For most Nobles, having a much larger number of predecessors in your line is generally an indication of a Founder whose talents were never really anything special. It means most of the people who came before you failed out of the Citadel, rather than going on to serve successfully in the Imperium. In the case of the line of Thorn, there’s a different reason. Yes, the people who came before me never made it out of the Citadel, but not because they failed- because they kept mysteriously turning up dead. Or going insane and murdering the rest of their unit, before being put down by Myrmidons.
I don’t intend to meet either of those fates, but I know for a fact that they’re on the minds of everyone else in the Gazelle unit as we head out of the Entrance Hall and towards our dormitory, the Hyperion Building. Everyone gives me a wide berth, as I walk at the head of the group, tail swishing back and forth in sharp slashing motions.
Despite everything, a part of me is enjoying this. And while there are very real concerns that I’m going to need to address sooner or later, I decide to let that part take the wheel for right now. Grinning, I turn around to face the rest of my unit, walking backwards down the otherwise empty street.
“C’mon, people. Why all the long faces?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” calls Bret from somewhere in the middle of the group. “Maybe cuz you’re frickin’ crazy?”
“My line has a bit of a bad reputation, to be sure,” I admit, shrugging my shoulders slightly. Then my smile turns sharp. “But at least it has a reputation. All people know yours for is, what, having a metal eye?”
That elicits a laugh from most of the crowd, and seems to make a few of them relax. Bret says nothing, and though I can’t see his face, I can picture him fuming. I’m sure he’ll come up with an exceedingly clever response in a few hours time.
“All the others that came before me, they didn’t understand something very important. The Tyrant’s Bane didn’t win by suppressing his madness, he won by directing it outwards, at his enemies. Maybe I’m a bit crazy, but believe me, I’m the kind of crazy you want on your side. Stick with me, and I’ll make sure every one of you graduates with full honors. That’s a promise.”
Hopefully that didn’t come off like too much of a sales pitch, but I needed to say something. If I was just silent, and let them draw their own conclusions, it would lay a bad foundation. The Nobles of Thorn’s line have been associated with some pretty heinous crimes, including one so bad it got the Noble’s name completely expunged from all records, meaning we now know him only as the Betrayer. But it’s important that they remember the original Tyrant’s Bane was, despite being a fearsome and savage warrior, ultimately loyal to the Emperor. In other words, they have no reason to be afraid of me, as long as they’re on my side.
“Does that mean you’ll do my homework for me?” calls a voice from the crowd. More people laugh, myself included.
“Tell you what,” I call back. “You kill a few people for me, and we can talk about it.”
The exchange seems to alleviate some more of the tension, and when I slow down slightly, bringing me closer to the rest of the group, nobody backs away. Turning back around to face front, I fall into step besides Nikolai, who’s at the front of the pack. He regards me carefully, sun glinting off of his black metal horns.
“So, Stormwolf. I can see you’ve got some tattoos there.” I gesture to the area just below his neck, where his body art just peeks out from under the uniform. “How far do they go, exactly?”
Genov barks out a laugh.
“Maybe I’ll show you sometime.” He pauses for a moment, considering, and then continues. “It’s tradition for my line. Every one of us adds something new to the pattern, and it’s passed down to the next one after we die.”
Interesting. The information about his Founder that I downloaded didn’t include that. Maybe it didn’t originate with him, or perhaps it’s simply a fact that Nobles of his line have chosen not to publicize.
“Have you made your addition yet?”
The Stormwolf shakes his head.
“I’m not allowed. Not until I leave the Citadel. Those of us that fail aren’t added to the pattern.”
“Naturally. In that case, you should count yourself lucky you’re with me.” I chuckle. “Maybe your addition can be an image of my face.”
Closing his eyes, Nikolai looks down, laughing to himself. When he’s finished, he flips his hair back dramatically, and drapes an arm over my shoulder with a flourish.
“Perhaps it will be.”
