Chapter 30 - Jericho

  Psychosomatic Output: 1,044 Bio-units

  Synaptic Rank: Unbound

  Jericho woke on his bed, gagging at the wretched tube running down his throat. He looked around and was surprised to find himself in his own room. Sto’ram and the cranky doctor were no where to be seen.

  Panic ignited in his chest, and he began to claw at the tube. Why wasn’t he with the physician? Did something happen? Was he dead?

  “Easy now, let’s get that feeder out.” He heard Randrea murmur.

  In his peripheral, he caught the blurred outline of her form. He tried to turn his head to look at her, but the movement tugged on the tube, and his chest burned in response.

  Randrea moved into his line of sight, her forehead was knit with worry, and there was a strange kindness in her eyes. She began to pull on the tube, and he coughed as the lubricated material slid against his interior tissues. He gagged again as the tube exited his mouth, attached to his lips by a single strand of saliva.

  She whispered something that he didn’t understand, and he caught a look of distaste on her face. His cheeks burned with embarrassment. Of course, it had to be Randrea who tended to him. Where was Sto’ram, or the ancient Hokkonian physician? He’d take that old alien’s racist badgering over his current mortifying display to Randrea.

  He recognized the amused tilt of her lips through the blur of his tears. Are you really crying?

  Randrea laughed, “I’ve only had the feeder once, and it was terrible. We couldn’t prick you with any more stims, so this was the only choice.”

  “My stomach feels full,” Jericho groans. “It wasn’t like this last time.”

  “Well yeah, it’s full of slop.”

  She did not just say slop.

  Jericho gave her a weary grimace, “Do I want to know what that is?”

  A bright smile broke across her grey-skinned face. " Nope! That’s just what we call it. You should see what it looks like.”

  The slop sat heavy in his stomach, like someone force fed him a fist-sized rock. This wasn’t the first time he had the feeder, but it was the first time it felt this uncomfortable.

  “I think you gave me too much.” He muttered.

  Randrea pursed her lips, “Very possible, I really don’t know how to work this thing. Arthros is gone on a mission, and that withered old bastard, Strathos, refused to treat you.” She tsked and shook her head, “The Cap is going to be pissed when he gets back.”

  The thought that Randrea might have somehow messed up his treatment horrified him. How much slop was too much? Would he explode, because it certainly felt like that was a possibility.

  “Aaaaand we had to separate you from Sto.” Randrea shrugged, “So you were stuck with him, but hey, you’re awake and breathing, aren’t you?”

  Jericho wheezed and rubbed at his belly’s taught skin, “barely.”

  The female scoffed, “Well, I tried my best; come on, let’s go.”

  He gave her an appalled look, “Go? I can’t go anywhere; I feel like I’m about to burst!”

  She tsked again and pursed her lips, “That’s too bad because this is your last shot!”

  Her tone was so chipper he almost missed it. One last shot? That couldn’t be right; he had just started!

  “Wait, whaaa…”

  Randrea was already walking towards the door, and his question died on his tongue as he watched her stroll away. The swishing hips, the tight pants, the bare skin on the small of her back that looked all too human.

  She glanced over her shoulder, her pale white eyes filled with an unidentifiable light, “Come on Icho, one last shot.”

  Jericho blinked at the nickname, and his heart fluttered. Someone else used to call him that, though it sounded good coming from the Hokkonian.

  Once she disappeared around the corner, he pulled himself out of the hammock with a grunt of effort. Thankfully, the pressure in his stomach seemed to dissipate slightly in the upright position. He hurried to the small closet near the door and grabbed a fresh uniform.

  He hopped from one leg to the other as he struggled to squeeze himself into the tight fabric. “Are we going to the training area?”

  Randrea poked her head back into the room, unconcerned about whether he was fully clothed. “Well, we’re not going to your graduation ceremony,” she said.

  He tried to ignore the heat in his cheeks, and he smoothed out his uniform, “Right, okay, I feel good about this one, I’m ready.”

