I don’t attend another Citadel Championship event for the rest of the week, even those in which my people are competing. It’s a breach of etiquette, and much is made of it in the gossip feeds, but the reason is simple. I’m training.
Not for myself, besides some basic maintenance exercises that don’t aggravate my injured soldier. This time, I’m acting as the trainer- trying to compress everything I know about sharpshooting into a compact package for Amalia before the time comes for her to compete in the event that gave me the injury in the first place.
Teaching proves more difficult than anticipated. Amalia is a model student, of course- the fault lies with me. My facility with sharpshooting is what one might call an ‘unnatural talent.’ Though my skills are my own, the talent that allowed me to pick them up so quickly came from my Founder. In a certain sense, I didn’t even learn to shoot- I just remembered. And that doesn’t make a great basis for instruction.
Amalia’s own talent is nothing to sneeze at. She’s already quite talented... but her Founder was a scout, not a sniper. And there’s a world of difference between ‘good’ and ‘great.’
Part of me is still pretty convinced that you can’t teach greatness. For that, we have a backup plan. The bodyjack. It’ll let me take control of her body as though it were my own. But that’s not the sort of thing I’m willing to order her to let me do, and I still haven’t asked if she’d allow it of her own volition. So, for now, we train.
Though I don’t attend any further Championship events, I do keep an eye on their outcomes while we’re training. Thankfully, we’re able to rack up a couple wins- Colleen walks away with a gold in fencing, to nobody’s surprise, although Tellis gives her a decent fight, and Sofie puts on an impressive performance in the gymnastics event. Our attempt to cheat at the speed-skating event doesn’t work quite as well as I’d hoped it would, but a second place finish doesn’t bother me much. On the other hand, Tai seems quite frustrated to have lost the sprint to Heinonen, who showed up at the event outside of her armored exo-dermis for the first time, and blew the other three out of the water.
By the final day of the Championship, Hark’s Komodos and my Gazelles are neck and neck, with three victories each. The Oxen have a mere two, while the Peregrines have none at all. Admittedly, they didn’t put forth many competitors to begin with, but it’s still a historically weak showing.
It feels appropriate that the entire Championship should come down to the sharpshooting event. Not quite as appropriate as if Hark and I were actually facing off head to head, but it’s close enough. It’s generated some significant chatter on the gossip feeds, too- or so Sofie tells me, at least. News that I won’t be participating because of my shoulder dampened enthusiasm somewhat, but the fact that I’ve been personally training Amalia managed to leak- not shocking, since we’ve been spending hours at the range each day -and that’s reignited discussion and speculation about who’s going to win.
“Are we sure cheating is off the table?” Niko asks me, the night before the final event. In the other room, behind a sound-dampening wall, Amalia is still practicing, and in the back of my mind, I’m keeping track of the time between each shot, making a note of each time she hesitates before firing.
“‘Fraid so. What happened last time was an embarrassment, they’ll be on high alert to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
My Combat Officer sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. This whole situation is enough to make anyone miss the simplicity of warfare, where accuracy only matters as far as putting as many bullets in your target as possible.
“You’re gonna have to use the bodyjack, then. No way around it. You tried your best, but she’s just not ready for the big leagues.”
As he speaks, I mark another pause, and wince internally. He might be right, but I’m not quite ready to admit failure yet.
“You aren’t giving her enough credit. She’s come a long way in a short time.”
“Sure. She was in the ninetieth percentile before this, now she’s maybe in the ninety-fifth. But you and I both know that’s not gonna be good enough.”
“Now you’re giving Scáthach too much credit. She’s good, sure, but rifles aren’t her specialty. Amalia’s on her level, or at least close- she just needs to get past whatever’s holding her back.”
Niko shoots me a skeptical look. It’s not judgmental, per se, but I do get the sense that he’s wondering if I might have another reason for not wanting to go with the bodyjack plan.
“I don’t recall if we ever conclusively established that this is a psychological problem, rather than one of skill,” he points out, not unfairly. Of course, he’s also polite enough not to reference the third option, which is that I’m just not a very good teacher.
“Well, it’s the only angle we haven’t approached this problem from yet,” I reply, trying not to sound too helpless. This whole situation has me feeling doubly useless, not only because I can’t even shoot with my injured arm, but because I can’t seem to teach properly either.
My breathing techniques and some adjustments to her form, along with a lot of intensive practice, has been enough to get Amalia to her current level, but nothing I do seems to be enough to push her the last little bit over.
“Mm. So, what do you think the problem is? Can’t be empathy- she didn’t have any trouble shooting people during the War Games, and these targets don’t even have faces.”
