Sages of the Underpass

by Aaron Michael Ritchey

  “There. We can park up there, Dad. We’ll have to hurry.”

  Andrew pulled his car over, to the shoulder, behind a big four-wheel drive truck. It was new, clean, and looked well maintained. Andrew had learned to fear other humans far more than any daemons. Daemons didn’t have guns. People did. And most daemons were mindless, riding the winds, while people inflicted evil on purpose.

  His son went to the trunk, retrieved his Whitney converter, and slung it over a shoulder on a strap.

  Then Andrew and his son jogged over the highway and scrambled up a sandy incline. At the top, they stopped to take off their shoes and then started down the other side, half walking, half slipping down the sloping sand. The sun hadn’t touched the ocean; it had reddened the clouds strewn across the horizon.

  They hurried across the sands to get to the crashing waves. Cliffs were to the north and south, and across a channel was the remnants of some old iron boat. That was why they called it Shipwreck.

  They were standing in the surf when the bottom of the sun touched the water. They stood in silence, pants getting wet, feet cold in the icy water, surrounded by the familiar smells of the beach: saltwater, cool air, strands of kelp, seagulls winging across the ocean.

  This was why they had come. To watch another day pass.

  Andrew let his thoughts go. He didn’t cycle his prana or chant the Duodecim, but his mind was clear. He was sharing a moment with his son, and those were becoming more and more rare.

  Once the sun finally sank out of sight, Jacob grew troublesome. That was fatherhood in a nutshell: you wanted to be with your kids, but they had a way of making things difficult. “Dad, Mom didn’t leave over money. You were never around. I understood. She and Candace didn’t. I mean, you had to travel. You had to keep fighting. You’re only as good as your last fight. People forget so quickly.”

  Andrew marveled at his son’s wisdom. He was right about the travel. He was dead wrong about Linda. “You get part of it. But no, your mother and I started to fight about money. And how it was getting lean around the Coffey household. She came with me on trips. You and Candace were old enough to take care of yourselves.”

  “Me maybe. But not Candace.” Jacob backed up from the waves. “You didn’t cheat on Mom, did you?”

  “Of course not.” It wasn’t cheating. His little affairs with fans didn’t mean anything. And while he and Linda hadn’t come out and said it, they had an understanding. Andrew rarely, if ever, felt guilty. “I don’t want you worrying about us. We’ll get back together. It’s just, sometimes, couples need to take a break. We’ve been together for thirty years.”

  Thirty years. They’d known each other all through high school but hadn’t started dating until Andrew’s first year in college. Linda had left home to work, and to live close to him. She’d been a fan that turned into something more, a lot more.

  She’d watched every single one of his Division Two matches as he rose up in the academic leagues, paying his dues, working on his technique. They’d cycle together either in his dorm room or in her apartment, their mats close to each other. Cycling so close to one another made the sex better. They’d had some wild times. It had been so good.

  She’d celebrated every victory. Marrying her felt as natural as breathing. They had to get back together. Andrew needed her, needed her faith in him.

  “Look, Barton and I are working on expanding the BCBA with Matthew Gregory. This past Saturday, attendance skyrocketed because of the Niko Black fight.”

  And that’s how they referred to it. After watching Niko fight, the audience found the main event anticlimactic. The kid was electric in the Arena, reckless, passionate, taking chances and playing the crowd. He couldn’t have any real future, not being a cusp, and not with his core so weak. However, they could capitalize on him, in various ways, and he had opened a door to other possible matches. And Barton had demanded he get a large cut. Andrew was determined to get in on that action.

  “We have plans, big plans, and once the money starts rolling in, your mother will come to her senses.”

  “What plans?” Jacob asked.

  The surf dragged itself back into the ocean, freeing Andrew from the freezing waters for a moment. “We’re going to focus on improving the BCBA Quarterly Cons. Which means I won’t travel as much. That’s good all the way around. Also, we’re working with the LBA to make at least one of the BCBA Quarterly Cons a Division Four qualifier. We’ll open it up to everyone.”

  “Everyone?” Jacob asked.