Slowly, so as not to alarm him, I wrap my tail around his arm, brushing the back of his hand with my tail’s barb, although not the sharp tip. He regards it curiously, but doesn’t draw away. Maybe he feels some kinship with me, as we share our highly visible body-mods. For that matter, we’re both sporting modifications that evoke demonic imagery, him with the horns, me with the pointed tail.
“Wow,” says another voice. I look in the direction it’s coming from, and see Sofie, her metallic platinum hair shining in the sunlight. “Already using your feminine wiles to get the boys on your side, huh? Well, watch out- you’re gonna have some competition.”
“Is that so?” Smirking, I reach for her arm, guiding it up so I can press my lips to the back of her hand. Her eyes widen slightly, and then she smirks right back at me. “I don’t know if competition is going to be necessary. I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.”
“Good grief,” Nikolai says, mock-exasperated. “You two are going to be the death of me, I can already tell.”
Eyes sparkling with amusement, he pulls his flask from the inside pocket of his uniform, momentarily exposing a little bit more of his tattoo in the process, though not enough that I can get a sense of the broader pattern. Taking a drink, he gestures with it in our direction.
“No thanks,” Sofie says, waving it away. I, on the other hand, accept the offer with a grin. Thanks to Father Emil, I know my liquor better than most, and recognize it instantly as vodka. Not exactly a shock, considering Nikolai’s name suggests Russian heritage, although obviously rather far removed, as even in the era of the Founders, Earth was a distant memory. Certain cultural traditions do persist, however, and the ones related to alcohol tend to be the strongest.
Passing the flask back to Genov, I pull my tail away from his arm, and he lets it drop from my shoulder, though the three of us continue to walk together. Behind me, I can hear the rest of my unit beginning to converse as well, which strikes me as a good sign.
“So, Izzy. Where exactly are you from?”
I don’t exactly need a nickname, considering I already go by an abbreviation of my full name, but if that’s Sofie’s way of indicating she’s not as frightened of me as the others, I’ll take it. It doesn’t escape me that this could well be an attempt to get ahold of information that could later be used against me, but it would be a waste of time to try to conceal where my family lives forever. It would be as easy as paying off somebody in the Citadel’s Office of Records to get a look at my file. Not to mention, I’ve already taken precautions to make sure my parents and siblings will be safe, so there’s no harm in just answering her question normally.
“Demeter VII. Farm-world.” She gives me a sympathetic look, to which I just laugh. “Oh, it’s not all bad. Boring, yes, but comfortable. Just not my kind of place. What about you?”
“Beron’s World. Most of my parents are executives with a local mining concern. How ‘bout you, Nikky?”
The speed at which she changes the subject makes me suspect there’s more to that story, but this is neither the time nor the place to press her for details. That can wait until we’ve gotten to know each other a little better.
“The Kerberos Cluster, originally.”
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
Judging by the total lack of elaboration, he doesn’t want to get into it either. That’s fine by me. I’ll have plenty of time to find out. For now, however, I have to turn my attention to the group as a whole, because we’re about to arrive at our dormitory.
The Hyperion Building is hard to miss, as it stands almost completely unique among the other buildings within the Citadel. Rather than smooth white marble, it’s made from harsh black steel, all angles and edges, in contrast to the rounded columns that dominate the rest of the campus. Above the doorway is an asymmetrical seven-pointed star symbol worked into the metal. The mere sight of the building gives some of my Gazelles pause, but they get over it quickly, and follow me inside. It’s the size of a small apartment building, with six floors of three apartments each. Everybody should already know which one they’ve been assigned to, but before they can get settled in, I gesture for them to follow me towards the lounge area in the lobby.
Our boots clack against the tiles as we walk. Most of the furniture in the lounge area seems to be made from black leather- whoever designed this building was clearly working with a theme in mind. I settle into an armchair, waiting for a moment as the others find seats of their own. A few choose to remain standing, including Bret, who I see deliberately seek out a corner to stand in, folding his arms pointedly.
