FOURTEEN, Ulysses’ gym at rush hour, everyone’s watching. Or it feels like they are. A dozen fighting squares in the place and Ulysses picked the best in the house for us to scrap on. He paces the perimeter like an old lion watching his cubs as the repulsorfield dissipates. Inside, Krey and I, training rings on to dilute our classes, panting from the last round.
Outside, a human chaos, distracting and tempting as it washes in to fill the space the repulsorfield left. The rest of the gym begs me to glance away from the fight. Near the wide bay doors, Dax playing cards with a thug that’s got too much stubble for the beard he can grow. Elementals weaving fire and water and gas and electricity in arcing loops, refining their control. Duelists practicing parries against spider-armed training bots programmed with combos made famous in the professional leagues. Other squares where sparring fighters play martial duets on lethal instruments. A symphony of iron clanks in rhythm to the battle as muscled women and men strain on benches infused with a century of their previous users’ sweat. There’s a funk in the air. Gross when you catch a whiff of it at first.
“You get used to it quick,” Sarah said when we first walked in. “After a while, you come to respect it. Hard work has its own smell.”
My nose wrinkled at the time. “What’s it smell like to you?”
She thought for a moment. “…Rust.”
All that noise, the hordes of people wandering around, a few of them stopping to rest their elbows on the square and chat with Ulysses. Wasn’t so good at focusing when I was fourteen. So I fix the battered pair of plastic headphones over my ears and crank the shitty speakers to max blast. Couple swipes on my JOY pulls up a NeoPop playlist. Stuff sounds like a hamster getting raw dogged by a synthesizer; the WD-40 of white noise.
I watch with the world on mute while Sarah lopes onto the square to go help Krey with his form. She’s a fusser like that, always wanting to fix things with her own two hands. Shouts at Dax to get off his ass; he just waves her off and drops a winning hand on the table. Krey’s face flushes with embarrassment when Sarah starts kicking at his ankles to fix the spread of his heels.
I don’t realize Ulysses is trying to talk to me until he taps me on the shoulder. I glance up. Little two-finger wave in my direction, I pull my headphones back and let them curl around my neck.
“Huh?”
He covers his face with a tape-wrapped palm, then sinks down to his haunches beside me. Motions for me to drop the same. “My point, exactly.”
Frowning, I crouch down with him, 6-Teba dangling between my legs.
“No matter where you are, it’s important to keep all your senses, Emilia. Would you shoot with your eyes closed if someone was pointing a flashlight at you?”
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Maybe.
“Would Sarah?”
No.
“No,” he says, tapping my nose and laughing at the scowl it brings. “You have to learn to look past the light. Listen through the noise. Not to mention, that’s the fifth round you’ve lost to Krey in a row. I believe that means it’s time for a change of strategy.”
“He’s bigger than I am,” I mutter, eyes flashing beneath a mop of red-orange hair. “It’s not fair.”
“Everyone is going to be bigger than you, Emilia.” When I glare over at Ulysses, he gently warns me down with a single raised finger. “That’s not a bad thing. But it is a thing. We Venters don’t have many advantages in a fight, and the little girls and boys have even fewer. Even I struggled when I was in the leagues.”
Wistful emotion flickers across his face. For a brief moment, he’s lost in the roar of a faraway crowd, blinded by the stream cams. I see it even then, and it makes me lean closer to listen. Ulysses has a way like that. A campfire charisma.
He takes my free hand between both of his, calluses rubbing over the tops of my knuckles. “Sometimes victory isn’t about using your own advantages. It can also be about exploiting the things your opponent isn’t good at. Never forget: to win, you don’t have to be the better fighter. You just have to be better than them.”
Together, we look across the square at Krey and Sarah. She’s leaning over his shoulder now, heads side by side while he looks through the scope and fidgets with a knob on top. Ulysses nods at them.
“You and Krey have been friends for a long time. If I were to fight him and asked what his weaknesses were, what would you tell me?”
“Nothing, ‘cause I’m not a narc.” I smirk at Ulysses, breaking down into a laugh that he soon joins. I don’t even notice the rest of the gym bleeding out of my awareness as I examine Krey in a different light. “He’s got a big gun. Good far away, but it’s slow up close. He trains a lot so he’s a good shot at any distance. But…”
“But?”
“But his gun is so long. There’s a spot right next to him where he can’t shoot at all.” Freckles bunch over my nose as I frown again. “I can’t shoot there either, though. That’s why Sarah says to stay two steps back. Like she does.”
“And if you were her, I too would recommend you keep a little distance. But you have a gift that Sarah doesn’t, Emilia. That spot you saw isn’t big enough for her- but it is small enough for you.” In a flash, Ulysses plucks my JOY from my hip, firing up a screen between us. “Do you want to start winning?”
I nod, wide-eyed.
Across the square, Sarah sticks her fingers in her mouth and lets out a shrill whistle to get his attention before jogging off the square. Ulysses’ hands move even quicker. Opening up the menus of my JOY to where I pick the classes it gives me. Only one of the three slots is filled. The second, empty, he taps it and selects the first option to appear: MARTIAL ARTIST.
“Then, a little advice from a friend.” Smiling wryly behind his beard, Ulysses passes the sphere back, palming it over like we’re shaking hands. “Fight dirty.”