The last day before the start of the Citadel Championship is a hectic one, for me. Once again, Sander drags me out of bed early for some training, though thankfully it’s a little less intense than being literally hunted with crossbows. It’s starting to feel like I’m actually adjusting to his punishing exercise regimen, judging by the fact that I no longer want to spend the rest of the day in bed after we’re finished.
Over breakfast, I record a quick video message and send it to my family back home on Demeter VII, reminding them that the Championship begins tomorrow, and that I’ll be participating. While the whole thing will be broadcast live, it’s not quite as well-publicized as the War Games are, so it’s possible my parents weren’t aware. They don’t respond immediately, probably because it’s the middle of the night for them when I hit send.
After that, I head to the gym to meet up with Grant, and check in on how my fellow participants are doing with their last minute practice. On my way in, I pass Kat, who’s leaving, looking upset. She refuses to meet my eyes, but I can guess what happened- she made one last attempt at improving her score, to see if she could qualify for the horse-racing event, and Grant denied her. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to set aside time to speak with her about it like I said I would, but after seeing her expression, it moves up several places on my list of priorities. Looking after my subordinates’ morale is an important part of my job as commander, and I don’t intend to fail at it.
Besides Kat, however, everybody seems to be in top form. Mars effortlessly brings down a training ‘bot on one of the highest settings, while Sofie soars through the holographic rings, contorting her body mid-air to avoid brushing against the edges, and Colleen relentlessly drills against the mechanical arm that’s serving as her fencing opponent.
Naturally, Grant still finds minor things to correct each of them on, despite not being much of an athlete himself. He’s using a coaching program pulled from the brainband to take on this role, comparing their performances against top-class professional athletes in each category. Not exactly a fair comparison, but with what we’ve got on the line, there’s no reason not to strive to be the best.
When I ask after her whereabouts, Grant informs me that Amalia is at the range. She’s been spending quite a bit of time there since the other day, trying to bring her score up. I still feel a little guilty about how I spoke to her, but it seems to have lit a fire inside of her. Strictly speaking, there’s no real reason for her to be pushing herself so hard, when I’m competing in the same event, but at a much higher level. However, I’m not going to complain- not when there’s every chance that I could somehow be incapacitated before I get the chance to compete. If she ends up filling in for me on her own, I want her to do the best job possible.
Of course, I should still apologize regardless, but maybe after the Championship is over.
Satisfied with her own performance, and with Grant’s approval, Sofie comes down from the gymnastics rig, a complex setup that includes various elements of different individual event equipment. There’s both parallel and uneven bars, several sets of still rings arranged at various heights, a balance beam, and a pommel horse. Since there aren’t enough participants to warrant multiple discrete gymnastics events, the Championship combines them all into one, consisting of a highly complex routine that incorporates every piece of equipment at different points, as well as a series of holographic rings that the contestants need to leap, vault, and flip through without touching in order to get a perfect score. It looks quite a bit harder than just shooting a series of targets.
Wiping sweat from her brow, Sofie greets me with a tired grin and heads off to hit the showers- but in the process, she opens a brainband channel to Grant and I, so we can discuss our plans for sabotage and counter-sabotage heading into the Championship. With some critical info provided by Valent, we’ve been able to put together several strategies for both rigging entire events, and incapacitating individual contestants, all while trying to figure out how the enemy will attempt the same to us, and how we can avoid it.
The web of schemes and counter-schemes going on behind the scenes at the Championship is bound to be at least as exciting as the events themselves, if not more. Most viewers will be ignorant of all that, but those who are in the know will be keeping an eye out for any hints of intrigue. Some are even watching solely for that reason, including a few who are actively disinterested in the athletics themselves, but find the plotting to be quite entertaining. If I wasn’t involved, I’d probably be among them.
Unfortunately, we’ve had to abandon a couple of those schemes when it seemed like there were no good opportunities to pull them off. Emilia Heinonen still seems like the biggest threat in the long-distance running event, since she’ll presumably be competing while wearing her strength-enhancing exo-dermis, but Valent wasn’t able to find a plausible way to sabotage her, short of using some of the special armor-piercing bullets Ada designed to blow out one of her knees during the event. And while that might be satisfying, it’s not exactly subtle.
Sofie is more frustrated that we decided to not bother poisoning the Ox Unit’s gymnastics entrant, the assassin Anand, who left a knife in my gut during the last War Games. Instead of complaining, however, she simply resolves to kick the raven-haired woman’s ass fair and square, a sentiment which I wholeheartedly endorse.