  Yeah right! What’s different now than last time?

  The female was already marching down the hall, and he hurried to catch up with her. She stopped so suddenly that he nearly collided with her back.

  “What- “

  Randrea whirled on him, “We don’t have much time, watch this.”

  “Huh?” She was so close to his face now that he could see tiny spines lining the underside of her eyes.

  A tablet was shoved into his hands, and when he glanced down his eyes widened in surprise. On the screen was an image of Sto'ram standing in the training area, her quarterstaff a blur.

  “What is this?” He asked.

  Randrea placed a hand on his shoulder. Her forehead was creased and her mouth pressed in a tight line. Her eyes searched his, and he willed himself to maintain eye contact.

  “What we’re about to do is against the rules; if you tell anyone, I will deny it, and you’ll be killed.” She whispered.

  What we’re about to do? Jericho swallowed.

  “What do you mean?” He asks.

  “I swear ‘Icho, it will be my word versus yours.”

  “Okay, I get it, not really, but yeah, not a peep.”

  “You’ll be executed on the spot, seriously you won’t even have time to understand it’s happening.”

  “I said I get it!” Jericho snapped.

  Satisfied, she drew away and tapped on the screen, and a video started to play. It was a clip from his bout with Sto'ram—full speed at first and then a slowed version after. Randrea tapped the screen again, and the video restarted.

  Jericho gasped and mimicked her actions, rewinding the video again.

  “Do you understand?” She asked, her voice a hushed growl.

  Of course he did, he was a pit fighter. He learned by watching and studying. Without that crucial element it felt like he was going into every fight blind. Now he could study or at least learn something in the brief time he had before the next session.

  “How much time do I have?” He murmured; his eyes glued to the screen.

  “Half an hour, I woke you up early.”

  She scratched a spot on her neck and then ran her palm over the erect spines on her head. Something was wrong, a problem significant enough to bother her. Why else would she risk breaking the rules? Then a thought popped into his head, yanking him from his focus on the video.

  One last shot.

  “Randrea?”

  She grunted and lifted an eyebrow.

  “Why did you tell me this is my last shot?” He lowered the tablet and frowned at the female, “I just got here.”

  The Hokkonian tapped the tips of her teeth together as she hesitated to speak.

  She wants to tell me; I can see it. I just need to convince her, cute face or charming face?

  He pulled his suave expression, flexing his jaw and lowering his eyebrows. At the same moment, Randrea opened her mouth to speak, paused to give him a confused look, and then continued to talk.

  “Because if you don’t win, you’ll be left here.”

  That dropped the charm from his face like a pebble kicked off a cliff. He tried to ask her what she meant, but the intensity of gaze left him speechless. All he could was stare at her dumbly.

  “That’s all I can tell you; you’re not a pilot yet and I’m already breaking enough rules sneaking you this tab. Arthros would skin me alive if I broke confidentiality.” She flicked her tongue off the top of her sharpened teeth, “Don’t lose.”

  She didn’t wait for him to reply and turned to leave down the hall in the direction of the training arena.

  He had half an hour.

  ***

  Unsure what to do with the tab, he stashed it behind a few supply crates he found conveniently in the hall. He would have to hurry now to make it in time, but the extra minutes were worth it. If he closed his eyes, he could envision a few of Sto'ram’s sequences.

  He could do this! What were the last ten years of life for if it didn’t amount to a victory against Sto’ram? He raced through the hall, mentally repping the fight. She didn’t do well if he got close, and she was quick to counter.

  Dodge the overhead strike, parry the backswing, and jab at the opening!

  The sequence always started slower, and then picked up to impossible speeds if he let her go. He had to count each strike and lash out during an opening.

  Initially, her speed had been so overwhelming he didn’t think there was an opening. Yet, after watching the slowed-down footage, there were many. She was gifted of course, or else she wouldn’t be in Arthros division, but it was her mind that the Commander valued.

