Chapter 24 - Jericho
Psychosomatic Output: 1,044 Bio-Units
Synaptic Rank: Unbound
Laying in his hammock, in a strange facility on a strange world, Jericho thought of his Father. The prized engineer of Kleth’altho. The friend of the HWNDs. The man who walked with Hokkonians.
As a child, Jericho didn’t think it was weird that his father was friends with them. Sure he understood that it was unusual, but as a little kid, unusual only meant cool. So when onlookers would whisper with each other, point, and mutter cruel things, Jericho couldn’t understand why. He would cry to his father, and the man would hug him, and sooth him with quiet words.
“They’re just jealous, Icho.” He would say with a soft smile, “Don’t ever worry about what other people say about you.”
Jericho would sniff, rub his eyes, and promise that he never would. All the while the Hokkonian would stand there. Watching and waiting.
Always watching. Always waiting.
It got to the point where Jericho couldn’t remember being alone with his father. The alien was like an overgrown shadow.
To try and dissipate the growing sense of weirdness, Jericho tried talking to the hulking beast. Most of the time he was ignored, and if the alien did acknowledge him, it was with a bnd look.
His father’s shadow was utterly impassive. A creature with the emotional capacity of a boulder. It only made the weirdness grow. The public’s whisperings grew louder, until Jericho couldn’t help but listen. He didn’t want to walk with his dad anymore, not if the Hokkonian was going to be around.
One day he whispered these thoughts to his father, as quietly as he could. He had expected anger, but the man just regarded him with a sad look.
“I’m sorry, Icho, I know none of this makes any sense to you. But what I’m working on is going to make a real difference.” He pulled him into a hug and whisper in his ear, “Like everyone else in the gaxy, these guys are just a little misunderstood and misguided.”
As a kid, he wasn’t sure he understood what his father had meant. Not until his mother had snatched him from the shadows of a narrow tunnel leading to the marketpce.
His mother who he hadn’t seen in years. He remembered her smell the most, like rotting fruit. He had screamed but she cmped a dirty hand over his mouth.
She dragged him down the tunnel, and he heard his father’s panicked shout, “Balthos!”
Just as the chaos of the marketpce was fading, and his mother was dragging him into oblivion, a figure appeared in the tunnel. Massive and imposing. An impassive expression half hidden in the shadows.
His father’s shadow.
He didn’t remember what happened next, but he was freed from his mother’s cw-like grip. His father had dragged him back to the marketpce and wrapped him in a bone-crushing embrace.
Jericho sobbed into his chest. “Mommy was so scary, what’s wrong with her?”
His father pced two hands on his shoulders and stared at him with a serious expression. “Listen to me, Icho, your mother is very sick. You must never go near her.”
“Is she going to hurt me?”
The man had sighed, “I think so buddy, if you ever see her, you tell me right away. Do you understand?”
A sniveling Jericho had nodded and held his father’s hand as they hurried through the network of tunnels that made up Kleth’altho’s cities.
A month ter, the man vanished without a trace.
He could still remember the look of greed on his mother’s face when she found him, crying in his now-empty home. The paralyzing fear he felt when her scabbed hand closed around his. The stench of her breath when she would whisper in his ear.
“Your father didn’t even want you, what makes you think I do?”
“You’re worthless, not even enough to buy me some good torpe.”
“What am I going to do with you? You’re nothing.”
Yet every time he would try and run away, she would snatch his ear and twist it until he was sure it would rip from his head. She would cackle at his tears and scream in his face that he was ungrateful for everything she had done for him. Then she sold him for a pouch of torpe, just enough for a few hours of numbing bliss.
“I’m not worthless.” He muttered.
“I didn’t say you were,” Randrea said from the doorway.
He jerked in the hammock and lifted his head past the woven fabric to see her leaning against the entrance. His eyes drifted to the accentuated curves of her body. Unfortunate for his focus, she was still wearing the crop top.
“Hey! Sorry, uh- What are you doing here? How long have you been standing there.” He stammered.
She looked unimpressed, “Just got here. I did knock a few times, even called your name. Do your ears work?”
