“Drop zone window closing,” the pilot’s voice reverberates.
If I don’t jump now, I won’t ever. The thought hits me. Maybe I shouldn’t. I’ve made a choice to follow my heart, to follow music. What does it matter if I don’t play their games? I step away from the door, but the dirigible banks, and I lose my footing. I stumble out of the bay and tumble into twilight.
End over end, I flip as I fall. Cityscape alternates with sky. I struggle to right myself. The altimeter readout on my windshield scrolls furiously. I click my heels, bring my arms to my sides, and dive to the surface like a missile. Hooks spring from the sides of my armor and clasp my wrists. I spread my arms and tuck my chin, and a pair of mantalike wings deploy. The spider silk catches the air.
I’m a feather on the current, the skyline of Meridian stretched out before me. The world at this height seems still and beautiful. The red eye of the sun is to my left, the blackness of night to my right. A veil of stars waits there framed by the slivers of the moons, beckoning me, but the beacon in my windshield flashes. I bank left at its indication. The data card’s homing device calls my armor like a pulse in my nervous system. The others must feel the same pull. Thoughts of quitting sift to the back of my brain. I circle to slow my descent, floating into the mist between two scrapers.
The buildings here are run down and dirt covered, the glass of their windowpanes shattered and broken. The ground gapes open, revealing the massive cylindrical shaft of an arcology. I descend into the darkness of this enormous vertical tunnel dug into the crust of the planet. Within the outer edge of the arco tube are the hundreds of levels of residences, storefronts, and power centers for the self-contained mini-city. Lights from the upper residential district glitter and fade as I fall into the lower industrial levels.
I swoop onto a landing pad that juts out from the side of the massive cylinder. The pavement comes zooming up at me, and I pull my arms and legs wide to hover. My feet hit; I drop and roll and come up in a crouched position. There’s broken glass everywhere, chunks of building strewn here and there. I walk from the platform through a doorway into the heart of the arco.
A hallway leads to a run-down interior courtyard. Synthetic green turf and fabricated trees line the avenues. It feels close and oppressive, everything packed tightly into a kilometer of thickness. Flickering fireglobes illuminate walls slick with moss and condensation. Graffiti slathers their surfaces in swaths of electric pink and blue. There’s not a soul in sight.
I’ve never been on the streets of Meridian before, let alone an arcology. This level of dilapidation is utterly foreign to me. It’s almost like being in another world. Supposedly, my father grew up on streets like this.
The beacon display on my windshield lights up again, revealing that I’m maybe a kilometer from the target. I’m heading in that direction when I hear a shuffle behind me. A man, scraggly, thin, in a grayish jumpsuit looks at me with pale, hungry eyes. His dirty beard and hair splays out wildly.
I raise my hand in greeting, but he hobbles away, alarmed by my presence.
“Wait!” I call out.
I would have thought this place was uninhabited . . .
Voices sound behind me. I turn again. Several of the Julii Academy students decked out in black armor, carrying pikes, sprint toward me.
The “soldiers” sent to stop The Companions. Five, maybe more on their way.
I ready myself.
Fifty meters away, they stop short, recognizing me. I realize that they aren’t running toward me. No, they’re running away from something else. Spotting me has only confused them. They turn to look behind them, and I see what they’ve been running from—a mob with pipes, broken bottles, and pieces of shrapnel in their hands. Several other academy students are being beaten and kicked before the mob as they try to scurry away.
What by the twisted star is happening?
The academy soldiers hesitate, unsure if they should attack me or simply escape the mob. Then their heads tilt.
Someone is giving them audio directives.
They ready their pikes toward me. I surmise they’ve been told their mission to stop me is more important.
Phaestion. I grit my teeth. They run at me, full tilt. I can’t lose. I won’t lose.
I sidestep the first thrust of a pike with ease. I grab the shaft as it passes. I yank it, using the soldier’s own momentum against him. He crashes to the ground, his helmet scraping against the pavement. I twirl the pike in my hand, making it look good for the camglobes and bring the butt end down in a sharp blow to the back of his helm. Crack! One out cold.
I swing the pike up to parry a blow from another soldier. A swift kick to his gut sends him sprawling. Two.
The next opponent swings his pike. I thumb the retractor on my own, shortening its length. I close the distance between us. His spear’s unwieldy at short range. I bring the baton up under his chin, smashing him. Three down.
I’m grabbed from behind. I whip my head back, cracking my attacker’s faceplate. He reels. I grab his arm and toss him over my hip in a classic grappling throw. Four.
I turn to face my final assailant. He raises his hands to surrender. A camglobe records us.
I’ve won! The grueling days of learning to walk again, returning to the gym with The Companions, the blood, sweat, and tears, have all led to this. I am now a warrior.
Or so I think . . .
The boy in front of me is shaking. I’m yanked from my moment of self-praise to feel pity for him and, worse, fear.
He’ll be punished by his instructors if he surrenders, I realize.
“Attack me,” I whisper. It’s probably already too late, but I try anyway. “I’ll make it look good, okay?”
He shakes his head.
The mob closes the distance between us. The single camglobe is joined by several others now, all floating near my head. The beacon for the data card flashes with an incessant pulse. Blood pounds in my neck from the exertion and adrenaline of the fight. The mob shouts and steps closer, the unruly citizens brandishing their “weapons.”
Why are there people here at all? Why are they ready to fight?
I thumb the trigger on the baton, and it lengthens back into a pike.
“Edmon?” Phaestion’s voice blares in my ear. “What’s happening out there? This wasn’t part of the scenario!”
No kidding!
“Edmon?” he shouts again, so I rip the helmet off to silence the noise.
The mob slows and halts. A hush runs through their ranks as we face one another. Neither of us makes a move.
“It’s Edmon Leontes!” someone from the crowd shouts.
“He’s one of them!” says another.
“No!” shouts a third voice. “He’s never been one of them!”