  Physically compared to the others, she was below average at best.

  The doors to the arena slid open soundlessly, and he was surprised to find the entire division waiting for him. He was even more surprised to see that Arthros was absent.

  Randrea stood at the forefront, her hands clasped behind her back. When she locked eyes with him, the corners of her mouth twitched in a quick smile. The twins stood behind her. One had the other in a headlock but paused their wrestling match to wave. Fydither looked bored and lounged on Dight’s wide, knobby back. Sto'ram sat cross-legged on the floor, her bulbous eyes closed. Graito had a disgruntled expression and refused to look at him.

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  “Step onto the floor, Jericho.” Randrea’s voice was neutral.

  “Where’s Arthros?” He glanced around the cavernous room, hoping to see the Commander approaching from the other entrances.

  “Just do as she says, human,” Graito growled.

  No one reacted to the hostile comment, so Jericho gritted his teeth and obeyed. He refused to let his race be an insult. He was a human and he was proud of it!

  “Arthros has given me full authority while he’s away,” Randrea said, her voice maintaining a controlled impassiveness.

  The comment seemed to surprise the others. Fydither leaned up from his prone position on Dight’s back, and Sto’ram ended her meditation with an abrupt jerk of her head. Do they not know where he is?

  “Jericho, until now you’ve been given special treatment. That ends today; I cannot, in good conscience, prevent your death should you fall at the hands of Sto’ram. That has been our custom since the foundation of the HWND program.”

  The words echoed in the arena and the controlled air seemed to drop several degrees. The twins looked uncomfortable while Fydither and Graito shared a smug look.

  He searched Randrea’s face for any shred of regret, her lips were pursed, jaw clenched, but her eyes glinted with an unrecognizable light.

  So, this was it, it really was his last chance. There was no way Sto’ram would hold back now.

  “However, Arthros did give me another order.” Randrea’s eyes flicked briefly to the others.

  Did she seem nervous?

  She took a deep breath, and her tongue swiped across her bottom lip, “If you do manage to defeat Sto’ram, you’ll be granted official Pilot status.”

  The reaction was immediate.

  The ground shook from Dight’s outraged stamps, Fydither shot into the air, and Graito whirled on Randrea. The twins took several steps away from the group, while Sto’ram stared daggers at Jericho.

  Gratio rose to his hind legs to reach Randrea’s face, lips curled in a snarl, “What? No! Ran that’s not how we do things!”

  The female Hokkonian calmly looked past the Myrd, “This is your last chance, Jericho.”

  “Hold on, that can’t be true!” Fydither wailed and a rumbling agreement emitted from Dight’s circular maw.

  Graito grabbed Randrea’s arm, “He has to survive against all of us! What about the gauntlet, the simulation test, or the neuro-bridge exam? Those are the rules!”

  For a moment her expressionless mask slipped, and she shook free of the Myrd’s grasp with a dark look. She turned her furious look on the others and barked, “Arthros’ orders.”

  Those words cowed the others, and their protests diminished to muted grumblings. Even Dight’s massive feet ceased their protesting stomps, and he returned to his typical statuesque stillness.

  Only Graito refused to back down. His four yellow eyes glowed with malice and frustration. The sinewy muscles in his back tensed, and for a moment Jericho expected him to attack.

  Randrea returned his challenging stance with a cool look and folded her arms across her chest. She arched a hairless brow in a wordless question. Are we going to do this?

  The twins carefully walked behind Graito and placed firm hands on his back. Their gentle touch startled him, and his wide head drooped a little as he relaxed. He dropped back down to his four-legged stance, and his two upper arms folded across his chest.

  He mumbled something to Randrea that Jericho didn’t catch, and the twins escorted him back to the spectator’s zone.

  The Myrd shook off the twins, and shot a look at Jericho, “So this is what it’s come to? No wonder we’re a laughingstock around here.”

  Jericho clenched his fists and met his accusatory glare. Go to hell you ugly mutt.

