“Everyone received the message. I can confirm that much.”
Jolie’s hands tense around the lip of the boardroom table. Rippling screens of holographic data flank her like aegises. We’re in the Metro Blockhouse’s summit. Directly below the Champion’s quarters. Surrounded by the elite of fighting society: the major league. The twenty strongest warriors in Section G, myself the lowest in rank. No cameras. No civilians. Rebun’s the closest thing; smoking nervously near the floor to ceiling glass walls that stretch across every side of the tower. Summer rain pounds against the other side of the glass, melting his reflection.
“Everyone.” Atela Fei-Zir, eleventh rank Duelist and notorious favorite of the gossip streams, is first to repeat Jolie’s assertion. Her short, shoulder-length hair shakes in disagreement. “That’s impossible, miss Junior Fight Promoter. On both a technological and logistical level.”
Atela’s tapping needle blade comes to a rest when my sister undoes the second highest button on her collared shirt. The first stilled the entire room when we arrived twenty minutes before.
Jolie takes her time with the button. Lets out a patient sigh. Lets it simmer. Lets Atela start to second guess her contention, and only then removes her old-fashioned spectacles, cleaning them on the hem of her shirt. Rebun, still standing near the window, quietly takes another drag. Smart man.
“Impossible is what my aides and I have been scrambling to do since that message appeared,” my sister begins, pointing to the storm-cloaked metropolis beyond the windows. “Reigning in the entire Section. Cutting favors with the media. Putting out surveys. Silencing speculative streams. Blockading the goddamn Net since yesterday afternoon.” The list goes on. Atela and her nearest peers all find new minutiae in the table to stare at. I ratchet back my amusement to an entirely internal level.
“The only reason half the city isn’t attacking the Metro Blockhouse for answers right now is because I’ve been working twenty-four hours straight to keep them occupied. I managed to make a potential international cataclysm seem like a fun mystery. And I assure you- all of you,” Jolie says, sweeping the entire table with a dead serious glare, “That they received the message at the exact same moment we did. Governments in other Sections are reporting identical stories. We might as well assume every JOY on the planet got it, down to the last box in the Shimano warehouses.”
Not a pin drops as Jolie finally drops into her seat with a loud huff, raking a tired handful of nails through her bangs.
“And yes, I checked those too.”
A universal message sent to every JOY on the planet. As soon as it reached Mori and I in the villages and we realized from the news streams that it had been sent to everyone everywhere, vacation was over. Calls started pouring in. Fang summoned us both back to the capital, no questions asked. It hurt us both to leave our home so soon, especially with our son almost finished growing. But something this important takes precedence. My personal life can wait.
I’m fresh off a day-long maglev ride. Red-eyed and hungry as hell. Jolie met me at the station to ferry us back to the M as quickly as possible while Mori raced to check on her people at the old Shimano skyscraper. It’s been a whirlwind of rain and tense conversations since. I was the last to arrive in the boardroom. Fang delayed this meeting until I could make it, and I can already tell a few of the higher ranks are none too happy about the blatant show of favoritism. It doesn’t take a Psi to read the contempt in the room. Only by conscious effort do I avoid scowling back at them and instead focus my attention on the message that brought us all together; now floating in holographic form above the middle of the table.
[Long dormant, our Great Mountain now lies open. Its treasures, its vistas, its dangers summon all challengers anew. Take to its heights now, and bring with ye a warrior’s might. Men were divided unto Champions, but atop vast Olympus, one shall be crowned to whom all must kneel. A King to rule above all.
Come one, come all, and fear that which caused our Great Mountain’s awakening. One worthy of the greatest title has arisen within the humble Sections. Their name shall be Babylon, the Ultimate Life Form. But take heart, weak humanity. Babyl hath no greater claim to the crown than ye. Only through battle will the throne be taken. And only the strongest shall rule.]
The Great Mountain, Olympus. A land steeped in more mythos and legends than any other in the Sections. Just mentioning the name is enough to draw a storybook silence. Everyone knows Olympus as the ancestral birthplace of the JOYs, a city independent of all the Sections that floats miles above the surface of the world. Each of its thirty massive layers is a realm unto itself with unique cities, geography, inhabitants, and culture. Historians suspect the city was the final bastion of the Creators before their disappearance- their handiwork is evident throughout the unique layers, where impossibly beautiful vistas flaunt their hubris by ignoring worldly physics. Even the manner in which the land stays afloat is an utter mystery.