The most important schemes are still on track, though. Swapping the enemies’ ice skates out for ones with blunt blades, poisoning Hector Casales before his turn in the pankration event, and thanks to a handy little device Ada whipped up, messing with the grav-field generator to expose the Komodos’ cheating in the sharpshooting event. Valent should be able to put all of those plans into action once the Championship starts, but running through the details one last time helps ease my mind.
With that settled, it’s time for me to do some training of my own. Besides the morning’s workout with Sander, that is. Amalia’s nowhere to be seen when I arrive at the range, but I put that out of my mind and pick up a rifle.
Having the gun in my hands does wonders to clear my head. Being on the battlefield has much the same effect- it’s where I feel most at home. What gives me trouble is the world outside of combat and tactics. More variables to account for, and a wider variety of victory and failure conditions. In battle, the way you win is by killing your foes or forcing them to retreat, and the way you lose is if you die or flee. Elsewhere, you can succeed and fail in decidedly more complex ways. That’s what makes me wary about Sofie’s request that I find a way to help her ‘impress’ the Queen of the Great Game when she comes to visit the Citadel. I’d be much more comfortable if all she wanted was for me to help plan an assassination.
Violence isn’t entirely uncommon in the Great Game, whether it simply involves sending someone into the resurrection queue at an inopportune moment, or even truekilling them, although that’s obviously quite a bit rarer. But when it happens, it’s either as a means to an end, or as a last resort. Killing someone to make them miss an important appointment is considered fair play, but it’s a mark of a poor player to employ violence as a way of permanently eliminating a rival. Far better to disgrace, discredit, or otherwise nonlethally dispatch them.
Besides the general desire not to get one’s hands dirty, the reason violence is frowned upon as a tool in the Great Game is simple. It’s not merely about increasing one’s status for the sake of gaining power- although many people are, of course, largely motivated by that. The purpose of the Great Game as a form of natural selection. If you’re clever enough to get ahead, that means you’re best-suited to serve the interests of the Imperium. If someone else brings you down, it means you weren’t fit to hold your position in the first place.
Many people underestimate the degree to which the Nobility consists of true believers. It runs contrary to every basic understanding of human nature and its relationship to power. But that’s the beauty of the Noble system. It doesn’t select for the most ruthless, power-hungry bastards out there, like ordinary systems of government do. It’s made up of a predetermined set of people who, with some variance between generations, all inherit similar beliefs and outlooks to what their Founders held. And the Founders were, by and large, people who believed in the Imperium’s project.
The purpose of any state is to perpetuate its own existence, or so we’re told. That’s how things worked in the Warlord Era, and well before it for that matter. The Imperium is different. It’s a state, but it’s also the most ambitious single project in human history- to destroy entropy, make all life immortal, and eradicate the existence of suffering.
Lofty ambitions to be sure, but we’ve made some significant strides. The brainband exists as a storage system for human minds, both while we’re alive, and after retirement. Everybody in the Imperium gets a single lifespan, where they can inhabit a body of flesh and blood, but when that lifespan runs out, you don’t pass into oblivion like people used to. Your ‘pattern’ is stored permanently within the brainband, to one day be brought back, once scarcity of resources is no longer a concern. Letting everybody have bodies and reproduce isn’t sustainable in a finite universe- there’s not enough biomass to go around in the long term. So instead, you get one, long life, with as many resurrections as you need, and then you ‘retire,’ in anticipation of the day that you’ll return, this time without a ticking clock over your head.
The Imperium exists to bring that future about. That’s a distant concept for most people, of course- the research into creating an infinite energy source and staving off the heat death of the universe is incredibly important, but on a daily basis, it’s not very exciting. So people pay attention to politics, sports, or entertainment. But what the Imperium, and the Nobles that make it up, are charged with, is facilitating that research. The state itself exists to make that research possible. And like almost every other Noble, I’m fully committed to seeing that future one day.
That doesn’t mean I’m on board with everything the Imperium does, though. I share its goals, that doesn’t mean I have to approve of its methods. But it does mean that, despite what one might expect given past Nobles of my line, I have nothing but contempt for the Meritocracy. It’s not just the Nobility that they reject, but the project itself. In the name of freedom today, they’ve abandoned an infinite tomorrow. Worse still, they threaten the existence of the Imperium and its project, by seeking to ‘free’ more worlds. Obviously poor Imperial governance plays a role in that. Most ordinary people don’t think much about the project, because it doesn’t impact their life one way or the other, so it’s easier to convince them that the Emperor is a tyrant who only wants to exploit them.