  “Graito is right, Ran,” Fydither mumbled, “We’re supposed to be elite, the best of the best, and yet we’re going to allow a human into our ranks if he bests Sto? No offense Sto, but I could inject a canister of Torpe and still beat you. I love Arthros as much as anyone, but this is too far.”

  “He has his reasons,” she said simply.

  Fydither had no response, and no one pressed the issue. The Ordanian openly spoke out against Arthros’ order, and that was as far as anyone was willing to go. Jericho couldn’t help but agree; so far, he had shown them nothing; why wouldn’t they be embarrassed?

  All he had to do was prove them wrong now.

  “Let’s get on with it,” Jericho announced.

  Every gaze swung to him, and he lifted his chin in confident acceptance of their attention. Randrea stepped forward and reached behind her back with both arms.

  Jericho gasped in surprise when she drew two ARC blades, his ARC blades. The same ones he thought he had lost on Kleth’altho. He had been meaning to question Arthros on their whereabouts, and figured they were still sitting in his locker back home.

  They looked like daggers in her large hands, and tears stung his eyes as she handed them to him. The weapons were the last connection he had to his father and just seeing them was enough to unleash a waterfall of memories and emotions.

  “You’ll be fighting with your blades now, you’ve mastered the neurological pressure from the crown, there’s no sense it letting your training continue without your weapons.”

  A sob threatened to burst from his mouth, so he kept his lips clamped shut as he accepted the weapons. He checked the others for any silent protests but their expressions remained neutral. Most likely he would have been given the weapons regardless of Arthros’ interference.

  The blades were a comfortable weight in his hands, and he relished the feel of the leather-bound hilts on his palms. The ribbed steel, reinforced for armor-piercing capabilities, caught his smiling reflection. He checked the edge of one, and an invisible force stopped his thumb half an inch away.

  “The weapons were lined with a protective barrier, to prevent slashing and stabbing,” Randrea explained.

  Makes sense, though there was no doubt the blades could be lethal with the right amount of force.

  A few moments later she brought the crown over and carefully fit it on his head. Without warning, the crown was activated, and the familiar neurological pressure engulfed him.

  This time, he didn’t even wobble.

  His ability to handle the pressure had grown so rapidly, that even the other pilots were muttering about his improved tolerance.

  Once they were both within the training square, the perimeter lines glowed a pale green before fading back into their usual white. He studied his opponent, soaking in every detail before his final fight could begin. Her sequences flashed in his head.

  You can do this.

  Randrea gave him a nod and a beat later, the starting chime echoed through the arena.

  Sto'ram was on him in an instant and wasted no time with a barrage of blows. Her quarterstaff was a blur as she flourished, slashed, and stabbed. The steel caps failed to make contact as Jericho deflected each blow with the flat edge of his blades.

  It was the first time he managed to escape her whirlwind of strikes unscathed, and it left Sto’ram shocked.

  He took advantage of her surprise and aimed a powerful kick at her chest. The blow sent her flying to the ground, but she had the momentum to tumble into a backward somersault. She was back on her feet a beat later, though she didn’t retaliate immediately. Her strange eyes swirled with anger as she glared at him.

  “Does the reality of your inevitable death fuel you?” She sneered, “No matter how hard you fight today, you will lose, and the HWND program will be rid of you.”

  Blood was rushing so loudly in his ears that he had trouble hearing her, his chest heaved from the adrenaline and the energy it took to parry the first onslaught.

  Don’t listen to her words, focus on her sequences!

  She advanced on him again, though like before her staff never found its mark. Every time he heard the loud clack of his blades intercepting the reinforced wood of her weapon he was surprised. He was parrying each strike on intuition and anticipation alone. He looked for the thread, but the blur of her quarterstaff was all he could see.

  He counted the flurry of attacks in his head, waiting for the inevitable opening in her sequence. When it came, he stepped close and drove a knee hard into her gut. She doubled over with a wheezing gasp, and Jericho raised both his blades over and brought them down hard on the back of her exposed neck.