Rather than responding immediately, I fall silent, and try to form as complete a picture of Amalia’s psyche as I can. Naturally, I’m not just working off of guesswork and surface-level impressions, here. I’ve got psychological profiles on every member of my unit, compiled by Sofie and Grant, to draw from as well.
The main trait I keep coming back to is that she’s a team player. At every opportunity, she’s the first to volunteer, to make herself useful, to reach out and help someone who’s struggling. It’s an admirable quality, but the more I think about it, the more I start to wonder if that’s what’s holding her back here. What’s a team player to do without a team to support? Sure, she’s representing the Gazelles in the abstract, but in practical terms, she’s going to be on her own out there. Winning or losing on her own merits, not through helping others and being helped in turn.
The Imperium places a strong emphasis in working as part of a collective in its basic education program. Operating as an individual is counterproductive to society. Amalia has clearly taken that idea to heart- and now here we are, asking her to do exactly that.
Rather than try to explain my thesis to Niko in words, I simply transmit the idea to him over the brainband, the simple logic of it clicking into place for him just as it did for me. When it’s finished, he scratches his chin for a moment, thoughtful, perhaps trying to find a flaw in my reasoning. I won’t pretend it’s bulletproof- trying to guess what the inside of someone else’s head is like is an imprecise science -but it’s the best guess I’ve got, and one the psycho profile would seem to support.
“Yeah, I could see it,” he admits eventually. “But how are you gonna get around it? This isn’t the kind of problem you can fix with an inspiring speech.”
“Those aren’t my strong suit anyway,” I laugh. “Nah, I was thinking we’d just use drugs.”
----------------------------------------
An hour later, with the sun now fully past the horizon, Niko and I watch Amalia prepare to begin another practice routine at the range. It’s set to the highest difficulty, the same one she’s been suing to train for the past several days, consistently failing to match my score. But there’s a crucial difference, this time.
Just because I don’t adhere to Hark’s strict, rigid tactical style, doesn’t mean I’m not a pragmatist. Psychological problems are too thorny and complex to unravel on such short notice, but they can be suppressed through the judicious use of combat drugs- the very same kind that keep Myrmidons from hesitating when gunning down their foes.
We haven’t put Amalia on anything serious- just a dose of Midnight, the same combat drug I use when I’m fighting seriously. To my surprise, she expressed no reservations before taking the pill, just tossed it back and picked her rifle back up.
“Start.”
Without so much as a glance back at the two of us, Amalia shifts her rifle into position, her movements mechanically precise. As soon as the first target blinks to life, she takes aim and fires, not a moment’s hesitation between the actions.
Silent, Niko and I watch as the program progresses, each target shifting position, each time slightly smaller than the last. Counting out the seconds between each shot in my head, I’m pleased to find that the irregular gaps, sometimes too long, sometimes too short, have evened out into a steady rhythm.
When I’ve watched her before, Amalia has taken pains to mimic the breathing techniques and positioning tricks I’ve shown her, but in a way that almost seems unnatural, like she’s putting on a performance for me. Now, she does it without thinking, inhaling and exhaling at precisely the right moments to keep the rifle from swaying in her grip. Every time I see the butt of the rifle kick against her shoulder, positioned precisely to dampen the recoil, I feel a sympathetic twinge of pain in my own shoulder, and for a moment I almost feel envious of her.
Isn’t this basically still cheating? Niko asks me over the brainband, presumably to avoid breaking Amalia’s concentration by speaking aloud. It’s not really necessary- while the Midnight is in effect, she wouldn’t register it as more than a vague background hum.
Only inasmuch as having reinforced bones is cheating in the pankration, and they still let Casales participate. Besides, they wouldn’t bother with blood tests even if this was strictly against regulations. Anyone with an artificial organ that secretes the stuff- like me! -could bypass one easily.
Niko shrugs, not seeming to buy that completely. This is a performance-enhancing substance of a certain kind, but it’s not like taking Midnight alone would make you better at shooting. All it does is make it easier for Amalia to concentrate- in essence, it temporarily helps her operate closer to peak capacity. That’s a far cry from using a targeting implant to see your bullets’ flight paths before you fire.
Besides- the good people of the Imperium will be tuning in tomorrow to see a competition, and this climactic final match wouldn’t be half as entertaining if one team walked away with an easy victory. Even if they did notice the Midnight in Amalia’s system, I suspect they’d willfully ignore it, knowing it would make for better viewing if they let her compete with the advantage it provides.
“Done,” Amalia says a few moments later, without a hint of pride or satisfaction in her voice. Her words are so often inflected with emotion, it’s disconcerting to hear her speak under the influence of the combat drug, which offers clarity and focus at the expense of passion.
