While the rail ride to the housing village was cleaner than any since her family’s murder, it was unbearably hot, creating a hideous scent that had had Nadia gagging and bolting to get off. Several multi-story cubes made up the village, their balconies drawing Nadia in like a wagged finger.
A drone marked her with a cube number upon leaving the train, and she sprinted to it, several hours overdue for a shower and a prayer. Her plans were quickly dashed when she entered, a large buffet full of tantalizing and titillating scents—surely genuine—waiting off to the side of the lobby. No, don’t shower, the food sang to Nadia. Just stay here, with us, forever.
Nadia tore her eyes, nose, and tongue—which tried jumping out of her mouth—away from the buffet and proceeded to the concierge desk. “Nadia Verbrannter,” she said to the concierge, who gave her a keycard. Nadia proceeded swiftly to the elevator, lest the food at the buffet tempt her beyond the single pastry she gnawed at in the elevator. Nadia felt awkward for doing so—she’d never let her kids see her like this—but quashed these chidings when a mutant whose shoulders reached from one corner of the elevator to the other vacuumed down a whole leg of turkey. I suppose a small pastry in the elevator is hardly the worst thing.
Her room had two large beds with an adjacent nightstand and a Fried lamp in between, along with a separate dresser with a holo-projector opposite them. Thankfully, this room didn’t have the yellow glow that told of lurking health hazards and serial murderers, but instead a gentle white glow that suggested a masseuse inside the bathroom. She checked the dresser, which revealed several clean, soft black sweatpants and tees inside. Grabbing a set, Nadia went to the shower, hopes high.
The bathroom itself had a long vanity along one wall, two water closets opposite the vanity, and two bathing pods opposite the door, both with a large curtain displaying the Atlasian triple eagle. This has to be the nicest bathroom I have ever been in, Nadia marveled, spinning inside one of the pods. You could put a squat rack in here and still have room for another squat rack, Nadia reasoned, not entirely convinced that wasn’t a possible feature.
Nadia stripped and put her clothes on the vanity. Tapping the faucet poured warm water onto her feet and a a holographic temperature dial materialized above the spigot. Nadia tweaked it to just shy of scalding before settling into the far end of the tub, pleased that the water was already at her navel. This has to be the fastest bath I have ever seen!
Displayed at Nadia’s side was another set of temperature controls, along with a keyboard and tv remote. Selecting an old favorite to watch, Nadia rested contentedly until the water lapped at her collarbone and an idea came to mind. Tapping the keyboard, Nadia dialed the front desk. “Can I please get a plate of pastries please? No particular flavor, just a lot of pastries,” Nadia asked, dying to finally sate her sweet tooth after six months of hard training. “Thank you very much.”
The pastries would come, but not before her roommate arrived, making Nadia duck into the water, peeking above the lip of the bath in case her roommate was on her kill list. It wasn’t. The newcomer was a bald man wearing green-brown camo pants and a black tank top that he threw to the side. His skin was a mottled mess of clay grey blotches and jaundiced, oil-like yellow, as if he'd just finished a session of Pottery and Penises: Nude Ceramics. If that were the end of it, Nadia might still have an appetite—not really—but it wasn’t, and his tight skin rippled as his organs and muscles undulated. Again, all of this might have been fine—it really wouldn’t—but the crazy train kept chugging along, and looking lower revealed he had no penis, just a patch of flat skin as if it had been removed and paved over.
Most Atlasians were blue or white in their glassiness, a product of the cosmic radiation that made Atlasian’s cells and proteins take on an ordered, crystalline structure within their bodies. The proto-Atlasians had been golems of jagged crystals, but Nadia didn’t remember the in-between Atlasians looking yellow as their crystals became finer and glassier. An electrophage, Nadia thought, having never seen one in person before and never from this close when they were on holo-vision.
Electrophages did not come from Atlasian wombs, instead from tubes. Their cells were larger by design, holding an extra powerhouse in addition to the mitochondria, the phage-nucleus. They could generate currents within their body to spur growth and regeneration or—in a few thriller novels—shoot lightning from their hands. When an external current was applied, the same abilities were elevated an order higher. Humanity had long ago left animal testing in the dustbin of history, and electrophages were the dirty little secret of how they had done it, grown in batches to customer specification. What one was doing here—
Unable to comprehend oddly-colored, penisless, live-wire freaks, Nadia turned back to her show. I can deal with him when he has clothes and after I have had my pastries, Nadia reasoned, focusing on her show.
