Ren went back to staring at the surface. Osrea grunted something over a mouthful of uncooked food.
Kol merely nodded.
When Nalek turned his disappointed gaze toward me, I shrugged. “Sorry, big guy. Not everyone is
thrilled about the idea of going into training tomorrow.”
“Danea is. I left her still arguing with the healer about discharging her so she could continue on.” Nalek
seemed mystified by our group depression. “Have we not met every challenge with courage thus far? Are
we not united in our convictions?”
I went over and patted his shoulder. “We’re working on it; we’re working on it.”
Os put down his server of uncooked glop. “I will enter training willingly if you convince Galena to return
to Joren.”
Kol eyed me. “Sajora can return with her.”
“Danea will be hard to convince, but perhaps I can persuade her to accompany Galena and Jory as their
protector for the journey home,” Nalek said, his expression fading from exuberant to thoughtful.
I nearly choked on my tea. “Excuse me? You want us to go back because we’re female?” Kol and
Nalek gave each other sideways looks. “Oh, give me a break. Like anyone on Joren is going to welcome
us back with open arms. They probably threw one of their ClanParties as soon as we left.” I studied their
expressions. “You’re serious about this. You think because we’re women we can’t make it through this
training? What happened to the famous nonexistent gender bias of the wonderful Jorenian people?”
Ren offered the logical arguments, naturally. “Galena’s physical strength is limited. You have a substantial
disability. Danea remains weak from her ordeal.”
“Feeble little Galena was the one who got us out of Uzlac’s prison chamber, remember? Danea doesn’t
even need blades—she can jolt the daylights out of anyone who gets in her face. As for my disability, it
didn’t prevent me from beating Kol in a warrior’s quad on Joren.”
Kol scowled. “You tricked me.”
“Still worked, didn’t it?” I planted my hands on my hips. “All right, cut it out, you guys. We’re in this
together. Either we all go into training, or we all leave. Since I’m the only female here, I’ll vote for all three
of us. Birdie, Sparky and I are staying.”
“I will stay,” Nalek said.
Osrea grumbled something that sounded like a “Me too.”
Renor didn’t turn around. “You are my HouseClan. I stand with you.”
Kol gave me the once-over, then nodded.
“Great.” How many more times were we going to do this? I figured on a couple of million. “Let’s get
some sleep while we still can.”
A day later we stumbled into our newly assigned quarters, more dead than alive. None of us stopped
moving until Sparky tested the floor. One of the first things we had learned about the Tåna was that they
kept you moving—or else.
“They spoke the truth. This floor is not charged,” she said in a low, rasping voice.
“Good.” Since there were no berths, only a couple of thin mats on the floor, I fell on the first one I got to
with a thump. My bruised, abused body screeched in protest, but I was too exhausted to care what
damage I’d done. “See you in four hours.”
I couldn’t sleep at first—I hurt that much—and I had a lot to think about. Like everything that had
happened since we’d left the infirmary earlier that day.
Dursano had collected us at our quarters, distributed our holographite blades, and instructed us to carry
them in osu-tån form at all times. Evidently it was some kind of dancer tradition—if you lost one blade in
a fight, you’d still have a backup. The entrance to the second level of the Tåna, at the end of the corridor
outside the infirmary, opened into yet another a long, featureless hall.
Before we entered, he held up one hand.
“Blade dancers know two fundamental truths. The first is that they will die. The second is to live each
moment as if death awaits them in the next.” He looked at each of us before adding, “Do not enter unless
For a welcoming oration, that was pretty profound. So much so that it rendered us all speechless, which
was the point, I suppose.
Then came the beginning of all the fun stuff.
Nalek was the first to discover we couldn’t stand in one place for longer than five seconds. He did that
by dropping the white student band he was carrying, and bending to pick it up. Then he yelped and
jumped. I’d never seen a guy his size jump that high.
We all stopped. Dursano and the instructor did not.
“The floor!” He stared at it, aghast. “It shocked me!” Then he jumped again, and so did the rest of us, as
a biocharge jolted up through the soles of our feet.
“Keep moving,” Dursano called back without looking.
I caught up with him. “This place has electrified floors?”
“Yes. Contact with any common area floor surface outside your student quarters for more than five
seconds produces a minor shock.”
“What is a common area?” Kol demanded.