For as far back as our history goes, only the first ten layers of Olympus have ever been open to colonization. Innumerable explorers have set their sights on finally cracking the Gates connecting the tenth layer to the eleventh, and all have failed. Once, those first ten realms were wild, unconquered country filled with unimaginable, ferocious beasts shaped straight from the imagination of the Creators. They’re more peaceful lands now, though only just. We’ve all heard the tales of how unruly the city’s now-native population can be. Rule of strength is the only rule they know.
All eyes fall on Fang’s gnarled, hunched shoulders as he stirs at the end of the table.
“Once, Olympus was suspected to be a long-empty throne,” the Champion grumbles. “A notion long since dispelled, once our ancestors learned few of the realms were open to them. We know it now as a tourist destination. A martial safari. The most famous in the world, yes, but not one worth the great wars that were fought over its lands in the past.” His wrinkled eyelids close. Head bowing so his lips rest behind interlocked fingers. “By common agreement, we Champions have lived by the treaties of our ancestors ever since those wars. No man or woman of the Sections may lay claim to Olympus or its realms. It was only to be the site of the Summit of Champions. Hmph. I always called the tradition foolish. Spreading our mats on a sleeping dragon simply because it did not wake beneath our fathers.”
“Do we surmise this message is legitimate, then?” Fang’s Ace, the second-highest fighter in the Section and head of the major league, runs a thick hand over his blonde stubble. Voss. Ace in name only, the man’s been a political opposite of Fang since the day he took his rank, and is a staunch supporter of the Decentralist movement. He’s also one of the few pro fighters to dabble in Shifter; the temperamental, stat-exchanging class. One of the class’ more iconic forms, a simple durability enhancement that trades speed for raw tenacity, tints his skin with a moody, pale blue color. An invisible breeze is the only outward omen of the shift occurring.
His scarred face barely twitches when thunder slashes through the clouds outside. “That was intended for you, Ms. Mons.”
Jolie waits for the Champion to nod his permission before replying. “Either it’s legitimate, or an Innovator finally managed to crack some of the JOY source code. Both are equally unlikely. Though if you were asking my opinion personally, I’d bet on the former. The Creators-”
“-are a myth,” the eighteenth rank interrupts. Everyone else misses the vitriol Jolie barely bites back. “Folk tales and fiction that exist to fuel the imagination of the commoners. The Creators have never been seen since the JOYs appeared. They are either dead, or so far vanished from the world that they’ll never return.”
Wood scrapes against the obsidian floor as fifth-rank Meira rises beside me. “What if they’re on Olympus’ higher levels? What if they’ve been waiting all this time for that… thing, that ultimate life form, to appear?”
“We have drones. Scouts.”
“All things that could be fooled by Olympus’ shroud. We can’t even pierce the shroud of the eleventh layer.” Etelos, one of the two Assassin-affinity fighters in the major league, taps two restless, gloved fingers against the table. “We’ve no real idea what the upper layers could look like. The Creators could be there. They could not. There could be hundreds of terrible monsters waiting. There could be treasure beyond our wildest dreams. Technology incomprehensible. Aberrations humanity should never be allowed to see. No telling without actually going there ourselves.”
The eight-rank scoffs. “Many words for a man with so few results this year, assassin.”
“At least he speaks his mind!” A nocturnal Magus snaps further down the table. “And what of this Babyl? Such a proclamation from the Creators themselves can’t go ignored. The very idea that one of us, a warrior of the Sections is some sort of superior being…”
“Whoever they are, I assure you there’s one place they aren’t superior to me in.”
“Juvenile. Absolutely juvenile. You never deserved your seat.”
“Dare to come and take it from me? We can settle it downstairs, right now.”
Oh, how these fighters can argue. Old games of politics and social status have long since divided them into clans that will never come to an agreement. Bending a knee is the highest sin to them. They’ve spent so long in these numbered chairs that they’ve forgotten the simple truth of their status. The same truth that led to one of their number being missing this night, and I sitting in his place. Maybe I’m the only one who can see it, being the outsider. Though I suspect even Winter could point it out if they were here- them or any of the minor leaguers I beat and befriended on my rise to stardom. But I’m alone in a room full of Ajaxs. And it looks like I’m going to have to be the one to remind them of that.
Few even notice when I first rise. It takes me jamming a foot down on the table hard enough to send a shudder lancing halfway down its length to stun the room into silence. They start listening then. Even Voss, though he’s eyeing me like I’m a bad comedy routine.
