I’m comforted to know that even here, I can still find the source of the thing I love best.
Then class is over. I follow the others into the hall. Perdiccus stabs me with his stylus in the small of my back. It punctures through the fabric to my skin. The point hits just the right nerve to send my back into a spasm. I collapse to the floor.
“Hurry up, snail guppy,” Hanschen says, smirking.
I pick myself off the floor and hobble, trying to keep up. I look out the bay windows. Hundreds of other students are seated in a vast lecture hall below.
“Who are they?” I whisper as I catch up to Hanschen.
“Plebs.” He shrugs. “Lowborn.”
“They don’t take classes with us?” I ask.
“We’re The Companions,” he says as if it explains everything. “We lead. They follow.” He hurries into the next room.
Teacher Croack lectures on genetics. Whereas Michio was most certainly from off-world, Croack looks like the perfect Nightsider with his blond hair and muscular build. The lesson advances quickly from Punnett squares to RNA manipulation. Croack suggests the environment of Tao has mutated the inhabitants, namely us. High gravity evolved increased bone and muscle density. The low light of the Twilight Band forced Nightsiders to develop eyes more sensitive to light.
He recounts the environmental influence on culture. “The Combat and the Pavaka have eliminated weakness and congenital disease, ha-hmm.”
He ends all of his sentences by clearing his throat. I find it extremely annoying.
“Strategic marriage between ruling houses has led to an elite class with superior mental and physical capacities, ha-hmm.”
It’s hard to believe that anyone who encourages a practice like the Pavaka, a ritual burning of babies with defects or disabilities, is considered “superior” in any way.
“The Tao Nightsider is the most perfect human form that has ever existed!” he exclaims.
“And Daysiders?” I ask.
The others gasp at my question.
Croack scowls. “Ha-hmm, Daysiders are born of Tao and share similar traits, hmm, but their race came to this planet sometime after the first human diaspora from Ancient Earth and is of inferior genetic stock. One cannot compare an island Daysider to the sculpted beauty of a Nightsider. Genetics is a complicated science, hmm, but the basic principles are simple. Each person is endowed by their creators with a unique pattern of potential. The Tao Nightsider is the pinnacle of potential.” He nods with smug finality.
I believed my father was perfect. Until I met him.
“How do you know?” I ask.
“The Combat.” The fact I’ve even asked annoys him. “Fighting is the art of assessing opponents’ strengths and weaknesses. The Electors are even renovating the arena to provide deadly obstacles and puzzles. In a few years’ time, the Combat will pit intellect against intellect more than ever, hmm. Body against body, in a fight for survival. The superior live to propagate. It’s a natural extension of evolution pushing humanity to its limit, hah.”
“The strongest, most capable, rule,” Hanschen parrots.
“Not everyone competes in the Combat,” I say. “What about those who don’t?”
“If you’re too scared to wager your life to attain power, then you don’t deserve it in the first place.” Perdiccus laughs.
“Power? What for?” I ask.
“What do you mean what for?” Perdiccus’s crazy eyes widen.
“Why want power? To rule others?” I ask. “Winning the Combat might favor someone stronger or faster, or even smarter, but how does killing make you a better leader? Why not just be free and let others be free in return?”
“Freedom’s an illusion,” says Hanschen. “We’re all controlled by hierarchical social structures whether it’s parent and child, husband and wife, house and plebeian, whatever. Strong over weak is the primal law of nature. If you don’t choose strength, someone else will.”
“Complex society necessitates a system of structure,” Perdiccus chimes in. “Tao democracy is based on natural selection because it is intrinsic to humanity.”
“Why is intrinsic better?” I fire back.
“Because it is.” Sigurd growls, silencing the rest of us. “We are better.”
Perhaps I should keep my opinions to myself, but for some reason, I don’t care. I feel deep down, they are wrong. “Because I say so isn’t a valid argument.”
Nadia would be proud.
Sigurd stands and looms over me. He’s huge, ready to hit me to prove his point.
Hanschen grabs his arm. “Not yet. Soon,” he whispers.
“Quiet!” Croack barks. He motions for Sigurd to sit down. “Debate is healthy, ha-hmm.” Croack chews on the words. “It challenges us.” He turns to me. “But this is not philosophy class, Leontes, hmm. The Combat is mental and physical. It favors strength but also critical thinking, ha-hmm. Our ancestors were warriors, and authority was measured by those who earned it. Strong propagated strong. It has always been thus.”
“Just because it’s always been, doesn’t mean it always should be,” I mutter.
“What?” His face grows red at my impertinence.
“What about scientists or doctors? Artists or musicians? Leaders have more responsibilities than fighting. They need to think in ways other than outmaneuvering sword thrusts.”
The room bursts into laughter.
“Musicians!” shrieks Perdiccus.
My face heats with humiliation.
“Music, ha-hmm? Yes, we remember your proclamations in front of Old Wusong, Little Leontes”—Croack stands over me—“music won’t save you when you have an enemy’s knife at your throat, hmm. What will music do? The power to kill is the only true power in the Nine Corridors. Those who have it thrive. That’s how humans rose from the muck to spread through the cosmos. Not by music or poetry, but by the ability to be better killers than anything else.”
Teacher Michio said all energy vibrates. Gorham said that the universe was music.
What if it is, but it doesn’t matter? What if survival is the only constant?
“What about space gypsies?” I ask softly, baiting a trap.
“Ha-hmm, spypsies?” Croack whirls on me.
“Space gypsies practically live their whole lives in micro-g.”
Sigurd and Perdiccus look at me confusedly. Only Hanschen nods, following.
Croack shakes his head with frustration. “Your point?”
“Spypsies genetically engineer themselves for space. They have sticky pads on their hands and feet, hairless bodies so air recyclers won’t get clogged, and flexible bones for more efficient skeletons. If fighting is the best measure of a man, the Combat might be the standard of perfection on Tao, but how could it be in a different environment, for a different culture, for a completely different type of person? Your rules of perfection are limited at best, arbitrary at worst.”
“Gene-splicing is abomination!” Croack erupts. “Changing a genome in a lab is the coward’s way to superiority, hmm. Let spypsies trade in their humanity and churn themselves into genetic stew. Let the Combat prepare the righteous of Tao!”