Midnight Hollow Aspirant Staging Area III
Krandermore, Survivor’s Refuge
4453.2.11 Interstellar
Once their vehicles crossed into the city proper and it was clear they were contestants, Janus’s group was pulled aside, and a pair of officials led them to a designated parking area. The parking spots came with a waterproof tent they could use to receive visitors and reorganize their gear. Mick, Koni, and Fury were stuck with guard duty—mostly Mick guarding their gear and the two fire breathers.
Lira left to find a replacement for the uncooperative Verazlan. She’d been on the comm with her contacts as soon as they were in transmission range, and she said she might have a lead.
That left Janus and Ryler to go on a scouting trip.
“Think we can get a look at the other teams without getting into trouble?” Janus asked.
Ryler shrugged. “I don’t see why not. Most of these people are here to see the teams start the race, and no one knows you.”
“Ouch.”
“It’s a good thing,” the cultist said. “Until we’re registered, we could have an ‘accident’ and it wouldn’t disqualify the other team, short of murder. Teams registered for the Trial get a lot of leeway, mostly so people can’t falsely accuse them to keep them from joining the race.”
Janus nodded. “I can only imagine the kinds of situations that made that rule necessary.”
Ryler gave him a crooked grim. “Mostly Pugarians gambling with credits they didn’t have. Once we’re registered, we’ll be protected until the race starts.”
“And after that?” Janus asked.
Ryler took a deep breath. “After, anything goes. We have to win to prevent them from culling Irkalla. We’ll want to keep our distances from the other teams or be ready to fight if we have to.”
The two of them left the staging area and made their way down Midnight Hollow’s bustling main street.
Janus was surprised by how many people had made the trip for a one-day event, but maybe they’d been here in the weeks leading up to it as well. Energy filled the air, an atmosphere charged with excitement and anticipation. The streets were so brightly lit it could have been daytime, showing off a vibrant tapestry of colors, sounds, and scents as people from all corners of the region came together to celebrate a year gone by and speculate on the Trials. Brightly colored banners fluttered in the breeze, adorned with the symbols of each of the factions that would be competing.
“Is all of this getting taken down tomorrow?” Janus asked.
“Hardly,” Ryler answered. “Most of these people will stay here for the duration of the trials, especially if they came from far away. The city is built for it, and it’s cheaper to stay than to make the trip twice.”
“Because the path is a loop.”
“Correct,” Ryler said, sidestepping a mud-filled pothole. “Even if it wasn’t, the participants of the Trials are assigned routes to some of the most remote settlements in the region, and there’s some overlap with the regional races to the north and south. All the collected data flows here, and we share most of it with the traders and merchants you see around you. Some people earn more during these few weeks than they do for the rest of the year.”
“I’m shocked,” Janus said half-jokingly. “I’ve never known the Cult of the Survivor to be so open with information. Or are you lying to me?”
“I said we share most of it,” Ryler said, his tone a little cooler. “And we do what we have to so humans survive. Without the annual coordination and resupply of the Trials, a lot of the smaller settlements would die out.”
“They’d migrate to the center, wouldn’t they?” Janus said.
Ryler nodded.
Janus could see why the cult wouldn’t want that. Concentrated settlements along the centerline would put the human population at greater risk of some sort of epidemic. It would make the conflicts between clans and settlements more frequent than they already were. It would also allow for faster growth and make the population of Krandermore harder to control.
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Did the Cult of the Survivor encourage the feuds between the clans and the clashes between sun-side and coldside? Was that why Krandermore was divided into regions, like continents, instead of having a worldwide race?
Janus kept his thoughts to himself. He needed to save his own people. He could worry about Krandermore once Callie and the others were out of harm’s way.
The streets around them were alive with movement and sound. Animated conversations intermingled with the faint strains of plucked strings and the rhythmic beats of drums. Dancers and other street performers, usually accompanied by elaborate augmented reality displays, added their touch of magic and chaos to the scene, drawing crowds and sometimes encouraging participation. Children squealed with delight as they weaved through the crowd, their expressions brimming with joy and wonder. Families followed, unconcerned, partners walking hand-in-hand in their best garments, grandparents carrying younger kids on their shoulders. Many had their faces painted with elaborate designs and colorful patterns. Friends gathered in small groups, laughing and sharing food they bought from the stalls or giving each other gifts.