He rubbed his eyes with both hands and groaned, “Sorry I was just lost in my own thoughts, I didn’t hear you.”
There was something off about her expression. She looked annoyed, frustrated even. He wanted to ask what was wrong, but he didn’t dare overstep. He liked her, but two days ago she had threatened to kill him.
She snorted, “Maybe the crown messed with your ears. Let’s go, I was sent here to get you.”
“I- wait!” He squirmed and struggled to get out of the hammock, eventually dumping himself onto the floor in a graceless heap. “Where are we going?”
You’re making a fool of yourself, dummy!
The Hokkonian made a poor attempt at hiding a mocking smile and jerked her head towards the door. “The arena, for training.”
Jericho stood up and smoothed out his clothes, “More?”
“There’s always more. She turned to leave, her footsteps echoing in the hall as she walked away.
He jogged after her, adjusting his formfitting training uniform as he did so. He tried to gather some information when he caught up, but she was intentionally vague. She barely looked at him and there was a stiffness in her shoulders as they talked. Despite her sudden abrasiveness, he was able to discern a few things.
First, Arthros didn’t believe in following standard training procedure. That wasn’t a surprise, but it meant that there wasn’t any structure, no step-by-step process that led to a final examination. You either passed or failed Arthros’ imaginary parameters.
Second, for a strange reason Jericho’s training was being rushed. It wasn’t an official statement, but the other pilots were starting to notice. Arthros was acting weird. Randrea didn’t come out and say it, but the tone of her voice said enough.
Last and most important of all, the next stage of Jericho’s training involved sparring. Finally, something that he was good at.
When they reached the arena Graito, Sto'ram, and Arthros were standing in the center.
“How are you feeling?” Arthros said in a low voice.
The uncharacteristic concern was a pleasant surprise, “I’m feeling good, ready to spar.”
Arthros’ gaze flicked to Randrea, and she rolled her eyes. It was subtle act of rebellion, and it added to Jericho’s suspicions that something was going on. Judging by awkward tension in the others, they were upset too.
Jericho frowned, “That is what we’re doing, right? Sparring?”
Arthros’ face was an impassive mask. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
What is that supposed to mean?
There was a malicious grin on Graito’s face, and a glint of excitement in Sto'ram’s pupilless eyes. He looked at Randrea but she refused to meet his gaze.
“I’m ready,” He nodded.
Arthros blinked, “Graito.”
The Myrd swaggered up to him with the crown in his hands. There was a sinking feeling in his gut, and dread seeped into his bones at the thought of fighting the pressure again.
Graito handed him the crown and snickered, “Good luck, she’s the worst fighter in the division.”
The worst fighter? He stepped away to reveal Sto'ram crouching in a battle-ready stance. In her hands was a long quarterstaff, capped by bck steel on either end. The tendrils from her temple writhed with an angry energy and the gills on her neck fred.
“Put on the crown, Jericho, we’ll start the session when you’re ready,” Arthros commanded.
With a regretful grimace, he pced the crown on his head. He motioned for the crown to activate and in an instant the familiar neurological weight returned. It forced him to his knees but this time the pressure didn’t feel as bad, lighter in a sense.
Or maybe he was just getting stronger.
He dispatched the pressure with practiced efficiency, dividing the neurological onsught between him and his AI. He rose from his kneeling position and ughed at how effortless it was becoming.
Sure, his vision was a little blurry, and his other sense felt off, but he was getting significantly better. He gave the onlookers a sloppy grin.
Arthros didn’t acknowledge his effort and watched him with a cool eye. “Are you ready?”
The words sounded like they came from a great distance away. Jericho tried to focus on the commander, but there was a weighted bnket covering his brain, everything seemed a little duller.
“I’m ready,” The words dribbled from his mouth and Sto'ram attacked.
A violent swing of the quarterstaff nearly took his head off, but he ducked just in time and the air above his hair whistled. He tried to move fast, but it was useless; he could barely manage an awkward shuffle.
“I don’t get a weapon?” Is what he tried to say, but the words came out a slurred mumble.
