Psion Alpha (22 page)

“He
hasn’t woken up yet,” Emerald said. “It’s awful. If they don’t get Omar—”

“But
he’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” Trapper asked.

“Yeah,”
Otto said, “the doc said chances are he’ll be fine. He got beat pretty hard.”

Trapper
tenderly rubbed the bruised bridge of his nose. “We’ve been doing it all wrong,
guys. We should have been focusing on combat all this time. That’s the most
important thing. If I can’t defend myself against guys like Omar—”

“That’s
exactly what Byron said,” Emerald responded.

“So
you think it was Omar?” Byron asked Trapper.

“Of
course I do! Whoever it was, he was big and able to take both of us down
easily. No matter what I did, he was all over me. And that’s what I’m saying,
if we can’t defend ourselves against stuff like this, nothing else matters. You
know why? Because we’re already dead!”

Otto
nodded. Emerald looked at Byron with a concerned expression.

“In
fact, I’m going to start training right now!” Trapper slammed his hand on the
table and stood up with a jolt. As soon as he reached his feet, he swayed
dangerously. Emerald and Byron stabilized him.

“Easy,
Trapper,” Emerald said, “no rush.”

“I’m
on a lot of pain meds,” Trapper admitted.

“Maybe
tomorrow would be a better day to start, dude,” Otto suggested.

“Good
idea.” Emerald patted Trapper’s arm. “Tomorrow.”

“I’m
already done eating,” Otto said. “Trap, why don’t I take you to your room? You
need rest.”

Trapper
paused for a moment, then nodded. “Rest sounds good. And an ice pack.”

“Ice
pack. Sure thing.” Otto helped Trapper out of the cafeteria.

Emerald
and Byron ate in silence for a long time. Byron kept thinking about his vow to
win all the skulls, and whether it was really so important.

Finally
Emerald spoke. “So you think he is right?”

“Trapper?
About combat? Yeah, I do. I was serious when I suggested it. Still am. In fact,
I plan to focus more on it from now on. Not only because of what happened to
him, but because Wu suggested it in our meeting.”

“What?
Are you and Commander Wu pretty tight now?”

“Tight?
No.”

“Then
why do I get the feeling sometimes that I don’t know everything about you? You
tell me that Commander Wu personally accepted you into the program at the age
of fifteen.” She dropped her voice to a whisper as she mentioned his age. “Why?
Why you? What makes you so special? Sure, you’re smart, but that doesn’t
warrant a two year pass on the age requirement. So then what is it?”

“You
think I have something to hide?”

Emerald
gestured that this was exactly what she meant.

Byron
smiled. “Could it be because you do not trust males in general?”

Emerald
returned the smile. “True. And I don’t
like
males in general. But I do
trust you.”

“Uh.…
” Byron swallowed an extra-large spoonful of soup and some it went down the
wrong pipe, leaving him coughing as he tried to speak. “So—so wait. You mean
that you don’t
like
men. Does … that mean you
like
women?”

“No,
I don’t like women, either. I don’t like them like that, at least.”

“That
leaves only you. You only like yourself. A narcissist.”

“Ha
ha.” Emerald sneered at him, but he caught a gleam of humor in her eyes.

Byron
laid his hands on the table, palms up. “You have to like somebody or something.
Everyone has to have a love.”

“I
think you’ve read too many fairy tales.”

“I
think you have read too many tragedies.”

Emerald’s
smile vanished at his comment. Her whole demeanor transformed.

“That
was not meant as—sorry—that came out wrong. What I mean is that your outlook on
life and on men—sometimes—seems excessively grim.”

“Do
I need to be peppy and girly to please you?”

“No,
no. You know what? Just forget the whole thing. I like you how you are.”

“Do
you, Byron?” she asked. Her expression had turned from sorrowful to slightly
angry. “You really like me?”

“Yeah,
I think we are good friends.” Byron swallowed too much soup a second time, but
quickly recovered. When he spoke again, it came out as a croak. “What about
you?”