Depending on who’s in charge, they might not even be completely wrong. The first Emperor wasn’t a perfect man, even if his vision was powerful enough to unite all of humankind, for a time. But in my eyes, one doesn’t have to be loyal to the Emperor to be loyal to his dream.
Without realizing it, I spend something like four and a half hours at the range. Even back home, when I had nothing better to do than practice my shooting, I don’t think I ever spent that long doing it. Contemplating the Imperium’s future is a good way to lose track of time, apparently.
Unlike last time, my score isn’t quite perfect. I’m down to something like ninety-three percent accuracy, which still isn’t bad considering that the course gets progressively harder the longer it runs.
Leaving behind a small mountain of shell casings, I exit the range, Sander in tow. By now it’s getting late, and knowing the Championship opening ceremonies are beginning early tomorrow morning, I decide to have dinner early and head to bed. To my surprise, Sander countermands me, and insists there’s still time for one last training session before all that. No matter how much I want to say no, I still end up acquiescing, because even though his expression will remain impassive, I know I won’t be able to stop myself from seeing judgment behind them if I refuse.
It’s a small mercy that the evening training session, like the morning one, is relatively less intense compared to those of the previous days. Still, I heave with no shortage of soreness, and an empty stomach that I’ll be glad to fill before I finally turn in for the night. Sander, for his part, merely nods and says “Good work.”
----------------------------------------
On the day of the opening ceremony, I don my Citadel dress uniform, freshly auto-ironed to lack even the slightest wrinkle. The last time the Imperium at large saw me, I had a knife in my gut. Sure, we may have won that round of the War Games, but my personal image took a blow. This time, I need to project strength and confidence right out of the gate.
Grant accompanies me to the Exalt Arena. We talk strategy over the brainband on the way, while carrying on a simultaneous conversation out loud to throw off suspicion. It’s as difficult as it sounds, and we may well be doing it for nobody’s benefit, but if nothing else, it’s good practice.
According to him, everything is in place for today, although that’s not really saying much. We Gazelles aren’t even competing in anything until tomorrow, and we decided not to waste any effort trying to sabotage events we’re not participating in. That gives us a little more time to prepare, which I’m grateful for.
When we arrive at the arena, he leaves to go do exactly what, while I push open the door to the locker room, and find that I’m the first one there. Not exactly a surprise. Thanks to Imperium technology, I can put myself to sleep instantly, so nerves weren’t gonna keep me up last night, but there’s no technological fix to keep them from waking me up early. Everyone else is probably still getting ready, and that’s no issue- we’ve still got a while to go before the ceremony begins.
Almost immediately bored, I wonder idly if any of the other units are ready to go yet. All seven of them will be competing in the Championship, although the upper-years are ranked separately. As a result, each event will be held twice, on different days and with different participants. That’s part of the reason the Championship doesn’t get ratings on the level of the War Games. Too repetitive. But really, I think it’s because there’s not enough blood.
I have a feeling that this year, though, the Championship isn’t going to be entirely bloodless.
Accessing the locker room’s external feed, I watch as the earliest of the early birds start to filter into the stands. Even when all of them are here, this place probably won’t be at full capacity- not physically, at least. The number of people actually allowed on Akademos is pretty small, since the security of us young Nobles is considered a high priority. At least in theory. So those who are arriving are mostly either Citadel staff, be they professors, administrators, or just members of the cleaning crew who are taking advantage of some free time to come watch. Anybody else is probably a visiting Imperium bureaucrat of some kind, probably from Prime, with a security clearance high enough to be allowed into the Citadel temporarily. Or they’re Nobles who remember their time here fondly, and want to take a look at the next generation.
That’s just the physical attendees, though. All together, they won’t fill up even half of the available seats in this place, and having so much empty space would look lame to all the viewers at home. So, for a fairly hefty fee, it’s possible for an ordinary Imperium citizen to purchase tickets for virtual attendance, watching not through the public feeds, but from a camera ‘bot stationed in an empty seat in the stands, with a holographic avatar of themselves projected around it, so it looks like they’re actually there.
It’ll be a while before those get turned on, though, and I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. Intellectually, I know that quite a few people are gonna be watching, but it’s different when you can actually see them, holographic avatars or otherwise.