Dursano made an encompassing gesture. “All of the corridors, and any area where students might
otherwise loiter. All common areas are clearly marked.” He pointed to a thin red line I hadn’t noticed
before on both sides of the floor.
“How nice.” I snorted. “And what happens after the first jolt?”
“Continued contact causes more serious charges, until the offending student is rendered unconscious and
demoted to the next lower level of training.”
In our case, that was the dimensional prison cell. Or did they do something worse when you flunked out?
“You consider people standing in one place a bad thing?”
“For a blade dancer, it can be fatal.”
Our tour of the Tåna’s second level went on. The empty connecting corridor opened out into a wide
training floor filled with students dressed in black garments identical to our own. Unlike dimsilk, the
clothes clearly displayed body outlines, and underscored how many different species there
were—everything from humanoid to insectile, reptilian to aquatic.
“This reminds me of the zoological exhibit in Lno,” Osrea muttered.
I smiled. “They probably think the same thing about our little group.”
Some of the students were sparring in pairs, but most were gathered around an elevated quad, where
two figures were fighting in earnest. No red lines on the floor here, so watching matches obviously wasn’t
considered loitering.
“Level two training begins here, with instruction in movement.” Dursano indicated the first of seven door
panels lining the walls around the main floor. “You will also receive instruction in targeting, grappling,
timing, stealth, and escape. Once you have mastered these basic techniques, you will begin
bladework”—he pointed to the last, center panel—“and fight other students in quad training. I will
introduce you to your trainers now. Come.”
Dursano led us to the first door panel and opened it. Inside, a metallic drone occupied the center of the
room, while a group of students moved around it. Feeling a bit paranoid, I checked out the floor, but saw
no red lines.
The drone had been mounted on a revolving platform, and its many discharge ports were shooting out
thin pulse beams at random an
gles. The students were apparently trying to dodge the beams.
Dursano stepped in and called out, “Halt exercise.”
The drone’s ports stopped firing, and the students formed a perfect circle around the platform.
The drone dismounted the platform and folded its elongated limbs into a more compact shape. “How
may I assist you, Inductor?”
“I bring new additions for the roster.” Dursano named each of us, and had us speak to the drone so our
tone patterns could be recorded for future reference. “They will voiceprint for the other trainers, then
return to begin.”
“Acknowledged.”
When we left the class, Danea stepped in front of Dursano. “Why must we train with drones? Have you
no real instructors here?”
“You are only worthy of drone trainers now,” he said. “If and when you assimilate the proper skills
worthy of advancement, you will move to the final level of training, where you will be trained by members
of the order.”
We moved on to the next class, which was unoccupied, and repeated the process. The drone trainer in
this room was similar in design to the previous one, but had shorter limbs and wheeled around the floor
instead of occupying a central platform. The third trainer had a complex array of artificial limbs and
appendages, all geared toward demonstrating a wide variety of grappling techniques, while the timing
trainer was a tiny, incredibly fast hoverdrone that darted through the air.
The last two classes—stealth and escape—were held in automated dimensional simulators. For these, we
each submitted to a retinal print and the programming panel.
“Your trainers will direct you to the appropriate class, communal areas for meal intervals, and dismiss you
to your quarters at the end of each training rotation. You will not deviate from this schedule.” Dursano led
us back to the movement trainer’s room. “Enter and begin.”
From there things went straight to hell.
In the movement class, we were grouped with another ten students and instructed to gather around the
center platform in a circle. The drone trainer gave us a brief set of instructions.
“In this period, you will be taught how to move, to counter attacks, and to avoid injury. My portal beams
are programmed to deliver neural shocks, impact contusions, or dermal cell burns. Intensity and duration
increase with successive hits. Your sole objective is to avoid the beams.” The drone mounted the
platform and settled itself into place. “The session begins.”
The first series of beams shot out of the portals, but they were widely spaced and simple to avoid. I
began to wonder if this was really worth my time when the drone spoke again.
“When encountering your target, assume they are armed with an energy weapon.” A fierce volley of
concentrated beams erupted, like weapon fire, in clustered bursts. None of us were hit, but only by sheer
luck. “Assume others in the vicinity are also armed, and sympathetic to your target.”
I heard something hiss behind me, and whirled in time to see a wall panel open and more portals appear.
“Kol!”
He whipped his head around, then swept a hand toward the floor. “Down.”