Behind her, the target display has gone down, replaced with a score sheet that reads 97.5% in large font. Several points higher than her previous average- though just a few shy of my own. Niko glances at me, eyebrow raised, as if asking ‘you think that’s good enough?’
“And how are you feeling?” I ask neutrally, trying not to indicate pleasure or displeasure at her score.
After considering the question for a few moments, Amalia cocks her head to the side and answers.
“I can’t say that I care for the sensation, but the benefits are undeniable. We’re the results to your satisfaction?”
“…yeah, I think so.”
As the words are leaving my mouth, a terrible thought occurs to me. Right now, before the effects of the drug wear off, she’s in a state of near-perfect rationality. No emotion or sentiment to get in the way of things. If I ask her now, there’s no way she’ll say no…
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
“But just in case, there’s one more thing I want to ask of you.”
----------------------------------------
The bodyjack trigger weighs heavily in my hand as I take my seat in the stands for the final event of this year’s Citadel Championship. On the back of Amalia’s neck, hidden by her locks of curly brown hair, is a small spinal implant that, when I trigger it, will give me complete control of her body.
Walking alongside her to the Exalt Arena this morning, I could tell she was uncomfortable with its presence. Anyone would be- having your very autonomy in the hands of another, able to be snatched away at a moment’s notice, is a terrifying thought. Only someone unbound by the shackles of emotion would ever agree to having such a device installed. Someone on a drug like, say, Midnight.
Obviously, I’d be worried that her discomfort would distract her, hurt her chances of winning in the competition, except that she'll be on Midnight during that part too. She can’t be seen popping a pill on the field, and its effects don’t last very long, so instead, there’s a tiny capsule on the roof of her mouth, ready to be opened with a flick of her tongue.
If all goes according to plan,I won’t need to use the bodyjack. Thanks to the drug, and my training, Amalia will be able to do this all on her own. But if something happens-if she falters -I can take control.
Naturally, I feel sick to my stomach. I could only manage to ask her to install the bodyjack when she was under the influence of a drug that made her only capable of seeing the simple, rational reasons why it would be a good idea, and not the base, emotional reasons that it was repulsive to even think of. But I’m also glad, because knowing that it’s there, having the trigger in my hand, lets me feel like I’m in control.
I’m lucky to have met people like Sofie and Niko, who aren’t disgusted by me for doing something like this. But then again, we’re all Nobles- doing terrible things in the name of victory is practically written into our personality matrices. Amalia is the outlier, here. Really, she’s far too nice to be one of us. I know, because if I was in her position, and someone had manipulated me into installing a bodyjack for them, I’d already be scheming up ways to kill them permanently. But her? I think she’s already forgiven me.
Strange to think that she held a grudge longer for me being rude to her the other day than she will for this. But then again, there was really no good reason for me to be acting like that, while this, despite being a violation, was a perfectly rational move. Maybe Amalia is more like the rest of us than I thought, if she can respect that.
Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Niko wraps an arm around my shoulders, inviting me to relax. His presence scratches some primal itch in my brain, makes it easier to forget my worries. That’s a dangerous power for someone to have over me. Good thing it’s in the hands of someone I can trust.
“Citizens of the Imperium!”
When the Championship announcer’s voice booms out over the public address system, the din of the crowd quiets slightly. I’m still curious as to exactly who the guy is, but solving that mystery is pretty low on my list of priorities at the moment.
“We have reached the final day of this year’s Citadel Championship. But before tonight’s closing ceremony, we have one more thrilling event for you. Rescheduled after a technical mishap, we are proud to present to you, the junior division sharpshooting competition.”
That’s the official story, though I could probably count on one hand the number of people who actually buy it. Somehow that’s supposed to be less of an embarrassment than just admitting that everybody is cheating in these events all the time.
“With that out of the way, please welcome our three contestants!”
A round of applause accompanies Scáthach, Stojanov, and Amalia as they walk out from each of their respective locker rooms and onto the field. I can barely bring myself to join the chorus, watching as Amalia stiffly strides towards the shooting range set up in the middle of the arena, trying not to betray any of the discomfort she clearly feels.
“Contestants, take your positions,” the announcer instructs imperiously. All three of them comply- Scáthach with her usual swagger, Amalia keeping her head high and her shoulders locked in position, Stojanov looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.
“Draw arms.”
Each of them picks up the rifle waiting in their lane. I see Amalia shiver, and know immediately that she’s popped the Midnight capsule. A little early, but it’s a potent enough dose to last her through the entire event.
“Begin!”