Not long after I disconnect from the external feed do I hear the sound of the locker room doors opening. The first of my Gazelles to arrive is Tai, expression betraying discomfort at being made to wear his Citadel uniform once more. He greets me with a respectful, if curt, nod of the head.
“Commander.”
“Tai. How’re you feeling?”
The surveillance specialist cocks his head to the side, as if surprised by my sudden interest in his state of mind. We haven’t spoken much, for any number of reasons. He’s in Sofie’s Intelligence Group, so I have little cause to interact with him directly on a regular basis, and I get the sense he’s not the social type even under the best of circumstances. It’s still a lapse on my part, and one I hope to begin correcting now.
“Anxious. I prefer watching to being watched.”
So the crowd’s got him on edge too. That’s a bit of common ground, at least.
“I know what you mean. Nothing worse than feeling like you’re just putting on a show for someone else’s amusement.”
Tai makes an affirmatory grunt, studying the room around us rather than meeting my eyes. Maybe my attempt at connecting came off as insincere, or maybe he just doesn’t care that I’m trying.
“Not too worried about the Championship itself, I hope. You’re braver than me, volunteering for two events.”
“They’re on different days, at least,” he says, shrugging. “Besides, I like running, and they’ve got two events for it. What was I gonna do, skip one?”
“Think that’s what most of the other runners did. Probably sprinters who figured they couldn’t do endurance, or vice versa.”
It’s a little strange that there are two different track events in the Championship, while all of gymnastics was condensed into one, and many others cut entirely. There’s probably some bureaucratic explanation behind it, but I don’t actually care enough to look into it.
“Each requires a different kind of training,” Tai explains. “In professional competition, specialized bodies for different events are commonplace. My generalist build would place me at a disadvantage. Our intelligence suggests that here and now, nobody has gone so far as to get an entirely new body just for one event, so there’s no cause for concern.”
So this is more than just a hobby for him. Curious.
“You wanted to do this professionally? Before you knew you were a Noble, I mean.”
Tai shakes his head.
“I chose to pursue track specifically so I’d be able to provide something of value to my unit during the Championship.”
Well now, that’s interesting. It certainly implies that he knew what he was from a young age, which isn’t always the case with Nobles. But at the same time, it doesn’t exactly fit with my general impression of him up until now.
“Funny, I always kinda got the impression you never wanted to be here in the first place.”
“I didn’t. I don’t. But I’d rather not go into early retirement either. So I figured I should find a way to make myself useful to whoever my boss was, while I was here.”
“You’ve certainly accomplished that,” I assure him with a chuckle. He doesn’t seem to see the humor in it.
Saving me from further awkwardness, Sofie breezes into the room next, the metallic strands of her hair done up into a ponytail. Self-consciously, I run a hand through my own hair, hoping it looks alright. I keep it short out of convenience, but sometimes that comes at the expense of my actual appearance.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Hey, Izzy! Bow-Tai! What’s the word?”
“‘Waiting,’ apparently. Everything good on your end?”
“Yep,” she replies with a wink. This room is probably bugged, so if we’re gonna discuss our plans, we have to speak in generalities, or not speak aloud. The other units are aware of the same fact, but we bugged their locker rooms anyway, just in case.
Slowly, over the course of the next hour or so, the rest of the participants from my unit filter in after her. Colleen is next, looking mildly disappointed when she discovers she wasn’t first to arrive, followed by Amalia, who doesn’t say a word to me, and then finally Mars. We chat idly for a while, saying nothing of real importance, until another door opens- not the one leading into this room from outside, but the one that leads out into the arena.
Our unexpected visitor is wearing a white Citadel staff uniform, with the telltale green stripe that denotes them as working here at the Exalt Arena. They’re androgynous in appearance, something not uncommon in the Imperium, and, I’m given to understand, a reasonably solid indicator they identify outside the bounds of traditional human gender roles. Doing so is much easier now than it once was, given that you’re free to mix and match primary and secondary sexual characteristics as you like.
Whatever their deal is, they look harried. However hard we’ve been working to prepare for the Championship, I’m sure the arena staff has been working twice as hard getting everything ready for us. I walk over and greet them, extending a hand to shake.
“Commander Izanami, yes?” they ask brusquely.
“That’s right.”
“Good. The ceremony is simple. When the Dean says your team’s name, you all head out and circle the track with all the other teams. Just stop walking when all the others stop. Oh, and one of you’s got to hold this. It’s your standard.”