  “Yes.” That meant Unrepresented Artists, like Danette Parata and whatever substandard critique group she was running, could qualify for the LBA. If they did well in the Division Four league, they could enter the Grand Tournament. “In three months, we’re going to do our first one, and it should be interesting. And profitable.” Andrew was about to say more, when movement, off to his right, caught his eye.

  A silvery light coalesced into a shape, roughly the size of a person, but indistinct, shifting, floating over the ocean waves.

  “I see it.” Andrew stepped back onto the hard sand, soaked by the ocean. He fell into his fighting stance. “Get the Whitney ready.”

  The cambion, probably only a level one or two, streaked toward them. Appendages formed out of the light, long tendrils of glowing prana.

  Andrew reinforced his body. The thrill of a real fight hit him. There wouldn’t be an Arena Master, and he didn’t have the implants. His eGlasses were in the car. If he lost all his sharira, he’d die.

  The daemon lashed out. Andrew used his Second Study to dodge the attack. He punched a fist, imbued with his First Study, into the heart of the thing.

  Prana on prana, the cambion lurched backwards, and then it tried for Jacob, who was crouched on the sand, warming up the Whitney.

  Andrew darted in front of the thing. It slashed him with its tentacles. It shredded his coat, drawing blood. This wasn’t a low-powered cambion, no, but something worse. Good.

  Now that he was bleeding, Andrew triggered his Fourth Study, Blood Shield, creating a shield with his own essence. It swirled, a mixture of blood and prana, in front of him, protecting Jacob. The cambion whipped a tendril into the shield. The blood smoked, stinking.

  Andrew went in, hammering fists into the cambion.

  “Got it, Dad, let it come.” The Whitney whined, the machine’s lights glowing blue in the gloom.

  Andrew leapt back, taking his shield with him.

  The Whitney’s blue lights brightened. The machine caught the cambion’s long, wispy bottom. One of the lights turned red, then another, then another, as the daemon’s prana was sucked into the machine, until all the lights were red. The keening sound stopped. They’d caught it.

  Andrew grinned, stripping off his coat and shirt. He took his shirt and wrapped his wounded arm.

  Jacob watched. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, the bleeding should stop. If it doesn’t, there’s a clinic in Los Gatos we can hit. I should be all right.” Los Gatos was just on the other side of the Cross Mountains on their way to South Valley.

  Jacob shouldered the Whitney. “Let’s get back to the car. You can check your prana and sharira with your eGlasses.”

  His son was smart. And the way he’d configured the Whitney, it had saved them as much as anything else.

  The bleeding did stop. And once he got his eGlasses on, he saw he had hardly used any prana, and his sharira was still above fifty percent. They did stop at the clinic in Los Gatos anyway, just to be sure.

  Andrew enjoyed the whispers and stares, and when a nurse asked for an autograph, he gave her one. He kept headshots in his car for just such occasions.

  It was a level-five cambion, rare and expensive. Andrew wasn’t going to sell it. No, he was going to use it. He wasn’t just fighting to keep his career going. He had his family to save.

  The Underpass

  NO ONE AT THE WEDNESDAY night critique group mentioned the fight, nor Marjory’s new deal with Barton Hennessey nor Diana f
laking out at the last minute.

  It was like none of the drama on Saturday ever happened. Marjory was just as brusque and just as full of glares. Timothy might’ve been a bit more subdued. That wasn’t surprising, since he should’ve fought Niko.

  Another strange thing—Henry wasn’t there. He’d called in sick. If you didn’t explain your absence, you were kicked out of the group, since obviously, you weren’t committed enough.

  Barton didn’t show up, which wasn’t so surprising, and Andrew Coffey had meant to be there, but he also called saying something else had come up.

  All of it was odd.

  Niko had spent the hours getting there in agony, thinking about how he was going to explain himself, what he was going to say about Danette’s offer, the whole deal. Danette told him the Sages of the Underpass met on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and sometimes on Friday nights, and he was welcome to show up to any of them or none. He hadn’t been able to make Tuesday night, but he planned to go the next night. Teddy was willing to cover for him.