  Impossibly, Sto'ram’s quarterstaff whipped up to intercept the protective edge of his blades. His feet were kicked out from under him, and he landed heavily on his back, instinct made him parry the stab that would have crushed his face.

  He rolled out of the way of the second stab and scrambled to his feet to intercept the next attack but his opponent held back.

  She seemed perplexed and for a moment she just stared at him. He caught the unmistakable expression of confusion on her alien face and recognized the sudden epiphany of understanding that lit in her eyes.

  “You’ve been studying.”

  She knows.

  He lifted a blade with an exaggerated smirk and pointed it at her, “Nah, I’m just that good.”

  “You should be dead. Twice I’ve caved in your skull. Today will be the third.” She snarled at him, and mucus dripped from her teeth and onto the floor.

  His chest heaved, and his lungs burned. His head throbbed in memory of his defeats. Around her neck was the glowing thread, a message from fate.

  He took one calming breath and shook his head. “Not this time, I figured you out.”

  Sto'ram frowned, but behind her Jericho saw the slight smile on Randrea’s face.

  “We’ll see.”

  Come at me, bitch.

  She leapt at him again and Jericho managed a grim smile as he proceeded to deflect her attacks. He had successfully goaded her into another attack, now all he had to do was survive. Count, dodge, parry, strike. Count. Dodge. Parry. Strike. COUNT. DODGE. PARRY. STRIKE.

  He thrust his right ARC blade and slipped it past her defense, the protected point broke her ribs with an audible crack, and she let out a howl of pain. She disengaged and rapidly put distance between them, clutching her injury with a look of fury.

  For the third time he escaped her attacks without so much as a bruise. The thread glowed around her neck, calling out to him. It practically lured him forward, but he kept his feet rooted to the ground. The last thing he wanted to do was defend himself against another blindingly quick series of attacks, but it was the only way to defeat her.

  Patience.

  With an unearthly shriek the Titulonist flew at him, and he braced for another attack. This time her movements were different.

  Instead of an overhead strike, her quarterstaff whipped around and caught him with a side-swipe into his arm. There wasn’t much muscle behind the blow, but it was enough to numb his grip on his blade.

  Focus!

  Count, dodge, parry-, she hit him again, this time instead of a jab, she went low and caught him in the meat of his thigh.

  His knee buckled but refused to be distracted. Count, dodge-, her quarterstaff swung down and shattered the top of his foot. Count-, she feigned an attack on his left arm and instead swung her staff upward, catching him under the chin.

  The blow brought stars to his eyes, and he crumpled to the ground. From the ground she brought the staff hard on his ribs, a vengeful move that cracked his ribs just as loudly as her own.

  Move. You must move.

  The staff struck his knee, and the hard bone of his kneecap seared with fiery agony.

  Move, Jericho, move!

  He managed a roll and Sto'ram’s staff harmlessly thudded off the ground. He struggled to stand only to receive a kick in the small of his back that sent him stumbling forward.

  Normally he could have caught his balance, but the neurological pressure of the crown continued it’s oppressive dulling of his coordination. He felt hard on the ground, sprawling on his belly.

  You’re going to die if you don’t move. He coughed, and blood splattered on the floor.

  “Are you going to die on the floor like a groveling slave?”

  The taunt fueled him to his feet and he shifted his weight to his good leg.

  He looked up at Sto’ram and recognized the triumph on her face, even worse, he saw the disappointment on Randrea’s.

  Maybe he really couldn’t do it, even the least adequate fighter in Arthros’ division was too much for him. Even when he had a real strategy, Sto'ram bested him with brute force.

  Sto'ram’s birdlike features upturned in a mocking somberness, “Have we finally discovered your breaking point? Are you ready to quit? Tell you what human, I’ll spare your life if you admit that you don’t belong here. Say it with me, I’m not good enough.”