“I’ll have your attention,” I begin, grinding my dripping, techheeled sneaker into the wood until the last snarky exchanges fade. “Because I didn’t cancel my vacation plans just to come back and watch my Section’s major league bicker like uni students.”
“You’d know a thing or two about uni students, Showmaker,” the sixteenth-rank Elemental snorts.
“Thank you for proving my point, Adeth.” I make eye contact with Voss then, staring down the table at the only man in the room besides Fang who I ever idolized as a kid. “You’re all very eager to focus on the wrong problem. The wrong enemy. You’ve forgotten we’re not here to argue with each other. Or I’m not, at least.” I nod to the projection. “We’re here because of that.”
“The message,” Meira agrees.
Eyes roll at my bravado. Even so, some find themselves looking at me now. For most, it’s their first time seeing me up close, as it’s mine to them. I command their attention when I release my foot from the table, ignoring the last water droplets. These warriors aren’t dumb. They’re some of the most capable beings in the Section, and they’ve shown it by holding their ranks for so long. But I’ve fought worse.
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And they know it. I have something they don’t, a credibility that I earned by taking down Shimano Heavy Industries almost five years ago to the day. I put myself in this room by doing more than just fighting on regulation squares. My experience, my danger is different than theirs, grown by fighting people like Carra- people to whom the rules of our fighting society don’t apply. It takes more than the combat these fighters know to overcome a trial like that. The threat I pose to their prestige isn’t something they can quantify. It’s not measured in the lethality of my hands or the strength of my aura. It comes in the fanatical crowds that spring up everywhere I go. The adoration of an entire Section.
In a way, I’m like Carra to them. A creature who plays by different rules. They instinctively analyze my every twitch, even those who can’t stand the sight of me. Focusing on my hands. Balance. That dangerous fluidity to my movements. A few heads are nodding in agreement with my earlier words. More nearby than further down the room.
“Close enough,” I say, cricking my neck to the side. For once, my hair is corralled into a wide tail by a loose string and hangs entirely down my back. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that Olympus is open for the taking now. Anyone in the Sections who can fight will be heading there for a piece of the cut, and the Summit of Champions is set to happen in a month.” Eyebrows raise at the reminder. Suspicious gazes level at Fang. I catalog them, shrug, and move on. “The other Sections will already have fighters there, perfectly in place to make the first move. They may be making it right now. But there’s no knowing for certain if we’re sitting here arguing at home while the world turns on without us.” A brief flash of aura ignites the air around me as I jam a finger against the table. “I don’t know what they’ll find if they reach the top first. But I do know what they’ll do with it.”
Jolie’s already magnifying the upper half of the message before my hand starts to move. She knows my mind better than I do. I barely have to move to signal. Instead, I stay leaned over the table, powerful shoulders lending me the strength to look down on my peers in a way I know will rile their focus onto every move I make. I draw in the attention as I continue.
“A throne over all the Sections.” The words ring in the air like a foreign language. “Something that’s never been suggested before, for good reason. It goes against the very basis of gladiocracy. We have Sections and Champions so no one person can decide the fate of all. I’m sure even you could agree with that, Voss.”
The Ace says nothing. Heavy fingers intermix in front of his chin.
I shake my head and fix my gaze on each of the others in turn. “I’m not keen on kings, either. Single rule works in isolation. When people like our Champion,” I defer to Fang, “are the ones on top. But there are far worse alternatives out there. People like Shimano Yor. Dynast’s Executors. Monsters who should never be allowed to rule. And I’m not about to give them a shot at the entire world.”
Voss clears his throat with a sound like rasping sandpaper. “Yours is a bold worldview to entertain, Mars. One that strays dangerously close to those held by the same men you deem authoritarian monsters. What would separate their rule from one like yours, if you both would wield the same authority with the same autocracy? The simple belief that you are right and they are wrong?” He inclines his head at the projection as a three-dimensional holograph of floating Olympus fills it. Swaying the others’ opinions with patient momentum all the while. “Would you seize that throne just to stop them from acquiring it?”
My lips make a hard line. “I’d do whatever it takes, because someone has to. And I’m the only one here who has.”
“It is true that you have more experience in the matter than some.” His gravelly voice sinks. Blue-shifted eyes close dismissively. “But you also have less wisdom. We’ve all seen your impulsiveness put on display for the streams. Your grandstanding. Your voice is valid- bickering will bring us nowhere. But I will hesitate before allowing that voice to lead an idea I throw my weight behind.”
“You fault me for being young.”
“I fault you for being dangerous. Youth and popularity are but two facets to it.”