“I know some of you have concerns about all this,” I tell the assembled group, eyes flickering over the petulant tinkerer for a moment. “You’ve been assigned to a unit some people think is cursed, with a sponsor who clearly doesn’t care, and a commander whose line has a deservedly bad reputation. For some of you, that might be the excuse you need to just check out completely. Maybe you never wanted to be here in the first place, and this is how you’ll justify giving up to yourself. That’s one option.”
A few people roll their eyes, or mutter under their breath at me, but I continue unfazed.
“I won’t lie, not everyone is going to like the way I run things. Maybe you’re already thinking about trying to transfer out. I’m sure some of you have already put in a request. That’s an option too.”
As I speak, I’m studying the faces around me. Some are stoic. Others bored. A few are hanging on to my every word. I spot a couple people whispering to each other where they think I can’t see them.
“Those could be the right options for you. But there’s a third option. You can not only stay, but stay and fight. In spite of all the disadvantages facing us. In spite of the fact that I’m going to push harder than you’ve ever been pushed in your lives. Why? Because we’re going to win. And when that day comes, the looks on the faces of everyone who gave up, or changed teams, will make it all worthwhile.”
For a moment, nobody reacts. Some people clearly weren’t paying attention to a word I said. Others were listening, but remain unimpressed. A few, however, seem convinced. Then Sofie begins to clap. It’s not exactly a standing ovation- only about a third of the unit joins in, and I’m sure a few of them are just doing it to be polite. But I’ve at least won some of them over. And the rest will come in time.
I was never planning on waltzing into the Citadel and instantly commanding the loyalty of my unit- although I was fairly certain from the beginning that they’d make me commander. It’ll take some effort to convince these Gazelles that I’m worth following. It probably won’t work on all of them. But if I’m to realize my ambitions, I need allies. And even though we’ve got plenty of disadvantages, I look around at this group and I see people I can mold into a fearsome battalion. The potential is there within them. It’s up to me to bring it out.
“Now, you’re free to go up to your rooms. If you want to hide away for a few hours, that’s your prerogative, but I’d encourage you to get to know the people on your floor. We’ll meet up again here after dinner, and go over a few ground rules. Until then, try to behave yourselves, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
That elicits some light laughter, most of it drowned out by the sound of people moving. They disperse, some taking the elevators, others heading up the stairs. I remain in my seat, watching them leave silently. There’s plenty of conversation among them, and while I’m sure some of it involves making jokes at my expense, I’m willing to call it a win. Better that than the alternative.
Once the main group has left, I notice two people who stuck behind along with me. One is the gray-skinned muscleman, whose name I’ve not yet learned. He stands near the elevator, watching me wordlessly. Though his arms are folded, he manages to make it look effortlessly intimidating, rather than the pathetic attempt Bret made earlier. The other straggler, however, is someone I don’t really recognize. They’re a part of the unit, but didn’t do or say anything memorable enough for me to fully register their presence earlier.
“Hey,” he says, extending a hand towards me. “Nice to meet you. I’m Grant. Figured I’d introduce myself early. Liked the speech, by the way. Though, it could use a little work.”
“Are you offering?” I ask, returning the handshake politely.
“As a matter of fact, I am. You see, I’m of the line of Kalyani, who was known as the Silent Partner. She served as a liaison between various high-ranking military officials, and their political opposite numbers. As I’m sure you’re aware, there tends to be some tension between those spheres, and she worked to reduce that tension, so that the war effort could proceed smoothly.”
“Interesting. I don’t know how familiar you are with the story of the Tyrant’s Bane, but he had virtually no interaction with the political elite during his campaigns, and he did well enough. What makes you think I’m any different?”
Despite what it might sound like, I’m not actually jumping to my own defense, so much as trying to make him argue for his own value.
“Well, your Founder already had a command post, and a large number of loyal subordinates. You may be our commander in name, but without the loyalty of the unit, that isn’t good for much. And judging by the rather tepid response to your remarks, it may be an uphill battle to change that.”