“How
do you feel about my tattoos? Or my piercings?”

The
question caught Byron off guard. “Why does it matter?”

“Answer
the question.”

Byron
tried to think of a good response, one that wasn’t insulting. “Uh.… ”

“I’ve
seen your expression when you get a glimpse. You look away whenever you see
them. It’s like they embarrass you. When I took off my shirt, you wouldn’t even
touch them.”

“I—no—it
has nothing to do with—”

“I
get that I’m not your type of girl.”

“
What?
”
Byron looked around the cafeteria, bewildered. “What are you talking about?”

“You
hammer the point home constantly with the way you look at me.”

“Emerald,
I look at you the same—”

“Bullcrap,
Byron. You know how much weight I’ve lost since January?”

Byron
dropped his spoon onto his tray. He’d given up trying to figure out what in the
world Emerald was going on about. “Emerald,” he sighed, “I have no idea. A
hundred pounds? It really does not matter.… ”

Emerald’s
face screwed up into intense fury. The boys in Team Oddball had nicknamed her
favorite expression as the glare of death, but what he saw now was on a whole
new level.

The
glare of eternal hellfire and damnation.

“SCREW
YOU! I was not a hundred pounds overweight! But that’s exactly my point! You
think I’m just some disgusting slob to be pitied. Well, I think you’re a
scared, sheltered little boy who woke up one morning and realized he’s not in
Kansas anymore.”

Byron
was still struggling to think of what to say next when she stormed out of the
cafeteria. He watched her go, sipping his soup straight from the bowl,
wondering vaguely if there was enough liquid inside its depths to drown
himself.

The
next day was Saturday. Byron had signed up for an hour of combat training with
Nicoletta Clardonsky, the combat instructor—something he’d never done before.
When he left for breakfast, Trapper was asleep, still under the spell of pain
killers.

“Don’t
eat too much, dude,” Otto warned Byron. “When I had my sparring session with
her, I nearly tossed my cookies. She aims for the stomach and groin a lot.”

“Noted.”
Byron chugged down a glass of orange juice. “And thanks. Keep an eye on Trap,
will you? Tell everyone I will meet you guys in the study room tonight.”

“Did
you check on Xian this morning?” Otto asked.

Byron
gave a somber indication that he had. “No change. I get the feeling they
expected him to wake up by now.”

“But
they don’t want to admit it?”

“Yeah.”

Otto
jerked his head toward the clock. “If you don’t take off now, you’re gonna be
late and Clardonsky’s gonna be pissed.”

Byron
hurried to the dojo where Clardonsky awaited him in her usual red karategi tied
off with a black belt adorned with the red symbol of the Elite. Several other
Elite students were scattered around the dojo in groups of one to four, some
sparring and some working the bags. Clardonsky ignored all of this as she sat
with one meaty fist against the palm of the other hand, her legs crossed and
eyes closed. Despite her large size and rough appearance, she seemed serene in
that moment. Her strawberry-blonde hair was cut short and stood straight up.
When he stood only a meter away, she sniffed the air dramatically.

“Chicken.”

She’d
said the word so suddenly it startled Byron. “Ex—excuse me, ma’am?”

“You
smell like a chicken.” She opened her eyes. “Why are you afraid of me, Byron?”

Byron’s
eyes were fixed on her large hands, wondering what horrible pains she would
inflict on him. “I—I am not afr—”

“Liar.
You’re a sissy. I’m going to beat the crap out of you for an hour straight, and
you know it. Don’t you?”

“Uh
… yes, ma’am?” Byron said this because he knew she wanted to have her ego fed.

She
smiled, still in a bizarrely serene sort of way. “Good. I’ve been wanting to
lay the wood to you for a while.” Her thick accent made all her w’s sound like
v’s. “You fight like overcooked leberwurst and your technique sucks more than my
father doing the Schuhplattler. Especially your blocking. You favor dodging
because you know how stupid you look trying to block.”