Fang’s face remains an impermeable mask through the whole exchange. Jade eyes flick between the two of us in turn, revealing nothing. The old man is perpetually curious. Always has a sparkle to his eye. Tonight, the shine burns like simmering coals. We’ve had similar conversations to this in training and off-hours visits. I know he’s intrigued to see how I responded to the new challenge. Especially when it’s coming from a different voice.
Voss is far closer to Fang’s age than mine, so similar to the old man on paper, but so different in practice. I’ve changed Fang’s mind before. Over the years, he’s taken me further and further under his wing, heedless of snide political commentary directed our way on the news streams. The more we interact, the more I’ve seen the flames of the man he used to be reignite. My defiance against him and Shimano Heavy were just the first sparks. And my words tonight are the truth. Voss isn’t wrong. What separates me from people like Carra and Vex Shimano is the same principle I’ve lived my entire life: I am different than them. And I’ll keep being different, being better than those who came before, as long as I live.
Eventually, the other major leaguers return to bickering. At least it’s about Olympus this time. The looming threat on the horizon, and the potential of a different Section laying claim to a throne over all. Fang entertains the league for a few more minutes, but I know he sees what I do. It’s scrawled plain as day on his wrinkled, tanned face. Tonight won’t be going anywhere quickly. There’s talk of sending a delegation with Fang to the Summit of Champions this year, rather than the traditional company of the villages’ star teenager of the year. More discussions of what factions would compose it. No one even thinks to mention a representative from the Vents. The focus is on a wide spread of capable fighters. Maybe a rep or two from influential overcity corporations or village nobility.
Fang dismisses the room with a curtness borne from the late hour and his old age. Says he’s heard enough of our opinions and will make an announcement of his plans tomorrow, once the crack in the table is fixed. There’s a chuckle at that. Even his political rivals aren’t immune to the dryness of his humor. The bones of his hunched back crack one by one as he unfurls from his padded chair and waves us away like we’re schoolchildren.
Several of the others group up outside the boardroom doors or along the windows as we file out. Every discipline of combat sees representation in the arms and armor gathered here. Duelists, masters of bladed weaponry, are the most numerous. Elementals and Martial Artists are a close second. The other, less popular classes only hold one or two seats. Each of us is distinguished by the tools and colors of our trades. The lingering abilities of JOYs that follow even now, this close to midnight. No major league fighter forsakes their powers for long. We’re too accustomed to the extra senses; the lighter steps and heightened energy.
My eye catches on the old man when he motions for me to stick around. I slip through the packs, brushing past Jolie on my way down the table. Pat her shoulder lightly and deposit my still-full cup of coffee in front of her. She ignores it and falls in behind me with a datapad in hand, postponing relief for duty.
Fang’s jade eyes surf the room’s other occupants when I draw near. Dissatisfied with the number remaining in earshot, he crooks his head for me to follow him out the huge darkoak doors that lead onto an outdoor balcony ringed by a glass balustrade. Rain hammers against the invisible repulsorfield making a globe of protection outside. Once we’re through the doors, Fang nods for Jolie to close them, then keys off the insulating field with his JOY.
I blink quickly as the storm stings my eyes, soaking into my shirt. Before us, the unfiltered city slumbers in the heavy summer downpour, riven by a latticework of golden lights and vibrant neon. Infectious electric music drifts up thirty stories from the streets closest to the M. Streams of water slough off the tower around us in a constant flow. Storms of the capital are far different beasts than those of the villages. They lurk and swallow the capital for days at a time, digesting their meal with agonizing slowness. This one won’t leave for days yet.
Aura instinctively ignites around me, burning against the rain in silent unison with Fang. We simmer together on the balcony. One green flame, one white. Loud sizzles and tiny smoketrails drift from our skin as superheated ki flash-fries the incoming moisture. My arms are defiantly crossed. The old man’s hands stay in the pockets of those baggy martial sweatpants he has a special love for as he limps up to the railing.
“Never seen you put your hair up, boy.”
I actually laugh in surprise. “Is that what this is about?”
“Not quite. Though I never expected you would concern yourself with the opinion of those peacocks.” His mustache bristles as he hunches over the view. “They aren’t your usual fan club.”
“Voss seems like a piece of work. And to think I used to like the man.”
“Hmph. He is opinionated. And useful in his own way, just like you,” Fang cautions. His head tilts to the storm, tone sobering. “Let us be brief. It is late, and my old bones aren’t fond of the rain. I-”
“-want to send me to Olympus first.” My laughter drops to match his seriousness as I join him at the rail. My brow narrows.