Two sharp cracks ring out immediately, followed by a belated third from Stojanov. Perhaps surprised by the fact that Amalia reacted just as quickly as her, Scáthach glances to the side, as though to verify that the woman she’s facing off against is the same one who was barely an afterthought during the first round of this event.
In that moment, however, Amalia has already taken aim and fired again, putting a hole straight through the second holographic target, and taking the lead. Realizing her error, Scáthach snaps back to her lane and does the same. It’s starting to look like I might not actually have to use the bodyjack. Scáthach is good, but she’s also overconfident- a flaw I understand all too well. Having raw talent is ultimately worthless, if you’re up against someone who’s willing to work harder than you.
Almost unconsciously, I begin to tap my fingers to the rhythm of Amalia’s shots, the steady beat not deviating once from her firing pattern. To my right, I see Niko nodding in approval.
Above the stands, both on our side and elsewhere, I see Gazelle emblems rising to match the Komodos. A few small Oxen, about as unenthusiastic as that unit’s own representative, and no Peregrines at all, likely both because they’re not participating here, and because their performance throughout the entire Championship has been unimpressive, to say the least.
Watching Scáthach shoot, I find- unsurprisingly -that the way she handles her rifle seems less confident or practiced than the way Amalia does. She’s still a damn good shot, but it’s not as at home in her hands than a revolver or a sword would be. And that slight edge might just turn out to be what Amalia needs to win this.
“Color me surprised,” Sofie drawls, echoing my thoughts with an ironic tint. “She might actually pull this off.”
The two of us haven’t spoken much over the past couple of days- training with Amalia has eaten up most of my time, and my free hours have largely been dominated by Sander’s unforgiving workout regimen, and surgeries for my injured shoulder. Fragments of bone and lead had to be extracted before the joint could begin regrowth- but now that it has, I’m properly on the road to recovery. With any luck, I should be back in peak condition by the midterms.
“Told you so,” I start to gloat, fully prepared to pretend that I never had any doubt in my mind at all. But before I can even finish the thought, I notice something down in the arena.
Since the shooting started, there’s been a fairly consistent pattern- two shots, Scáthach and Amalia, followed by a third just a moment later. But just now, that pattern broke. Two shots, and then nothing. Stojanov has stopped shooting. And he’s not throwing in the towel, either. Instead, he’s taken a step back, out of his lane, and turned his rifle to the left. Pointed straight at Amalia.
Possibilities flash through my mind. Theories as to who might be behind this. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who thought about using a bodyjack- maybe Hark is borrowing the Ox Unit contestant’s body in a last-ditch attempt to cheat us out of a win. Or maybe this was Tellis’ plan all along. Knowing Stojanov wouldn’t win, he’d instead deny Hark or I our chance at victory. Or it could be something else entirely- but the outcome is the same. He’s going to shoot Amalia, and the Komodos will win by default. Or, at best, the entire Championship will be declared a draw. Neither outcome is one I’m willing to countenance.
Only one problem- Amalia still hasn’t noticed a thing. The ‘combat autism’ state induced by Midnight is a form of hyperfocus. Everything around you is tuned out. She’s barely registering the cheers of the crowd, even as they’re turning to gasps of horror and shouts of warning. Chances are, she won’t even register the gunshot until the bullet is halfway through her skull.
My hand clamps down around the bodyjack trigger, and in a disorienting rush, I’m somewhere else. Someone else. Amalia’s body feels more or less like my own, minus some lingering pain in my shoulder, and plus some weight in the skull area- belatedly, I remember the amber ram’s horns she wears. Mostly hollow, otherwise she’d barely be able to lift her head at all, but still heavy.
All of that is just a distraction, though. I’m not under the influence of the Midnight in her system- it’s just her nervous system I’m controlling -but I can still ignore extraneous information when necessary.
Tilting my head- her head -to the side, I hear a gunshot, muffled by the earplug she’s wearing. There’s a blur of motion visible in the corner of my eye, and I hear a sound like a window breaking, which I only realize later is the tip of Amalia’s leftmost horn being shot off.
Flipping the rifle in my hands round, I spin and slam the butt of it into the side of Stojanov’s head. It all happens in a flash, and I barely even get a glimpse of his face, but judging by the rictus expression he’s wearing, he isn’t in any more control of his actions than Amalia is right now.
The blow knocks Stojanov to the ground, and he releases his grip on his weapon. For a split second, I consider putting a round in his skull, like he was about to do to mine- or the one I’m borrowing right now, at least. But he’s out cold, and that would be a waste of time. The event isn’t over, and Scáthach hasn’t stopped shooting.