Rising from my seat, I head towards the elevator, Grant following me immediately. As I step inside, the gray-skinned boy joins us, though he stands on the opposite side of the elevator as we head up. My room is on the top floor.
“I’m not sure I share your pessimism,” I reply. “But your overall point is well-taken. I assume you have more in mind than simply being my speechwriter, though.”
“Indeed,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I can keep my ear to the ground among the others. Gain their confidence, and help convince them to follow you.”
“No,” I reply firmly, tail tapping against the elevator wall for emphasis. “If they’re going to follow me, it has to be of their own volition. I won’t countenance manipulation.” As Grant opens his mouth to argue, I speak over him. “That doesn’t mean I don’t have my uses for you, though. What I need is an aide-de-camp. Someone to manage the details, so I can focus on the bigger picture. Keep track of how everyone’s grades are doing. If someone is struggling with a particular subject, arrange for someone else who’s capable to tutor them. When they have grievances, they can bring it to you, and you can decide if it’s worth my attention.”
Eyes hard, I stare at him, giving no ground to his easy smile and smooth way of speech. I may not have grown up in the heart of the Imperium, but I’m no provincial rube either.
“Can you do that, or is lying all you’re good for?”
The facade falls from Grant’s face. No more grin, no more casual lean against the railing. He doesn’t respond right away, just considers the question silently. This is what I was looking for- the person underneath the persona. Is he truly as soulless as he made himself seem, or is there something useful at his core, that I could mold into a valuable ally?
“I can do that,” he says at last.
“Glad to hear it,” I reply, offering him my hand to shake again. This time, my grip is firm and confident. “We’ll be having the first meeting of the War Council at the end of the week. Prove that you can be useful. Bring me three action items, minimum. And don’t waste my time, or I’ll have you at the front of every forward action for the rest of the year.”
Grant nods, looking somewhat shaken, but resolute. The elevator dings, and he steps out at the fifth floor, leaving me alone with the brute. I pause for a moment, looking away from him, and take a breath. That was the first time I ever really tried... whatever it was I just did. It went well enough, although I hadn’t intended to set a date for the first War Council when I started speaking. Now I have to find more people to join it, or I’ll be the one that looks like an idiot.
Composure quickly regained, I look back at my silent companion. He meets my gaze without blinking.
“So, what’s your name?”
“Sander Rebane,” he replies.
“Iza,” I reply redundantly, feeling somewhat disoriented by his totally flat affect. “Good to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
The elevator stops again, saving me from more awkwardness, and we both disembark. Following the brainband marker, I head towards my room, at the end of the hall. Hexagonal windows allow light to shine into the hallway, which would otherwise be rather bleak, what with the black tiles on the floor and black metal walls. Maybe putting us in this building was a ploy to make us all depressed. Or perhaps giving us the only jet-black building in a city of white marble was meant to label us as ‘black sheep.’
My apartment’s door slides open soundlessly as I approach. The first thing I see are my bags, arranged neatly in the center of the room. We packed up half my bedroom and sent it here in advance of my arrival, although the apartment already has most of the basic furnishings you’d expect, so there was no need to bring along blankets or silverware of my own. Looking at the decor, however, I start to consider redecorating. It’s bland, as if a team of experts was brought in to make the room look as inoffensive as possible. Something tells me everyone else is looking at pretty much the same thing right now, too. Though I’ve never slept in a hotel before, I’ve seen enough films to know that this is what they look like.
While I pace around the apartment’s living room slowly, something tickles the back of my brain. A faint sense that something isn’t quite right. Freezing in place, I focus on that sense, trying to narrow it down to the source. After a moment, I hear it- a faint humming sound, quiet but increasing in intensity. By the time I notice it, however, it’s already too late. There’s a muffled sound not unlike a gunshot, and I feel something strike me. Looking down, I see a metal dart sticking out of my chest.
Slowly, I start to reach for it, but my arms don’t want to move. My mind is moving sluggishly, as if I’ve had too much to drink. Then I feel a pair of hands grasp my head and twist it violently, and everything goes black.