In the corner of my vision, Fang’s bushy silver eyebrows raise briefly in surprise, then lower once more. “You knew.”
“Since I stepped into that room. There’s only one thing I haven’t been able to answer- why not someone else?”
He eyes the half-shut doors behind us, the fighters still filtering out. Those groups lingering at the boardroom’s exit, stealing small glances in our direction. His throat clears roughly. “You will do what is best for our people. I cannot say the same about them.”
And in a way, what he thinks is best for our people. The irony in how much closer our alignments have grown over the years isn’t lost on me.
“I did not tell them, but the Champions came to a decision last night,” he continues. “The Summit is being moved up. It will take place in one week, not one month. You must represent me there.” He nods to the blurry city beyond the railing, stretching to the horizon like an electric carpet. “Represent them. I will remain behind to stall the league. By the time they learn of the deception, it will be too late to intervene. The race for Olympus will have already begun.”
My head shakes slowly. “What if they contest you? Few of them wholeheartedly support you these days.”
Fang’s bony shoulder pops as he rotates his arm in a slow circle. A feral grin sneaks out from beneath his mustache. “Contrary to what some of those youngsters might think, this old man still has a few tricks left up his sleeve. There’s not one among them who can beat me yet.” The grin fades quickly. “I will handle matters here, boy. The present. But I am trusting you with the future.” His jade eyes seek out mine in the night, holding my gaze like a critical father. “I am trusting you to cross the Rubicon, Mars. My star has been fading for a long, long time. I’m not what I used to be. I am more capable, less moral. Stronger and harder. Which makes me brittle. I cannot bend like I used to. My days of evolution are well behind me, and such brittleness as mine will snap when stressed to its limits. You are young and willful and possessed by a tenacity I have only seen in one other. You do not give up. Our people need that now.”
He coughs quietly. “They do not need an old man who has been clinging to his throne far longer than he should have. You are the future. It is fitting that I send you to fight for it. I know not what you will find on Olympus, but you must ensure the survival of our people, of all people if it comes to it. You have my writ. Do whatever it takes. Do what is right by your heart and the city that loves you.”
I take in a deep breath through my nose, fingers curling tighter around the railing. “You’re asking a hell of a lot from me.”
“You once said you could always take a little more. Now is the time to prove it.”
I can feel already the weight he’s trusting me with. I knew it would come some day. My path to becoming the champion requires it. Never thought it could come so soon, though.
“The world beyond our Section is no playing field,” Fang says, already trusting in the answer he knows I will give. “You will need all the power you can get when you arrive on Olympus. The strongest of our neighbors are far more refined than any you could fight in this city. Even if you had mastered drawing on the world’s ki, I do not know if it would be enough to protect you. There are threats beyond our walls that you cannot even imagine.”
Threats like Executor Tanis. Not seen in the capital since we banished Shimano Heavy Industries and its disgraced patron family. But she was freakish enough, and I’m sure there are more like her waiting out there.
“I’ve put all the time I can into learning it, but there’s still some piece I’m not understanding.” I answer numbly, still devoting most of my attention to mulling over his request.
“You must understand it, Mars.” One gnarled hand jabs into the white flames rippling around me. “Many times you’ve told me of your troubles in facing Carra. If you can master this power and master the concentration needed to maintain it in combat, you will last far longer against opponents who you would otherwise only survive for seconds. You will be able to keep fighting long after others have fallen. That is the strength you need.”
I silence the flames around me with a thought, letting the rain slash into me unabated. Stare out over the city for a somber moment while the storm roars quietly. The old Shimano skyscraper, now repurposed for Mori’s Venter relocation efforts, gleams with activity in the night. Curtains of the downpour scald the concrete behind me. The slightest heat brushes against my ankles. I feel more than hear the door inch open, sensing the spark of Jolie’s presence lingering just out of sight. When her eyes are on me, it doesn’t take long to finish making up my mind.
“I’ll do it,” I say with a nod. “But I can’t carry the Section alone. I need a team.”
“Only take those who you trust,” Fang says, agreeing to my demand with the slightest wave of his hand. “Leave tomorrow if not tonight. But you must make it to Olympus and establish yourself first. Who will you take with you?”
“I have some ideas,” I murmur, looking down at the fringes of the capital, the spotlit industrial warehouses and power district populated only by high-speed trains. My head shakes slowly, wet hair dripping over my eyes.
“But you’re not going to like the last.”