In a practiced motion, with help from both my own reflexes and muscle memory I drilled into this body, I turn back and flip the rifle the right way around, before taking aim and putting a hole through the next target. That brief interruption let Scáthach get a single shot in, erasing the minor advantage her previous lapse in concentration created. Now it all comes down to skill.
Giving Amalia her body back isn’t an option- the disorientation would slow her down, and we’ve lost enough time already. I’ll have to apologize after- even if I did just save her life. Instead, I summon all my focus, and keep shooting. There’s only about a minute left in the event, and the two of us are neck and neck.
I expected to feel disoriented, inhabiting someone else’s body, but what’s really disorienting is how at home I feel. A few minor differences aside, Amalia and I are actually quite similar in build, and thanks to our intensive training over the past several days, her body reacts just as I’d expect my own to, in this situation.
Being in the midst of this, having the rifle in my hands and the ticking clock hanging over my head, somehow feels less stressful than sitting in the stands, waiting to see if I’d have to intervene or not. I ought to thank Hark- if this is her doing -for giving me the excuse to get involved.
The one thing that does throw me off about being in Amalia’s body is the lack of a tail. It’s not quite like losing a limb, but there’s still a distinct lack. Normally, I’d be flicking it back and forth like a grandfather clock, to help keep time with my shooting, but not having that doesn’t seem to be having much of an impact on my performance.
Before long, my internal clock alerts me to the fact that the end is fast approaching. Resisting the impulse to glance at Scáthach and see how she’s doing, I eject another shell casing and take my next shot, exhaling through Amalia’s lungs as my finger squeezes the trigger.
One, two, three more shots- then we’re done. The final target blinks out and isn’t replaced. Automatically, I ready another round, then stop and lower the rifle, taking a deep breath.
“The competition is now over,” the announcer informs us unhelpful. Glancing over my shoulder, which takes a little more effort thanks to Amalia’s horns, I find that Stojanov has been removed at some point- presumably by Citadel staff who hauled him off while I was focused on my shooting. “The final results are presently being calculated- please have patience as we wait to learn who has triumphed.”
Almost as soon as he’s finished speaking, a chant goes up from the Gazelle section in the stands: “A-ma-li-a! A-ma-li-a!” And, belatedly, I remember whose body I’m in. Or, more precisely, who should be inhabiting it.
Hey, ‘malia, you there?
There’s a long stretch of silence inside my head before she responds.
I’m here, commander.
She’s quiet, but not cold.
I’m gonna hand it back off to you. Try not to give anything away, ‘kay?
All right.
Closing Amalia’s eyes, I hit the psychic trigger to disable the bodyjack. A moment later, I’m back in my own, familiar body. Down two horns, up one tail.
Immediately, I snap my own eyes open and look down at the field. If Amalia’s feeling any disorientation from being back in the driver’s seat, it doesn’t show, though she’s no longer wearing the same smug grin that I was when I left her body.
It’s strange- I should, by all rights, feel vindicated about the bodyjack thing, since it came in handy, but for some reason that just makes me feel more guilty.
A results screen is being projected above the field, with the word ‘CALCULATING’ superimposed over it. As the crowd watches with bated breath, the word slowly fades out, and is replaced with three columns, showing the Komodo, Gazelle, and Ox symbols and a 00% beneath. Under that are rows for the number of hits, misses, and ‘perfect’ hits.
Slowly, the percentage symbol beneath each starts to tick up. The Ox Unit’s stops first, at 67%- hard to know if his hit rate would have ended up lower or higher if Stojanov had kept shooting, instead of trying to kill Amalia. The other two just keep going up, well into the nineties, before they start to slow down.
In the seat beside me, Niko has leaned forward, fingers tented, watching the results slowly finalize as though the harder he stares, the more likely it is that we’ll win.
Both counters stop at the same time, on the same number- 96.5%. And then, a second later, the third digit in our counter ticks up by one. A win- by the barest possible margin. A percent of a percent.
Our section of the stands erupts. Not cheers so much as screams, people applauding so hard their hands must be red and raw. It’s not just this event we’ve won, but the entire Championship- and while I’m not deluded enough to think that we’re the underdogs, I do think that there’s a reason so many people were rooting for us, over the Komodos. It’s a triumph of freedom and creativity over strict adherence to rules and procedure. Or, that’s the narrative people have spun for themselves in their heads.
Down on the field, Amalia seems to be smiling. She deserves to feel pride from this- it’s her win, both in the minds of those watching, and in reality. Even if I’d never taken control, I have full faith we’d still have won. Though, in truth, I feel some pride myself from having been the one to fire the final few shots.
“Your Citadel Champions,” booms the announcer… “the Gazelles!”