It was all very different from Janus’s experience on Irkalla. Life had been different there, in general. There was so much space here for people to gather in; the pressurized habitats of Irkalla encouraged intimacy with people you knew well, and you certainly didn’t let children out of your sight. There had been those few nights when dome admin had given everyone a shift off, and the outsiders had clustered in Sector Six, sharing food and stories. Janus and his family hadn’t fit in with the others, not perfectly, but on those nights, they almost had. That was Prime Dome, though, with all its prejudices built on reasons they’d all forgotten. Crossroads might have been different. He hadn’t had the chance to really explore before he and Lira were back on the road.
Mercuria could have been that way, too, if it wasn’t for the poverty and the rule of the gangs.
He wondered, sometimes, if they’d made a difference or if it all went back to the way it was, everyone out for themselves, everyone alone.
On Krandermore, everyone was family in some form or other. The systems of clans, fealty, and honor debts ensured it. He knew that there was more to the patterns of clothing than he understood, that they described intergenerational relationships and obligations that let each sun-side Krandermoran know exactly where they stood with each other from birth. The same vibrant tapestries and woven ribbons hung from every building, stall, and truck, fluttering in the breeze.
For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to be a true sun-sider, both insider and outsider at any time in a thousand different ways, and yet utterly certain of what those ways were. It was like a red point blinking on a map saying, “You are here.”
What he did understand was that like was drawn to like, so as Janus made his way through the crowd, instead of a disordered mixing of colors, he saw a gradient slowly shifting toward the deeper blues of the Motragi until they reached the Motragi quarter.
He liked his adoptive clan. Instead of the loud proclamations of the Pugarians or the showboating of the Verazlans, the Motragi were mostly here to share information and inventions. Half a dozen people out in makeshift hammocks read thick tomes, while others sat in straight-backed chairs, furiously exchanging data chips and making annotations on portable terminals. Motragi elders clustered around holographic projection, and the occasional drone or camera-carrying researcher passed by, cataloging the event for future study. The constant drive to discover and publish something new was something Janus appreciated about the sun-side clan. They were considered weak by both the Pugarians and Verazlans, but Janus had found them to be the most progressive and purposeful by far.
And in case anyone made the mistake of thinking them harmless, the Motragi rangers watched from the shadows, their weapons under their ponchos.
It was fairly obvious when they came across the first team. They had a specialized buggy equipped with several customized apparatuses that Janus had never seen before. He could only guess at the equipment’s purpose, although the long whip antenna was easy enough to figure out. He felt a pang of envy toward the Motragi teams. They would get the best tools and support their clan could offer.
Working with the Verazlan, all Janus had gotten were threats and drama.
A grizzled senior ranger appeared out of nowhere and put a hand on Janus’s shoulder. “Come with me.” The old ranger walked between two tents, not waiting to see if Janus would follow.
“Are we in trouble?” Ryler asked, casually moving his hand toward his belt.
“I don’t think so, but I’ve been wrong before,” Janus answered, stepping between the tents to follow.
Janus and Ryler slipped between the cracks in the Motragi quarter, passing between, through, and under tents, stacks of crates, and parked trucks. They skirted the edge of gathering areas, although not a single Motragi clansperson looked their way. Janus had to move quickly to keep up as the old ranger was always several steps ahead, just turning a corner or disappearing through a tent flap. Janus got the sense that if the ranger had wanted to lose them, he could have done so without effort.
He also got the impression that the seemingly haphazard layout of the Motragi quarter was deliberately set up to make that possible.
Finally, they reached a hidden space at the heart of the Motragi quarter, a tent guarded by two more veteran rangers. The guards were armed, humorless, and looked like they would have shot Janus and Ryler without hesitating if they’d arrived uninvited. Janus felt very vulnerable and foolish. Ryler had just told him they weren’t protected until they were registered, and there was no one to witness their death but these rangers anyway.
As it was, the guards ignored the Irkallans completely, as if Janus and Ryler weren’t there.
The old ranger had already gone inside.
“Let’s go make some new friends,” Janus said, opening the tent flap.