  Niko’s worrying meant nothing, except for the fact that his meditation practices hadn’t taught him how to let go of troublesome thoughts yet.

  After sparring, the group broke up.

  Niko called Seo-yun over. Both stood in front of the gate, by a streetlight glowing in the mist. Niko couldn’t just let the night pass without saying something. And since Henry wasn’t there, the person he was next closest to was Seo-yun.

  “How come we’re not talking about what happened on Saturday?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “We’re not here to be friends. We’re here to spar and to improve our technique through good critiques. Sometimes, if you’re friends, you won’t say exactly what you mean. And that can be problematic.”

  Niko could see her point. Yet to pretend the drama hadn’t happened didn’t seem right to him. Then again, his family had a way of talking about everything. Maybe that wasn’t so good either.

  “Hey, Seo-yun, what if being a cusp isn’t bad?” He wasn’t going to reveal Danette’s invitation. He still didn’t know who the “mutual friend” was.

  Seo-yun wrapped her coat tighter around herself. Her face went blank. “Being a cusp is problematic, Niko. I’ve given up on Gravitas, and I’m not looking back. Like Marjory, I’ll get my chance.”

  And that was the end of it.

  On the train home, Niko finally got tired of obsessing. He cycled his prana, going through the Duodecim, Sanguine through Woda. At least he didn’t have Wochick’s torture tincture in his system. He did it first thing in the morning, to get it out of the way. He couldn’t vape on the train either. Which was fine—he could cycle without medication.

  On his bike, riding through the dark, he found a new fear to plague him. The Sages of the Underpass met the next night, Thursday. It would mean more abuse. Maybe that was why Wochick was so mean; Battle Artists had to get a thick skin, and the apothecary was providing them a service.

  The next day flew by. Niko packed his training robes in his backpack and rode his bike from Apricot to South Valley City, riding down the El Camino, dodging traffic. He pedaled past Wochick’s. Buzz was out front, next to his bike. The old guy was alive.

  They waved to each other.

  Niko biked past the South Valley Arena, a homeless shelter, and an old restaurant called Hank Li’s BBQ, which was pumping delicious smelling smoke out of its woodfire ovens. He found the address he’d been given. It was a small house near the Guadalupe Expressway high above North Ciudad Road, the underpass below the freeway.

  Danette sat on a wooden bench on the porch of the house. She wore sweatpants and a T-shirt. She lifted a hand and waved him over. His tires clacked and his chain clicked as he rode over the weeds and cracked concrete of the driveway. He got off his bike and laid it down.

  He saw, right away, the house was condemned. Instead of windows, there were boards sealing it shut. Graffiti tagged the sides in loops of faded black spray paint. There was a vague unpleasant smell, though Hank Li’s BBQ smoke helped cover it.

  Niko thought about joking, Nice place you got here.

  He didn’t say it. There was a good chance that Danette was going to be as rigid and humorless as Timothy. He didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot, so he went the safe route. “Hi, Ms. Parata. I’m a little early. But I figured it would be better than being late.”

  Danette leaned over to the side as if she were looking at something behind him. Niko turned. Nothing was there, except for the underpass, a normal street, sidewalks, and shadows.

  “Ms. Parata?”

  “I was wondering if someone was behind you, making sure you knew your manners. Danette is fine. And I’m guessing I call you Niko?”

  “Yeah, it’s short for Nikodemus, which is a lot to say.”

  “Only four syllables.” Danette patted the bench next to her. “Feel free to come over, sit down, we can talk some. Evelyn and Paxton are usually late. Henry might be joining us as well.”

  Niko walked over. Instead of sitting, he leaned up against the scratchy white paint of the railing. “Henry was the mutual friend? Did you ask Seo-yun?”

  Danette squeezed her lips shut. “Henry talked a bit with her. It didn’t do any good. She drank the Barton Hennessey Kool-Aid. She’s going the traditional route.”

  Niko wasn’t sure how honest he should be. He took a chance. “I’m going to try and do both.”