They pass me a short metal rod with a single button on the side.
“Just hold it away from your body, pointing up, and press the button to turn it on. All clear?”
Clear enough to me, but I glance back at the others to make sure nobody’s got any questions. Everybody remains silent.
“Crystal.”
“Good,” they reply, and march out without another word.
Curious, I examine the standard for a moment, turning it over in my hands, before promptly concluding that there’s nothing of interest to find and tossing it to Mars.
“Congrats, you’re the standard-bearer,” I inform him with a chuckle.
“What, too good to wave a flag around for a couple minutes?” he asks jokingly. “It’s not even that heavy.”
“I’d be happy to, but I can’t be the commander and the standard-bearer. That’s far too much responsibility for little old me.”
That gets a laugh from Mars and Sofie at least, while the others have mostly returned to their own devices by now- watching the external feed, or just scrolling through their palm-screens idly while they wait for the ceremony to begin.
“Not so little anymore,” Sofie points out, giving one of my arms a squeeze. “Sandman’s really got you bulking up, huh?”
“Don’t think I’m gonna be anywhere near his level without some serious body-mods, but I’m doing my best.”
“Well, if you need a ‘sparring partner,’ I’m always happy to help,” Mars offers flirtatiously, barely trying to disguise what he really means. I guess the more muscular look is already paying dividends in at least one area.
“Cool your jets, loverboy,” Tai calls out from across the room, not looking up from his palm-screen. “She’s spoken for.”
All of a sudden, I’m reminded exactly what it means that we’ve got a surveillance specialist on our team. Sure, there are more innocent ways he could have found out about Sofie, Niko and I- we haven’t exactly been trying to disguise it, and the way Sofie held me at the end of the last round of War Games was pretty blatant -but something tells me that he’s got more than just a hunch.
Then again, I could just be paranoid. Tai’s probably not interested enough in my personal life to be spying on me in particular- maybe he just picked something up by chance, or simply happened to put the puzzle pieces together a little quicker than Mars. But I still can’t help but feel like I won’t be able to get to sleep tonight without having Sander run a full bug sweep of my apartment first.
“Sounds like you’re the only one doing the speaking,” Mars calls back, but nonetheless drops the subject, taking the standard and heading over to where Colleen is sitting. I remember getting the impression some time ago that the two of them had something going on, but it’s hard to know whether it’s romantic, sexual, or just a platonic bond between two warriors. Whatever the case, they’re a bit of an ice-and-fire combination, but I guess maybe opposites really do attract.
It’s only a couple more minutes before I get a brainband alert that informs me the opening ceremony is about to begin. Keeping one eye on the door, I open a partial link to the external feed, so I can watch what’s happening without being completely dead to the world. The effect is roughly equivalent to having a picture-in-picture open in my mind’s eye. Two distinct visual inputs, but one with much lower priority.
Outside, the stands have filled up considerably, mainly by holographic avatars of thousands of Imperium citizens who are invested enough in the affairs of the Nobility to pay for a closer look at us. The arena itself remains empty, a single track wrapping around a green expanse in the center.
As I watch, however, that green expanse rises up off of the ground and splits open, allowing a platform to emerge from underneath. It’s got a raised dais in the middle, where the Citadel’s Dean is standing, clad in an olive-green suit and flashing a smile at the crowd. There’s some enthusiastic, albeit scattered, applause from the few in-person attendees, followed a moment later by artificial fanfare pumped in through the speaker system, to represent those who aren’t here physically, but presumably would be clapping and cheering if they were.
“Welcome! Welcome one and all! To those joining us in person, I thank you, and to those joining us remotely, I thank you as well. I am Dean Norman Gennis, sixty-third in the line of Enora, the Tutor, and it is my genuine pleasure to welcome you all to this year’s Citadel Championship!”
Above the crowd in the stands, a series of holographic symbols appear- the Citadel’s crest, two crossed swords pointing down, one pointing straight up. Those attending holographically can choose to display certain symbols above the stands, with the size of each determined by how many people vote for it- a way of showing which unit has the most support among the masses, without anybody being able to chant or hold up signs.
Not very many people are excited to cheer for the Citadel itself, judging by the lackluster size of the crests that do appear. No doubt that will change soon enough, as the upper-year units begin to make their way out onto the field. They’ve been around in the public consciousness longer than we have, so their fan-bases have had time to properly develop. The Locusts are big with the inner-worlds set, thanks to their well-heeled commander’s insistent adherence to rules of strict military discipline at all times. Meanwhile, the Grizzlies have a broader appeal due to being perceived as humble and hardworking. Of late, the Cranes, led by the Heir himself, have had an upswing in popularity against the Orcas in their first round of the War Games.