Pastries came shortly after the mutant went into his own pod, passed to Nadia through a small slot in the glass divider. Any nagginh thoughts were swept away in a tide of fruit and sugar. Before her episode could finish, Nadia had ordered another tray. Too bad I cannot stay here, Nadia lamented.
After the mutant had simultaneously finished his bath, she generously granted him—was he a him? Unclear—until a silent count of 300 to get dressed. As she stepped out, the now appropriately dressed man turned toward her, exposing another peculiar detail. He lacked a nose, mouth, and only had a right eye, as if someone had thoughtfully paved over his face too. "Hello. I am Nadia," she said as she looked at the space behind his shoulder and the bed beyond, strewn with his dirty clothes. How is he supposed to answer? Nadia chided herself.
“Brannon,” the man said with a hiss as a small slit formed on the right side of his jaw. It resembled a crude and chapped set of lips. Nadia reached for the balm she kept with her, only to remember that she had tossed that and that she didn’t want to touch this freak. “Nice to meet you, Nadia,” Brannon continued, extending his hand.
He has no penis and talks with a chin mouth. Oh Fried, you are a jokester, I will give you that. “Where are you from, Brannon?” Nadia asked as she took the offered hand, parting just as quickly.
“Knöchelstadt. You?”
“Kraklaw. How did your game go?” Nadia asked, again to be friendly. Appearances are nothing if not maintained, Nadia told herself, hating that she had to maintain them for a phage who was probably radioactive, contagious, or both. Maybe I can give him the slip and go to the gym.
Brannon shrugged. “Easy. We baited them into our side of the field while I led a group up their flank when they had gone too far. What are your plans for the rest of the day before the duel tonight? I was going to order up some food.”
Nadia arched a brow. “I was not aware of a duel being scheduled for tonight.” It wasn’t uncommon for knights to duel each other, but it wasn’t the weekend yet. Would they really want to get pieced up with only a fraction of the usual eyes?
Brannon nodded. “A few of the chaperoning knights decided to put on some duels in the stadium for our entertainment. I’d be betting on them normally, but all of my cash got burnt up at the entrance. That and”—Brannon sighed—“we don’t actually know what the matchups are.”
“That does sound fun, I will likely go. In the meantime, I was planning on drying my hair and going to the gym or perhaps the range in the basement.”
Brannon scoffed. “The gym? Haven’t we done enough training to get here?”
Nadia donned her best resting-bitch-face mask, which had won several competitions, mind you. “Fried requires his hands to be strong like iron,” Nadia said, three verses already locked and loaded on her tongue if Brannon wanted to argue.
Brannon’s lips curved in a lopsided smile. “And what part of strong like iron eats 4200 cals worth of pastries?”
That is…an underestimate, Nadia thought as she did the math in her head. “I was going to treadmill a marathon,” Nadia said, the task having become maintenance for her. “And a half.”
Brannon rolled his eye. “Look,” he pointed out the window, “tomorrow, or maybe the day after, we have to go into that freezing hell, where there is a very good chance we will die,” Brannon explained. “And you want to spend four and a half hours running?”
“Through training Fried selects the survivors,” Nadia explained. “We have been blessed with the opportunity, and we must not quash it by abandoning what has brought us here.”
“And a few extra miles will be what makes or breaks your run? You can’t outrun a bullet.”
“No reason to not try,” Nadia said, feeling very satisfied with the response.
Brannon sighed and rubbed where his nose would be. “Ok. I know what will settle this. You believe Fried has blessed both of us, right?” Nadia nodded. “Why don’t we have a little bet? I win, and you take a break for the night. You win, and we work out all night until the duel.”
Nadia looked to the nightstand and thought she saw the lamp smile. I can shut him up quickly. “And just what is this bet?”
Brannon laughed, which sounded like a coughing fit. “Nuh uh uh,” he said, waving a finger. “Fried will guide you, regardless of the bet, right?”
Nadia wanted to send that damned eye bouncing from the socket. The Third Saint is one of discernment, and taking bets like this is most certainly not good discernment! Nadia thought before she saw Fried smile even wider from his place on the nightstand. “Fine. And once I win, as the Ironclad intends, I will spend four and a half hours lecturing you on theory.” Brannon merely chuckled and end held out his hand again, and Nadia took it, just as quick as before. “Very well, Brannon of Knöchelstadt, what is your competition?”