  His injuries ached, and when he looked at his opponent the thread around her neck pulsed as if it longed to disappear and abandon him to his doom. He was so tired, tired of losing, tired of putting everything he had into a situation where the outcome was inevitable. Perhaps it really was time to give up.

  He could envision his mother standing behind him and the cruelty slithering from her mouth. You’re worthless.

  It was Scor’s voice that surprised them both, “Pilots don’t quit.”

  The Hokkonian was staring at him, his face uncharacteristically somber.

  His brother nodded beside him, “We endure.”

  “If you’ve reached your limits, just take another step,” Randrea urged.

  Their words drowned out the ghostly whispers of his mother, and with the help of his AI, he cut off the pain receptors in his injuries. He tightened his grips on his blades and squared his shoulders. Sto'ram tore her gaze from the others, her face contorted with rage. She leapt at him once more.

  Count, dodge, parry, strike-, her staff glanced off his shoulder. Her speed was still too much for him to handle, but he refused to let it get in his head.

  Count, dodge, parry, strike. He landed a blow on her upper arm. Count, dodge, parry, strike.

  Just take another step.

  Count. Dodge. Parry. Strike.

  Pilots don’t quit.

  Count. Dodge. Parry Strike.

  We endure.

  Count. Dodge. Parry. Strike.

  He was moving faster than he ever had before; his reflexes were reacting with perfect timing to create an impenetrable defense. His instincts were fueling his technique, and he was striking in impossible windows.

  Even so, Sto'ram managed to land a vicious swing from her staff, and the strike snapped the bone in his arm. Without pausing, his AI numbed the injury, and he kept fighting.

  You might have reached your limits. He parried an attack.

  Another strike landed hard on the top of his shoulder, the same arm that was broken and he felt the joint dislocation. Even with the pained artificially eliminated, the arm wasn’t functional. He had to end the fight now if he stood a chance.

  So just take another step.

  He let out a yell, an accumulation of his frustration, pain, and adrenaline. He ducked under a swipe aimed for his temple and used his lower body position to propel upwards. With the blade still in his hand, he uppercut with his functioning left arm, and his knuckles collided under her chin.

  His fist slipped off her mucus covered scales but not before he felt the subluxation of her jaw. She stumbled backward from the punch and couldn’t react in time as Jericho hurled himself at her.

  He drove his shoulder into her stomach, and she let out an audible whoof as the air was forced from her lungs.

  They both landed on the ground with Jericho on top. With his one good arm he rained blows on her face, head, and neck.

  The last time they had fought, he wasn’t strong enough to deliver the force he needed, but this time, he felt different. It was as if he had unlocked a new level of strength from a source he was unsure of.

  Every ounce of his remaining strength went in to his desperate onslaught. He couldn’t’ let up, this was it, his final moment. If he stopped, and Sto’ram was still conscious, he wouldn’t be able to stop her.

  His shoulder was sore and stiff by the time Randrea dragged him off the Titulonist’s limp body. The female Hokkonian was saying something to him, but his ears rang, and he heard nothing. His legs buckled, but Randrea’s grip was like steel, and she held him up.

  She took his face in her hands and yelled at him, plastering her face with a crazy smile. Through the haze of fatigue, he barely managed to register their proximity.

  The ringing in his ears started to fade as Randrea’s voice became audible over the thunderous rush of his pulse.

  “You did it Icho.”

  He stared at her dumbly and slipped from her grasp where he collapsed to his knees. Sto'ram’s unconscious body was still lying where he had left her, and he felt a deep sense of accomplishment bubble inside of him.

  He tried to listen for the mocking malice of his mother’s voice, but the witch was as silent as Sto’ram.

  The twins swept in, whooping and shouting their congratulations. Even Dight and Fydither offered their brief cheers.

  Beyond the group, Graito was staring at Sto'ram. The look on his alien face impossible to read.

  I did it Kyrin. I really did it.

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