It’s too early to tell how my unit, and the others in our year, will fare in the court of public opinion. Although seeing what kind of a response we each get from this crowd should provide a barometer for how a certain sort of person views each of our groups, at least.
“Before we bring out this year’s contestants, I’d like to say a few words,” the Dean continues. Somewhere to my right, I hear Mars groan audibly, and shoot him a sympathetic look.
“It is, as always, both an honor and a privilege to be here hosting this event. Of all my duties as the Dean of the Citadel, this is perhaps my favorite. Not to besmirch the War Games, of course- they’re a vital Citadel tradition as well. But the violent aspect of that event is not suitable for all viewers, while the Championship is something people of any age can appreciate.”
At that, I can’t help but laugh.
“Something tells me he just hated the War Games when he was a student here, ‘cause nobody ever had any use for the Tutor on a battlefield.”
Sofie and Mars cackle at that, while even Tai can’t help but snicker, despite not usually being a fan of my more mean-spirited jokes.
“It’s a celebration of talent, skill, and the drive to succeed,” Gennis says with grandiosity, before continuing to prattle on, although I don’t hear the rest of what he says, over the sound of Mars’ subsequent infuriated exclamation.
“Oh, just get the fuck on with it already!”
“Hear hear,” Sofie cheers with a laugh.
As if he heard what Mars said, the Dean finally starts to wrap his speech up. In my mind’s eye, I can see him gesture grandly around the arena, a wide smile on his face.
“And now, without further ado, I’d like to introduce this year’s Citadel Championship contestants! Starting with… the Crane Unit’s team!”
Naturally, whichever unit the HeIr is leading gets to go first, whether or not they're actually participating. To my knowledge, he’s refrained from doing so for almost every Championship recent memory- which is why it’s something of a surprise when he’s the very first person to walk out onto the track.
The Imperial Heir, Rayan Bousaid, strides forth with a regal bearing, his sapphire Citadel uniform proudly displaying both the symbol of the Crane unit, and the Imperial insignia, on his chest. My first thought upon looking at him is that he seems far more put-together than I would have expected, given everything that I’ve heard about him before now.
Despite being next in line to rule the entire Imperium, his current position is an unenviable one. Bousaid is effectively stuck in a state of permanent arrested development, enforced by Imperial law. Until the current Emperor's reign ends, he’s stuck here at the Citadel with us, leading a different unit each year, always the one that performed worst in their first year.
From what I’d heard, he was long past the point of trying to whip those units into shape after taking over. It’s not that he’s not capable- he did so quite successfully his first few years here, or so the records say. But those records are of events that happened before I was even born- meaning he’s been a student here for two decades, watching other people graduate after a mere two years all around him.
Being of the line of the original Emperor, it’s not as though he’s got no ambitions, either. If anything, I’d imagine he’s the most ambitious of any of us, myself included. Which must make it all the more intolerable that he’s going to be stuck here for a very long time, unable to see any of those grand plans come to fruition.
There’s one silver lining to his predicament, at least. Because most Emperors live their full lifespan, and their Heirs are born the very day they ascend the throne, the Her is given two lifetimes, instead of just one, to prevent them all from having weeks-long reigns and being forced into retirement just after taking power. But that must seem impossibly far-off to him now. Which makes the fact that he’s suddenly now putting in effort again all the more perplexing.
My only theory right now is that he simply got bored not putting in any effort, and now he’s trying again just because it’s a change of pace. Whatever the answer, it certainly seems to be playing well with the crowd, because they’re cheering raucously for him. Much of that’s probably being pumped in through the speaker system, but the holographic symbols projected above the stands are huge, indicating that his unexpected change of disposition is playing well with the Imperium at large. Or at least the Noble-watchers dedicated enough to have paid for a holographic ‘seat’ at the Championship.
Bousaid is flanked by five members of his Cranes, each standing with their heads held high, one of them waving their unit’s holo-banner proudly, the stylized symbol of a Crane fluttering in a virtual breeze. Part of me wonders why they don’t just use actual flags, but I guess it would be hard to display them properly on a fairly windless day like this.