  “That’s the ideal,” Danette said agreeably. “Unfortunately, there’s some prejudice against the Unrepresented. For now. The fans are caring less and less.” She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Look, Niko, the way we work, what we’re trying to do, I don’t think you can do both.”

  “That’s something Barton Hennessey might say to me.” Niko felt his heart drop a bit. He shook it off.

  Danette smiled, and her face lit up. She had that kind of smile; prana seemed to leak out of her dark brown eyes. “You’re right about that. For him, what we’re doing is sacrilegious. It’s not how you make a career, or that’s the thinking. If your technique is flawless, you will win battles. If you win battles, you’ll get fans. And if you get fans, you’ll get contracts.” She rolled her eyes. “In the end, we don’t care about technique. We care about what works. We’ll win fans even if our technique isn’t flawless.”

  Niko could hardly believe what she was saying. He let his stunned silence speak for him.

  She continued. “That’s why you’ll have a hard time doing both. We all had to give up on what is traditionally done. We sign hop. We try all sorts of crazy things. We’re looking to see how far we can push ourselves, and we don’t have agents or corporate drones looking over our shoulders. We only have each other.” Danette leaned back on the bench. “Can you let go of your conditioning?”

  “Conditioning?” Niko asked.

  Danette gave him the definition. “The process of training a person or animal to behave in a certain way or to accept certain circumstances. Growing up in this culture, we’ve all been conditioned to believe there is only one way to succeed at being a Battle Artist. Only one path. It’s not true. There are no rules. Well, there is one rule.”

  Niko wasn’t sure what he was getting himself into. “What’s the one rule?”

  “If you don’t fight, you can’t win. No one, in the history of the Arts, has ever won a match without first getting into the Arena. The more you fight, the better you get.”

  “A thousand losses are a teacher,” Niko whispered.

  Danette chuckled. “That’s probably the only line from The Pranad I know. Losing is the best teacher. You figure out what doesn’t work. Edison, when he was working on the light bulb, said, ‘I have not failed. I’ve just found ten thousand ways that won’t work.’ But funny thing, Edison was an asshole. He had marketing on his side. And thus, we see the power of marketing. We don’t always remember the best. We do remember the popular and the successful. Hence, technique might not be the critical factor in being successful.” Danette motioned to h
is bike. “I won’t blame you if you ride off and don’t come back.”

  Niko was tempted. “So I could do both groups. If I can make it work.”

  “That’s it exactly. If you can surrender to the Sages, while at the same time listening to Hennessey’s gospel of the corporations, then do whatever you want. I’m betting you can’t. And living with secrets is hard. Trust me.” Danette turned and regarded the very closed door behind her. Two boards had been nailed to keep it shut.

  “Who owns the house?” Niko asked the obvious question.

  “Living with secrets is hard but being mysterious is awesome.” Danette fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Let’s just say me and the house have history. You’ll get my story soon enough. However, I’m not done.”

  “Done with what?” Niko couldn’t help but smile. He felt comfortable with Danette, and this felt right, like they were equals. She wasn’t lording her age or her power over him.

  “I’m not done with the gospel of the Sages, or at least the Danette Parata translation.” She put her hands over her stomach, which bulged a bit over her belt.

  “Give me wisdom, teacher,” Niko echoed the parables in The Pranad.

  “The traditional route offers the dream, right? That’s why we’re all doing this. The dream of being the best, of our name up in lights, or fabulous cash prizes. Personal jets, cocktail parties, and lots of sex with celebrities.” Danette laughed. “Oh, did I say the ‘s’ word? Don’t worry, I have sons older than you and I embarrass them too.”

  “Not embarrassed,” Niko said. “But that’s pretty much the dream. To become a legend. Like Franklin Wash.”

  “Nice reference. I’d have invited Franklin Wash to join us. He was a utilitarian fighter, without a doubt. He did what worked.” She sighed. “Do you really think we’re going to be legends?”

  The right answer was yes. That was what you said. Are you going to be the best there is? Yes. It was all about visualizing your best self. Timothy had a mantra he said in the mirror every day. Positive affirmations.