Brannon smiled even wider. “Arm wrestling, two hands going hand to hand. Poetic, no?”
Should be a fair match with implants. “The only poetry I see is going to be coming from the good book when I put your arm through the table.”
After moving one of the desks so they could both sit, the initiates locked arms, veins cascading like lightning in the embrace. “It seems the Second Saint takes favorites,” Brannon said.
Nadia rolled her eyes. "Let's get this over with, we have a marathon to get to," Nadia declared, pressing her arm against Brannon's. Despite her efforts, Brannon's arm barely budged, his smile undisturbed. In a swift motion, he pulled Nadia towards him, his triumphant grin widening as her hand hit the table with a soft thud. Immediately after her hand hit the table, Brannon extended his left hand to her.
“Good match,” Nadia mumbled as she took the hand. “How did you do that, that thing where you pulled me in?”
“Over the top?” Brannon shrugged. “That’s just leverage at work, discernment if you will. Pulling you in lets me work my way up your hand, and once there, I have the high ground, so to speak. Brannon placed his arm back on the table. “You try it.”
Nadia repeated the movement, finding that Brannon’s arm gave way with ease. “That is so much better! You could probably hustle some of these other initiates with that.”
Brannon laughed. “Oh, I plan to, but right now, I want to get a burger, and you are going to join me,” Brannon said before and leaving the room, Nadia trailing behind like a scorned puppy.
Nadia made herself a double cheeseburger with blue cheese while Brannon made a mountain of patties and pulled pork with a cute little beret of a bun. “I think your burger could pass the trials,” Nadia said before taking a bite. Genuine! Nadia marveled, images of a grinning cow standing on its hind-legs and deadlifting a bar with six plates—as well as a cow could do any of those things— bubbled to the front of her mind.
Brannon shrugged. “It’s not gonna be muscle that determines things. We haven’t even seen alterism added into the mix. Just guns and muscle so far. Think how easy that last game would have been if someone could just teleport”—Brannon snapped his fingers—“poof, game over, fuck the other team.” He leaned across the table. “It scares me,” he whispered. “I I do everything right, I watch my six, and just poof, someone fries me with lightning from a mile away. Bye bye Brannon.”
Nadia hadn’t considered the idea of alterism in her five months of training, but neither had she considered electrophages becoming knights. Everyone had a collection of ethereal coils around their stomach which helped bind their souls to the physical world and allow the manipulation of energy and quantum currents through alterism. Through such energies, matter could be aligned to certain virtues—swiftness for example, or strength—or geometries that would not otherwise be stable. Although most people could hardly even conjure a small spark, Fried made sure his servants blessed with the divine gift would be trained to best use their power in service of the empire.
Energy was a pickle to handle in the best of times, the metaphysical variety an order more difficult. Alterists grafted organoids—called alteroids— onto themselves to aid their soul in the channeling of quantum currents, feeding them much like Nadia fed her micro-guts. They not only increased the alterist’s available stores of soul energy, but also fed on the radioactive byproducts of alterism, drinking the hot currents for their own growth. Micro-guts needed to be sated and sedated back into dormancy through activity, but alteroids were the opposite. As the soul tapped more energy, the alteroids would wake, growing until the current-rich coils looked like just a snack. The soul could be trained, the alteroids could adapt, but fiery ruin awaited any alterist who drank too deeply of their powers. Such were the consequences of overusing Fried’s gifts.
Fried did not bless me with large coils, but he may have blessed others, Nadia realized. “It is a scary thought.”
Brannon scoffed, meat sliding down his jaw and onto the plate below. Couple more minutes and he’d have another burger halfway made. “Scary that someone might be more blessed than you? There are certainly people who have been blessed with less”—he tapped at his eye socket—“cursed, even.”
“How,” Nadia stopped to word the question, not wanting to be rude. Appearances are nothing if not maintained. “How did you join the Volkswaffen as an electrophage?”
Brannon smiled, best he could, anyway. “I’m glad you asked, most people just duck into their bath and order more pastries.” Nadia frowned. “Weren’t many good jobs, or jobs at all in an undercity beside being a test rat, so when a recruiter came by, I ran away and joined. Luckily, the recruiter took a liking to me, probably because I was quiet and good with a gun. Spent my first check on some augs to get myself an actual mouth instead of typing everything. Ever since—“he ran his hand over his face”—this is the face I chose to wear.”