When the cheering has died down somewhat, and the Cranes have made some progress through their circuit of the track, the Dean speaks up again, this time to welcome the Grizzly unit to the field. The response they get is more tepid, but still respectable, though perhaps disappointing for them considering they fielded no less than seven contestants.
Next come the Locusts, who get a big reaction from the crowd, though of course none of them react in the slightest. Their commander is nowhere to be seen- probably having decided that participating personally would be undignified -but they all remain rigidly pastured, not quite marching, but still walking in lockstep, faces expressionless, their standard held straight upright.
Finally, the Orca emerge, to a fairly unenthusiastic reaction from the crowd, but a paradoxically large projection of their crest above the stands. Either there’s a significant divide in opinions on the between those attending physically versus virtually, or their tech team somehow manipulated the projection system to favor them. Honestly, I’d respect them more if it was the latter. Despite having the most intimidating animal of any unit at the Citadel this year representing them, they haven’t done much to impress me thus far, but pulling off so public a stunt would do it- although the fact that there’s virtually no conceivable way for them to profit from doing it does damper my enthusiasm somewhat. ‘High risk, low reward’ is rarely a smart way of doing things.
“Another round of applause for our second-year student competitors, please!” the Dean asks of the crowd. They oblige him, and a series of symbols shoot up over the stands, each of the different units’ crests, all repeating multiple times at multiple different sizes. Once again, the Orca symbol is the largest, which makes me suspect my hunch was correct- followed shortly after by the Cranes, then the Locusts, and finally the Grizzlies.
“Each of them will be sending forth a representative to compete in the very first event of their division, pankration, shortly after the opening ceremony concludes. But before that, allow me to introduce to you our first year competitors, beginning with… the Peregrines!”
Anton’s people walk out onto the track in a loose cluster, seemingly without anybody to serve as a leader. The Starhammer isn’t among them, but even if he was, I doubt Anton would be of much use in that respect. Once they’re actually on the field, Warren Harvey, a tense young man whose stiff posture calls to mind the Locust unit’s team, takes charge to lead the others forward, flanked by Mannix Devlin, the red-haired, scar-faced warrior who holds their unit’s standard high. Only two others accompany them- a lithe, smirking type who I have to use the brainband to identify as Soo-Jin Choi, and a muscular blonde who I vaguely recall being called Avis.
“Should have figured she’d be here,” Mars says of her, using a silent brainband pulse to make sure we all know who he’s talking about. “Wonder what she’s competing in, though. She’s scrappy, but she’s no wrestler, and there weren’t enough people to have a boxing event this year.”
That’s right- he mentioned some time ago that he had a friendly fight with her. Nobody can offer up a decent guess as to what she’ll be doing in the Championship, though, so we all fall silent, waiting to see if our unit will be called up next.
From the in-person attendees, the Peregrines get little more than polite applause, while even the artificial cheers fail to liven things up, and the few projections of their symbol that do appear are pitifully small. Despite the fact that they’re our direct rivals, I can’t help but feel some pity for them. Their poor showing against Hark’s people during the War Games has made them the laughingstock of the Imperium, and fielding only four contestants here would seem to indicate they don’t expect to do much better during the Championship. The way things are going, I’d be shocked if the Heir didn’t end up in charge of that unit come next year.
“Next- the Ox Unit!”
Tellis is the first to emerge, not a single crease visible on his uniform, fiery orange hair carefully combed to look just a little bit wild. His optimistic smile and generally bright disposition makes for an odd pairing with Anand’s onlyx-black hair and eyes, to say nothing of her skeletal black ‘wings,’ which she appears to have cut slits out of her uniform to display- which I have to imagine is against regulations.
Several other members of their unit follow, but Heinonen is the one who catches my eye, her cherry-red ego-dermis gleaming in the morning sun. The design is somewhere between a sports car and an ancient knight, with a single black slit on the mask to see through, though I suspect she doesn’t actually peer through it- more likely she observes the world through a brainband feed from some micro-camera on the armor’s chassis. Maybe multiple cameras- threes-sixty-degree vision is a useful. hint to have in a fight.
The armored Ox is wearing the jacket from her Citadel uniform over the armor, presumably because the rest of it won’t fit. I doubt that’s regulation either. Chen Lu’s the one who holds their standard, and the crowd greets them more enthusiastically than they did the Peregrines, but only just so. They haven’t given the people much to cheer for yet.