He tried to leap backward but fell hard on his rear. It was enough to save the side of his head. The next attack came even faster, and it struck him on the shoulder when he tried to roll away.
He screamed out in pain as the force of the blow tore into his rotator cuff, throwing chunks of flesh and bits of bone onto the floor. The power behind the attack nearly lifted him off the ground, and it sent him sprawling on the hard floor.
He couldn’t fight like this; the crown inhibited every electrical signal his brain tried pump into his muscles. The only reason he was alive was because of the instincts that had been ingrained into his body from a young age.
He needed the guidance of the thread, but all he could imagine was his mother’s scabbed hands wrapping around his neck.
He shouted in pain and anger as he rolled over onto his back, his injured arm lying limp on the floor. Sto'ram struck again, and he shed out his foot just in time to parry. The kick sent pins and needles down the length of his leg, but it was enough to send the staff bouncing back.
The stunned look on Sto'ram’s face was all the motivation he needed, and his vision cleared a little. Tied around his ankle was the ethereal thread, beckoning him to follow.
He obeyed.
Before the staff could collide with his head, he kicked out again. His boot connected hard on her bck-scaled chest and he heard the familiar crack of broken bones.
It wasn’t enough to stop the quarterstaff from smming down into his head. For a moment his vision swam and darkened, but he could see Sto'ram’s struggling shape as she wheezed for breath.
He could smell his mother’s rotten breath as she whispered cruel nothings in his ear.
He lunged onto his feet, but the sudden movement made him dizzy. Don’t stop.
Sto'ram was wheezing, her webbed hand clutching at her broken ribs. She gred at him, and the tendrils writhed angrily from her temple. She readied her quarterstaff for another strike.
He would have to attack first, slip inside the range of the quarterstaff and strike up close. He took a single step forward, vomited, and passed out.
***
Arthros
Psychosomatic Output: 10,000 Bio-Units
Synaptic Rank: Unbound
Vomit spshed onto the floor, and Sto'ram stumbled away to avoid the puddle of filth. Arthros kept his gaze fixed on the human, and he willed him to take another step.
Jericho did not.
The human crumpled into his own bile. Sto'ram blinked her pupil-less eyes and turned to face Arthros. The twin’s encouraging cheers fell silent, a faint snicker came from Graito.
“He’s dead.” Sto'ram said, not bothering to hide contemptuous pride in her voice.
Arthros maintained impassive expression. He heard Randrea mutter a curse under her breath, and caught an uncharacteristic look of distress on her face.
“Take him to the physician.” He commanded.
No one moved. He looked around at the group, no one dared to look him in the eyes.
“He’s dead Commander, look at his skull,” Graito sneered.
Jericho’s head was split open in a gruesome fracture. Blood and other fluid leaked from the wound and mixed with the vomit.
“He’s not.” Arthros insisted, “It will take more than that to kill him.”
More silence. More doubt.
“Commander,” Sto'ram said hesitantly, “He’s gone. I’ve studied human physiology, if he’s not dead now, he will be soon.”
“Then I guess you’re running out time,” He growled.
For a moment his expressionless mask slipped, and his features contorted with rage. He felt the muscles in his neck tense as he fought to maintain his composure.
It was too te; the others caught his look of fury. Randrea and Graito stepped back. Sto'ram looked scared.
He couldn’t be dead, not yet. He tried to listen for the human’s heartbeat, but his own blood was pumping so furiously it drowned everything else out.
The others were staring at him, wide eyed and unsure. Their hesitation only fueled his frustration.
“Go, now!” He bellowed.
There was no further argument. Randrea ignored the foul puddle that Jericho was soaking in and gently picked him up. He watched them take the body away, and for a long moment he stood in the arena thinking.
By all facts of the matter, Jericho should be dead, but he knew in his gut that the human would live Jericho possessed a determination so viciously stalwart, it was like nothing he had ever seen. The indomitable human spirit.
He stared at the pool of blood and filth, and his rage vanished into smoke, like a snuffed candle.
Arthros smiled.