Before Nadia could respond, her eye caught something in the lobby. Squinting, she identified a pale Gershwin and raised her hand to signal him. He trudged over to Nadia, taking care to not bump into anyone, lest a larger initiate eat him. “Gershwin, this is my new friend and roommate Brannon. Brannon, this is Gershwin, a priest I met once.”
The men shook hands. “Ah, it is a pleasure.”
“Gershwin, you look spooked.”
Brannon grasped at fake pearls. “I know I’m hideous, but people usually shout at me, not whisper.”
“Oh no!” Gershwin clarified, waving his hands in front of him, some of his color returning. “It isn’t you at all, my child. I’m just a bit shaken from the last trial.”
“Capture the flag? Did someone die?” Nadia asked.
“So, it was capture the flag, was it?” Gershwin muttered. “We didn’t get to play. The knight proctor lined us up and summoned a long rope from a pocket dimension for tug of war. We won by default when some of the other side objected, said knights were more than just strong. They were just boys, not even 16, and he just cut their heads off.” Gershwin sighed. “I could stomach that since these trials do involve death, not easily mind you, but they wouldn’t even let me perform last rites. Said they were useless hands, already damned.”
Nadia’s eyes widened. “A krieger knight said this?”
Gershwin nodded. “From Seventh, with a large cannon on his shoulder that he pointed at the team in case they wanted to object.”
“The game was meant to thin us down quickly,” Brannon interjected. “Heard from someone on my train their knight just flipped a coin.”
Nadia slammed her fist into the table, making Brannon’s burger jump. “That is a mockery of the trials. They do not even have a chance to prove themselves!”
Gershwin nodded with shame. “It is. I had better check into my room. If you’re still here, perhaps we can share a meal,” Gershwin said before leaving for the concierge.
“We’ll be gone by then. I have some other things I want to check out in this hotel and”—Brannon grabbed his burger, what was left, anyway—“this will go cold if I don’t eat it. If you’re going to get more food for yourself, would you mind grabbing me a fork?” Brannon asked, half-mouth still half full when he noticed Nadia get up with her empty plate. Nadia shot the man a look of RBF and disgust, prompting him to add “please”, which Nadia supposed was acceptable.
The woman returned with a plate of charcuterie and a fork for Brannon. “What do you think tomorrow will have us doing out there?” Nadia asked as she plucked a piece of ham, saddened to upset her plate’s perfect arrangement. “I would reckon some kind of survival game.”
Brannon shrugged. “If we even move to the next stage tomorrow. Stage zero is usually a full weekend of trials,” Brannon said after swallowing his current bite, cheese and meat dangling from his mouth like a spider suspending its prey. “They might decide there’s more testing to do, and more reels to get of Atlas’ up and coming vanguard.”
“It is odd they never show the actual knights proctoring it.”
Brannon nodded. “No wonder, if old Gershy’s story is anything to go by. Could you imagine if people knew the most holy hands of Fried were actually horrible people?” he asked each word more sarcastic than the last.
“Happened at our game too,” Nadia mumbled, prodding her food with a fork. “Our proctor slammed an initiate into the ground when he tried to object.”
“Ours was one of those big Tenth Order guys in full siege gear. He had to have been nine feet tall and six feet wide at least. Attacking the knights is suicidal, but attacking one from Tenth is like”—Brannon paused for a moment—“pulling out stints with no regional blocker.”
I suppose it is good Marcus and Vogel are not wearing an army’s worth of armor, Nadia thought dismally as she poked at her food. Makes my odds slightly better than zero.
“Enough of that,” Brannon said as he stood up, grabbing his plate of meat, which had abandoned any façade of being a burger two bites ago. “What say we get a massage? I heard this place has a bitching spa.”
Nadia wanted to object to the use of bitching but decided to save the lecture for another day. “But I just took a bath, and so did you.”
“Yea, so?” Brannon shrugged. “I got kinks in my joints water alone won’t fix, and I’d reckon you do too. Come on. Think of it as a hand helping a hand, literally.”
Nadia sighed, feeling kinks creep into her joints as Brannon said the word. A massage does sound heavenly. “Fine, lead the way, oh hand.”