“I told you. She’s a sea goddess.” He releases a carefree laugh. I stare at him with seriousness, and he suddenly gets very quiet. “I don’t have a mother.”
For a moment, I see him not as some child demigod, but rather a sad little boy, all alone. I don’t know what else to say, so I quickly change the subject. “What’s that kid doing?” I ask, pointing to a naked boy in the barracks. His back is to the camglobe, but his arm is moving very quickly.
“Oh that,” Phaestion replies with a shy laugh. “It’s something with . . . your part.”
“Oh,” I say, a little shocked. “What?”
“It’s hard to describe,” he says, stammering. I’ve never seen Phaestion not quite in control before. “I tried it myself, but I couldn’t make it happen like I’ve seen. I’m told it’s because I’m not old enough, but it still feels good. I like watching when others do it.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask confusedly.
But his enigmatic smile just returns. “You’re not ready yet.”
“Who are you to tell me when I’m ready?” I demand.
“Come on!” He grabs my arm.
We return to the hall with the pneumovator, and he pulls me along a maze of corridors and through a nondescript door into a small, pristine, white room. A weapons rack lies against one wall. A strange robotic suit stands in the center of the room, its back opened to the air.
“Is this—?”
“Where I train,” he says, finishing my thought.
“It’s so small.” As impressive as his study was, his training room is equally dull.
“It may not look like much, but it’s one of the most advanced physical training systems ever created,” he corrects me haughtily.
He steps into the back of the iron suit, and the metal molds close, sealing him inside.
“What does it do, exactly?” I ask.
“Stand back!” Phaestion’s voice is muffled by the helmet.
I plaster myself against the wall by the door as Phaestion lumbers toward the weapons rack. He grabs his rapier and dagger, then returns to the center of the room to begin a practice form.
He’s not practicing a form, I realize. He’s fighting enemies I can’t see.
“The helmet and suit simulate opponents!” Phaestion calls out.
“Can it simulate anything?” I ask.
“Anything and anyone.” He laughs.
All of those images of the Julii students, The Companions, all the footage of old Combats . . . he can access them with this training device!
“The suit can simulate environments,” he continues. “Vacuum or increased gravity. Intense cold or heat. And this . . .”
He puts down his weapons. The suit vibrates, slow at first, then faster and faster. The hum becomes intense, uncontrollable. A sonic vibration stronger than any siren. I cover my ears.
Phaestion, inside the suit, screams in horrific pain.
“Stop!” I cry. “Stop, Phaestion, stop!”
The vibrating ceases almost as quickly as it began. The metal peels away softly like the skin of a fruit. Phaestion steps out, panting. He kneels on the floor, and I hobble forward.
“What was that?” I ask frantically.
“I call it the Arms of Agony,” he says with a weary smile. “You remember when I showed you my siren swords?”
I remember I tried to hold them and was thrown to the ground, my nerves tingling.
“This suit is based on the same principal, only with the whole body. Talousla Karr invented it for me. It’s based on his studies that physical pain unlocks our genetic potential. If we survive, we are molded into something stronger. That was only level one.”
Only level one? I take in this disturbing thought. Pain makes a person stronger.
Then I have an even worse premonition—my friend will die trying to achieve some unprecedented level of strength.
I banish the idea quickly. I don’t want to imagine losing the only person I can talk to in this new, weird world I find myself in.
The next day, Phaestion tells me he won’t visit anymore or help with my therapy. I ask him why, and he simply says that now I can walk without the assistance of braces, and it is time for me to rejoin The Companions. I try to protest and tell him that is still terrifically painful to even move. Our little jaunt to his study has caused me to be bedridden again all morning. He simply shakes his head.
The shift is sudden. I know it has something to do with the fact that I’ve seen his secrets. I wonder if his father caught me with him. It doesn’t matter. I’m to be sent back with the others.
I beg him not to make me go.
“Edmon,” he says paternally, “you’ve already fought all three single-handedly—”
“They almost murdered me!” I protest.
“And you survived. You’ve nothing to fear. It’s they who should fear.” He stands.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re stronger than they are, and they know it.” He smiles. “Besides, if anyone ever took you from me, I would destroy them.”
I rejoin The Companions on the morrow. My hands shake from fear as I limp into Teacher Michio’s astrophysics class.
“Look who has come to join us,” Hanschen says slyly.
My whole body stiffens as I remember the edge of his steel breaking my skin.
“He looks stronger than a manta.” Perdiccus grins as he brushes a golden lock from his wild eyes.
I try to detect irony in his voice, but his enthusiasm seems genuine.
“If anything he’s showing orca pride,” Hanschen condescends.
“No,” Sigurd interrupts. I turn to the brawny boy who meets my gaze. A regrown pale eye has replaced the one I injured in our fight. “He’s a leviathan,” Sigurd says.
I gape. Sigurd, the most brutish bully I’ve ever known, is actually praising me? In spite of all he believes about his own race’s superiority?
“It’s good to have you back, brother.”
The high-pitched voice catches me off balance. Behind Sigurd, bright blue eyes framed by golden hair come into view. The square, open face of an eight-year-old boy breaks into a smile.
“Hello, Edgaard,” I say, my voice hollow.
My bones mend fully, and soon I can walk without a limp. I feel pain all the time, but I grit my teeth through it. I think to myself, If Phaestion can endure the Arms of Agony, I can endure this.
I join The Companions in their sparring sessions a year to the day of my arrival. I am not yet allowed to match since I am still recovering, so I watch from the sidelines.
Phaestion was right. Edgaard is a phenom. At eight, the boy moves with a speed that’s almost unnatural. His timing and balance are excellent. It’s also no wonder that he’s chosen the spear and shield as his weapons of choice.
Adopting our father’s signature . . . this is what a son should be, I think.
“Edmon, did you see?” Edgaard comes running up to me after winning first blood against Perdiccus. I try to ignore him and concentrate on the training automaton that jabs me with its mechanical barbs.
“It was a lucky shot, sluggo!” Perdiccus calls as he limps to watch my training, too.