All of us dropped to the floor except Osrea, who crouched over and yelped as one of the wall portal
beams struck him in the back. “Mother, what—”
“Move.” Kol rolled to his feet and pushed him forward.
Beams were shooting everywhere by then, and I grabbed Kol’s arm to pull him out of the path of one.
“Pair up,” I said to the others. “One watches the walls, the other the drone.”
We managed to avoid most of the beams that way, but nearly all of us were hit once before the session
was over. When the last of the beams faded, the drone dismounted the platform, directed us to stop and
form a circle, and then divided us into three groups. All of us except Renor.
“Had this been an actual encounter, you,” it said, indicating the largest group, which included Galena and
Osrea, “would all be dead. You”—it turned to the second, which Nalek and Danea had been placed
in—“would be seriously injured and unable to escape. You,” it said to me, Kol, and two other students,
“would have minor injuries, which may leave trace DNA evidence at the scene.”
The drone then went to Renor. “According to the attack grid, you should be dead. However, I read no
indication of any beams making contact with you.” It paced around him. “Had your derma reflected the
beams, the feedback would register, and they would still count as hits. I am unable to classify or rate your
performance.”
Renor only stood there and said nothing.
“You are dismissed to targeting instruction.”
As we walked out, I noticed Danea giving Renor a hard look, and wondered just how powerful
Plas-Face’s telekinetic gift was.
Targeting class made dodging beams look like a walk in the park. We were each issued white,
tunic-styled overgarments by the trainer and told to put them on. The problem was, there were no
sleeves in them, and the effect was like shrugging into a straitjacket.
“These are binding shirts. In this session, you will not be permitted to use your arms.”
“Why not?” asked Os, who looked like an octopus with the ends of his multiple limbs sticking out of the
shirt.
“You will learn how to target by becoming targets yourselves.” The trainer turned to admit a group of
other students, all carrying their tåns in the raen, or long sword, form. “These students are attackers, and
will pair off with each of you. Your objective is simple—avoid their weapons.”
I had almost fallen asleep when I sensed a small form hovering over me. It was Galena, holding one of
her winglets.
“Jory?” She knelt down and turned a little. “Your pardon, I did not wish to disturb you, but I feel as if I
am torn here. See you anything that is bleeding?”
I rolled onto my side and peered at her back. The thin cord of tissue along the top edge of her wing was
twitching and knotting.
“Cramps,” I said, and sat up to deal with it. I rubbed firmly, ignoring her gasps as I worked the strained
muscles. “You did pretty good in targeting today.”
“You mean I can run fast.” She sounded wry. “How is your cheek?”
“It hurts.” I’d gotten a sizable bruise during grappling class, when the drone trainer and I had gone
one-on-one. I was more concerned with the abnormal way she was holding her winglets. “Birdie, are you
doing this on purpose? Bending them in like this?”
“It is how I have always held them.”
“No wonder you’re cramping. Here.” I gently stretched out the ligaments, but she resisted. “Stop trying to
flatten them against your back. Let them arch naturally.”
She did, and sighed. “You are right; that is better.”
“I don’t know why you’re still trying to fold yourself up like that.” I looked around at our exhausted
companions. “Everyone already knows about your wings, sweetheart.”
“I saw others like me—avatars—today.” She bit her bottom lip. “There were a whole group of them
flying in the simulator classes.”
I thought of the mud swamp we’d trained in. “You could see in all that muck they made us wade
through?”
“I cannot help watching the skyline.”
Why would she be worried about ot
her bird-people? “Maybe they were part of the program.”
She shook her head. “They were real. I saw a pair of them walk out. They looked at me.” She
swallowed. “They will ridicule me, will they not? When they find out I do not know how to fly?”
We’d all gotten a hefty dose of ridicule and scorn from the other, more experienced second-level
trainees. Most of them stared and laughed at us as we stumbled through the classes, but a few had made
aggressive moves against us, particularly us females. As we went from one class to another, they
pretended to accidentally bump into us, brushing against us from behind and muttering suggestive
propositions. Birdie had pretended not to notice, but I’d shoved them away and told them out loud what
they could do with their various sexual organs—or what I could, if they kept it up.
Danea hadn’t been obliged to do anything. A single contact was enough for everyone who tried to mess
with her.
“Galena.” I nudged her chin up. “You’ve got some feathers to grow back before you try out these wings,