After the long speech, the doctor had to cough, wheeze, spit into the trash can, cough some more, and wheeze some more, until his breath returned to something like normal. He tossed his cigarette into the trash can.

  “A stupid asshole.” Niko laughed. “Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Wochick? I’d say it takes a stupid asshole to light another cigarette after you nearly coughed up a lung.”

  Wochick started with a giggle and ended up howling. He laughed so hard, he had to wipe the tears away from his face. “Yes, you are correct, Mr. Kowalczyk. And full of surprises today. Don’t listen to me. This train is bound for emphysema, and I’ll be goddamned if I’m not going to ride that train all the way to the end. Put me in the smoking section. Please.”

  Niko got off the table and put on his shirt. “See you next Monday?”

  “Only if you keep being interesting. I have a tincture for you to try, today. I think we’re both stupid enough to try to improve your core. You vape. You tincture. Then you cycle the hell out of it. It’s going to hurt, but you clearly like pain. You keep showing up on my doorstep.”

  Niko took the tincture and left the office. Buzz, the homeless man, wasn’t on the sidewalk. There was a good bet Buzz had drunk himself to death. And yet, Niko had gotten used to him. Like Niko had grown accustomed to Wochick, the bastard.

  At home, Niko sat in his room, on his meditation mat, the vape pen to his lips. He took a deep breath, filled his lungs, and then did a round of the Duodecim.

  Sanguine... two, three, four, all the way to twelve.

  Masonry... two, three, four...

  He did that, focusing on his breath, counting to twelve, going through each of the Artist signs.

  After finishing the Duodecim, he held up the little bottle. There were seven doses inside, Monday through Sunday, until he saw Dr. Wochick again.

  Niko sipped a dose.

  The liquid clawed down his throat like acid. In his stomach, it bloomed into pain. He closed his eyes to fight it. Then he started to cycle his prana, spreading it out into his extremities, even as the agony grew keen. Stinging sweat tumbled off his nose and streamed down from his scalp.

  He did five full Duodecim, one after the other, five minutes each, letting go of the pain, focusing on his breath, listening to his heart pound. His mouth tasted like the fur on a rabid dog.

  Sitting still and cycling his prana every four hours was hard enough. Doing it with the tincture that Dr. Wochick gave him? His mind shrank from the idea. That was okay. He didn’t have to suffer through the pain until the next day.

  Before Niko went to work, he grabbed his phone and emailed Danette Parata. Wochick had made it clear that with his core a simple path to stardom was unlikely. He’d need every advantage. However, he wasn’t going to chase after crackpot ideas on using Discordant Studies. Bad enough he was vaping and using tinctures. He wasn’t going to give up the traditional way completely.

  The dream was still alive in him—what Barton Hennessey called the warrior’s fire.

  Niko realized something as he pressed send on the email. He didn’t just want the dream for himself. He wanted it for Teddy as well.

  The Son

  ANDREW DROVE HIS LEXUS, with his college-age son next to him, through what remained of Cross City, south of Bay City, over the Cross Mountains. At one point, Cross City and its Boardwalk had been an easy vacation for Bay City residents. Then came the Cambion Crisis, and it became too much of a hassle to deal with the daemons. A few people still owned homes there, and he could see signs, but most of the businesses had closed, and it was only hard timers or crazy people who were left. Hermits, homeless people, folks who didn’t fit in.

  The sun was growing low in the sky, so Andrew and Jacob had to hurry. They wanted to be standing on the beach when the sun set.

  He and Jacob drove past a derelict Lucky’s grocery store, now an empty shell, flanked by equally dead businesses. A big truck, with furniture, drove past them on the other side of the road and then made a sharp turn, heading for the hills. The mountains wouldn’t be any safer, and yet a lot of people had created compounds up there, living with the risk.

  For Andrew, he could handle a cambion without a problem. Then again, he was a professional Battle Artist.

  “You sure you want to go to a wild beach?” Andrew asked. “Half-Moon Bay is still relatively civilized. Out here, it’s the Wilds.”

  “The Nowhere.” A half-smile lifted Jacob’s lips. “I like that name better than the Wilds.”

  They motored by a donut shop on the left, Ferrell’s Donuts, home of its world-famous bear claw. They might’ve been tasty, but no one had made a bear claw in there for decades.

  “Monterrey isn’t that far. We could go there.” Andrew knew it was no use. He was just glad to be spending time with his son. His daughter was a different story.

  “We’re almost there,” Jacob insisted. “And it’s not like we’re asleep in a bed, or on the toilet, or in any danger. If something does come for us, you can hold it off, and I have a Whitney. We could make some money.”

  That was a sore subject. Money. Linda wasn’t living cheap in her North Bay condo. He monitored their credit cards, and every charge felt like a betrayal. Linda had always liked the nice things in life. As a rising Battle Artist star, he’d been able to give them to her. Until recently
.

  “Or one of us could cycle it,” Jacob continued, “if it’s not too big.”

  “I could cycle it, you mean.” Andrew turned to look at his son. Tall, light blond hair, a tiny little nose he’d gotten from his mom, and little ears as well. He had Andrew’s blue eyes; otherwise, he was his mother’s son. “I thought you weren’t cycling much anymore, since you quit the team.”

  That had been a disappointment. Andrew had worked his ass off to get his son on Stanford’s team, but then that wasn’t meant to be.

  Jacob nodded. “I still cycle, and I still meditate. It’s healthy, clears the mind, leads to more mental stability. And I’ll probably continue to use my prana as an electrical engineer. Everything runs off daemons, and they’re made of prana.” He patted the dashboard of the Lexus to make his point.

  Andrew turned north on the highway, the asphalt pitted and cracked. They couldn’t do the old speed limit, no, not with how ruined the road was. They had to go slow, and the sun wasn’t going to wait for them.

  “Any beach will do, Dad. We don’t have to go to Shipwreck.” That was the name they’d given it, not Bonny Dune, or any of the others. It was the wild beach Andrew had dragged his family to when they were growing up. And when Linda had complained about the dangers, Andrew reassured her. Nothing was going to hurt his family.

  Ironically, Linda had left him. She’d been telling their daughter, Candace, their troubles, turning Candace against him. Linda was the danger to them, not any kind of daemon.

  “No, we’ll do Shipwreck,” Andrew said. “We have a lot of good memories there. I’m in the mood for a good memory. And you’re right, we trap a cambion, we can sell it, and your mother can do another expensive dinner out.”

  Wrong thing to say. He couldn’t take it back.

  “It’s not about the money, Dad, you know that, right?”

  Andrew sped up, dodged a pothole, and then rumbled over another one. “We don’t need to talk about it. I shouldn’t have even mentioned your mom.”