“I—”

“Don’t
answer. I already know it. I would love to smack you around in front of
everyone, but Commander Wu says we have to train in private. Why is that?”

“Because
I can do something he wants no one else to see.”

Clardonsky
opened one eye and stared at Byron. “Consider me intrigued. I have a private
dojo adjacent to my office. Follow me.”

Her
office was located in the far corner of the dojo. It was a simple little room
with a desk and three chairs. A few teaching awards decorated the walls. On the
left wall was the door to her private sparring room. Hanging over the door was
a large poster of her. She was much younger in the picture, though still quite
beefy. In it, she struck a fierce attacking pose, her yellow-white teeth bared.
Byron actually thought the effect was creepy, especially the wild look in her
eyes.

Inside
her own dojo, mirrors lined the walls. A shelf hanging above the mirrors ran
around the perimeter of the room. Innumerable trophies sat atop it. Byron tried
to ignore them and focus on her.

“What
are your strengths?” she asked.

Byron
had to think for a moment. “I can bench about ninety kilos. My squat is—”

“Not
those strengths!” She swatted the air at him. “In combat. What are you good at
besides getting your teeth broken?”

“My
striking is pretty decent. I am working on blocking and dodging.”

Clardonsky
snickered brazenly. “Blocking is your strength, eh? And ballet dancing is mine.
I doubt you will strike me. First, I want to see what Wu thinks is so special
about you.”

I
never said blocking is my strength.
Byron glanced around the room.
“Can I demonstrate it on a punching bag?”

“Show
me on
me
,” she stated as she assumed a defensive stance.

“Are
you sure?” He pointed to the bag. “I think it might be better—”

“Stop
wasting my time and perform the move!”

Byron
nodded as he took a breath and assumed a striking position to counter his
instructor’s stance. He stared at her with wide eyes, his hands trembling from
the tension in his muscles. How long had it been since he’d last performed a
blast without holding anything back?

“Ready?”

“I’ll
give you to the count of two before I kick your head off.”

Byron
jerked his right palm forward and yelled, “HIYA!”

Nicoletta
brought her left arm forward as if she expected him to perform a punch on her,
only to leave her feet as she flew backward five meters. She landed firmly on
her large backside and wasted no time getting back to her feet. What followed
was an extraordinary mixture of English and German swear words all directed at
Byron. Her crimson-hued face made her spiky hair appear even more blonde as her
head bobbed in time with her deep breaths. She strode toward Byron and stopped
right in his face. They were nearly the same height, Byron only barely taller,
though he’d been told he wasn’t done growing yet. It didn’t matter.
Clardonsky’s muscle mass made him feel small in comparison.

“What.
Was. That? You didn’t even touch me!”

Byron
opened his mouth to answer, but before he could say anything she heaved him up
and away. Had it not been for his blasts, he would have crashed into the
mirrors, but he used them to cushion the blow and land on his feet. Clardonsky
watched all this with a wide-eyed smile. When combined with her hulking form,
the effect terrified Byron. He closed his eyes in case she decided to kill him,
but only heard her crack her knuckles.

“Byron,
you are now my project. I’m going to make you into the best fighter this school
has ever seen … unless I kill you first. You will meet me for one hour each
day. I don’t care when! You will tell me each day when you are coming, and you
will be on time. Then I will work you like I work my dogs and you will thank me
for it because you will win the golden skull before you graduate. Do you
understand?”

“Yes,
ma’am.”

“Good.
Now it’s time to teach you what my first sensei taught me: how to lose your
fear of being hit in the face.”

For
the next fifty minutes, Byron tried not to flinch while Nicoletta struck him in
the face, usually with the back or front of the hand. She permitted him to wear
head gear, but this didn’t help much when she caught him in the nose. Three or
four times, she gave him a nosebleed. When she saw the blood, she laughed.