“It was ever the hard thing, youth/ sharp and filled with the that hard truth…“
- poem, found scratched in the margins of a notebook belonging to Serena Smiler
Martin glanced at the holographic clock that shone on the left wall. 9.58. The invitation had been specific; 10.00
He himself had been early, in the traditional Swedish manner, but it had surprised him to see others show up early.
While Federated officials liked to proclaim a united world and a common front, he knew that there were regional differences. People saw themselves as members of their birth-nations first, then together against the Host.
Continentals had reputation for being late, though that might just be his prejudice speaking.
9.59.
Light glared. Martin’s hand rose, and when it fell, a figure stood at the podium.
Balding. Amber eyes, like the real deal, not synthweave. Dark skin, not as dark as Martin’s own, but nothing so simple as a tan.
“Do I have your attention, Class 2095-13?”
A few lacklustre responses. The man’s Trade was of a kind Martin had never encountered.
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The man tilted his head, considering.
“DO I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION, CLASS 2095-13?
Dust swirled up along the unclaimed tiers; the dusky boy one row in ahead made a noise and the twins grew silent. The other clique had already been paying attention.
“Do you think-“
The man pointed at the brash boy that had spoken. Empty space swallowed him.
Their instructor extended a hand, catching a golden short-sword that shimmered into being above his head. He threw it in the air and raised one finger. As the sword alighted on that very finger, he yawned.
Showoff.
He flicked his finger and the sword spun up. The audience watched as the sword stopped in the air some yards above his head.
“AHHHH…”
Their eyes were drawn to the boy who had been teleported away. He sat in the same seat…but even from three rows up, Martin could smell something like sulphur and rotten eggs.
The boy was glancing around, eyes bright and far too wide. One girl took a seat next to him, using gestures and a calming speech.
“You will speak, when spoken to. I don’t want to be here. I should not. I should be at the front, advancing the world where we don’t have to live in boxes, but alas, greater minds have decided otherwise.”
The man sighed. “My names is Raja Sviratham. You may adress me as mr Sviratham, Instructor or Teacher. For the coming year, you and I, we will-“
Raja Sviratham might have been loud and dramatic, but he wasn’t slow. The can missed him by a large margin.
“Do you like bullying the helpless?”
Martin had known, intellectually, that there was a reason why nobody sat next to the vagrant boy. But the way he was standing, without fear, openly challenging brought the fact alive in a vivid way.
The air shimmered around the boy, and soon he was clad in a Chassis. Feathers, in the form of a long robe. A mask, with a beak.
Whispers rose all around.
“Ukok Burning…”
“Viktor Solzhenitsyn…”
“I heard it took five Proxies…”
Sviratham simply stared at Viktor. “Helpless?” Their instructor pointed at the boy who had been teleported away. Under the care of his neighbour, the boy looked less green. “Renaldo Hevreron is slated to become a Proxy due to bravery shown in a incident when he saved half a dozen children from burning to death. He wasn’t helpless then, and neither is he now.”
The instructor paused.
“The only thing Mr Hevreron is helpless to is his mouth.” The boy in question started, laughing slightly. The tension in the room, which had begun to feel like an approaching storm, began to abate.
Sviratham met Viktor’s eyes. “If you’d like to continue talk about the topic of helplessness, I too could bring out my Chassis.” He paused a beat. “Would you like that?”