If the Oxen are going to develop a dedicated fanbase of any kind, I’d imagine it would mostly be made up of the same type of people who like the Locusts… except Starling’s people don’t display the same kind of military rigidity that the Locusts do. And thanks to the dissent we’ve sown within their ranks, it seems unlikely that Tellis is going to be able to enforce that kind of discipline.
I wish I could say that I’m totally unconcerned with that sort of thing, but unfortunately, public perception has at least some bearing on my long-term plans. Some Nobles are foolish enough to believe that, because they occupy unelected, effectively hereditary positions, the opinions of their lessers don’t matter. They’re wrong. No matter your position in the Imperial bureaucracy, you rely on non-Nobles working below you in some capacity- and if they hate your guts, they can make your life very difficult. In my case, the people I’m playing to are the career officers and marines in the Imperial Navy, who I’ll be commanding if I manage to graduate from the Citadel alive. They need to see that, unlike many past Nobles of my line, I’m going to be a reliable, competent leader.
Most people would jump at the chance to serve under one of the Nine Titans- indeed, getting assigned to one of their fleets or armies is a highly coveted prize that only the best of the best ever obtain. But the Bane of Tyrants has no existing fleet like the others do. Not after the Deceiver Fleet lived up to its name for the last time, and turned coat against the Imperium, to become the First Fleet of the Meritocracy. That was a long time ago, but the Deceiver Fleet has yet to be reconstituted, both because of its shameful legacy, and because Nobles of my line haven’t exactly stuck around long enough to put an entire fleet together by themselves.
That task will fall to me, and since my line lacks the prestigious reputation of the other Titans, I’ll basically be forced to make do with volunteers. Right now, the best case scenario is that I end up with a group similar to my Gazelles- talented people who have been overlooked by the system for one reason or another. But I’ve been exceptionally lucky with this group- there’s only one Bret among them. Everybody else is both reasonably competent, and tolerable interpersonally. I can’t count on that ratio staying the same for an entire fleet.
So what I’m trying to do now, is signal to various people within the Navy at large that I’d be a good boss, someone worth working for, who isn’t gonna betray the entire Imperium or get them killed on a pointless suicide mission. And if I’m successful, maybe the crop of people volunteering to join my new fleet after I graduate will be a little less ragtag.
It seems that at some point during my musings, the Komodos were called up and made their appearance, led by Hector Casales, their grizzled, musclebound Master-at-Arms. Only three others accompany him, including my presumed opponent for sharpshooting, Scáthach, who holds the team’s banner, looking unenthused.
I wasn’t paying attention when they came out, so I didn’t hear the crowd’s reaction, but a quick glance up at the holographic projections above the stands indicates that they’re reasonably popular with the audience, probably owing to how comprehensively they crushed their opponents during the last War Games.
That’s all three of the other units in our year, which means...
“And finally, last but not least...”
Scrambling to my feet, I head for the door, gesturing to the others to follow. Mars hefts the standard in his hand, ready to deploy it the moment we step out of the locker room.
“The Gazelles!”
The Dean’s words are practically drowned out by a roar from the crowd, as we emerge from our locker room and walk out onto the track. It’s suddenly much harder to gauge the relative intensity of the crowd’s reaction, now that we’re outside and hearing it for real, rather than through a brainband feed- but it certainly feels as though we’re being greeted quite enthusiastically.
Glancing up at the stands, I see our unit’s symbol, the gazelle depicted mid-leap, projected at significant sizes above the audience. At that, I can’t help but grin and allow my tail to sway side-to-side behind me as I walk. Looking over my shoulder would be poor form, but I can hear Mars doing much the same with the standard in his hands, the holographic flag surely waving in the ‘wind’ above us.
The six of us slowly make our way around the track, keeping our distance from the Komodos ahead of us, and the Cranes behind. We’re actually kind of lucky in going last, because we don’t have to walk for quite as long as all the others, before the Dean finally calls for one more round of applause for all eight of this year’s teams.
I’m actually a little miffed that he didn’t call for cheers for the first-year units alone, because it robs me of the chance to judge our popularity relative to our peers alone. Instead, I have to do my best to pick out the Gazelle symbols among seven others now projected above the stands- still respectably large, but overshadowed by many of the upper-year units. It could be worse, though- the Peregrine symbol is now virtually impossible to find unless you squint, overshadowed by even the least-popular of the upper-year teams.
“Now that everyone is here,” the Dean proclaims, grandiosity swelling in his voice once more, “the Citadel Championship can officially commence!”