The Brutal Way

  Verda 8, 1294:

  I am still being held in the internment facility. They have been teaching us many things about the workings of the world, as well as basics like literacy and mathematics. I fail to see why our knowledge of these things is important to them, but I can’t say that I mind; I love learning. In fact, I enjoy it enough that I can sometimes forget my troubles just by applying myself to my studies. Just two months ago, I could write no more than my own name: Lhinde. The other “students” are sometimes jealous, and they mock me or pick on me at times. I’ve made friends with a few of them, Kae, Borgha and Rue. But none of us cause a commotion about anything, because that brings down the punishment of the guards . . . which can be quite harsh.

  — From Lhinde’s Diary

  “All right, kid,” Musha said, popping his knuckles loudly. “Forget everything Zent told you. He’s too soft. We do things old school here.”

  We stood facing one another in the Iron Dojang, a large chamber two stories below main that was composed mostly of metal, my favorite thing in the universe. Also one of the softest. There was no padding in sight, not even on the floor. To one side of the room were weights, bricks and other training tools, most of them—you guessed it—made of metal. Even the lighting was harsh, coming from blue-white overhead lights that left a dozen shadows of my new trainer on the floor. Vents were installed in the floor and walls to allow free use of Geokinesis.

  Something about this place just gave me a bad feeling. A feeling that the old school way meant the brutal way.

  We were dressed in a traditional piece of clothing called a dobok, a simple, long-sleeved vestment belted over loose pants, used for training. I wore a youngling’s size.

  “Fighting stance!” Musha snapped, louder than I expected. My body moved almost of its own accord, snapping into the stance Zent had drilled into me.

  I glanced down briefly to check my foot spacing, and suddenly something slammed into my chest, something hard and heavy. Before my mind could register it, I was thrown off my feet, landing on my back and rolling until my feet came up over my head and reached the ground once more. I thought my neck would snap. Slowly, painfully, I rolled onto my side and got back up. Gasping for air, I focused on my ribcage just long enough to decide nothing was broken. I would—gah!—I would be fine. Musha was still in the same stance with which he’d punched me, one fist held out and opposite foot forward. As I watched, trying to ignore my pain and retake my stance, he moved backward into a neutral stance and gestured for me to step forward.

  I did, locking eyes with him and not letting go. I still didn’t know how he had crossed the three meters between us and struck in the time it took me to glance downward.

  With a shudder, I felt a second wave of pain slam into my chest. My abdominal muscles clenched viciously, stealing my breath, and the flesh where his fist had connected felt like it was trying to cave in, as though my breastbone were a gaping crack. But . . . no, it was . . . fine. Breathe! Breathe, Lyn, come on. Geothermic energy circulating in my body, the fiery pain slowly ebbed away, and I resumed breathing.

  “First rule,” the hulking man said. “Never take your eyes off your opponent. Surely Zent taught you that one.”

  I nodded with a wince, not breaking eye contact. I corrected my footing into the combat stance that Zent had taught me.

  Musha took up a fighting stance as well, beginning to circle me slowly. “How do you feel? If you don’t like your bones being smashed against solid steel, then pay attention and don’t mess up.”

  I nodded again.

  “And stop nodding! Just listen and do as I say.” With that, he began to run me through various simple training exercises, many of which I had already done with Zent out in the Craglands. Occasionally he would throw in difficult and unexpected commands, yelling at me and dealing out one of numerous punishments when I failed. If I was close to him, he would simply shove me down onto the metal floor or strike me with his powerful fists, though not as savagely as the first time. On other occasions, he would simply shout at me, voice reverberating through the training room, and make me do fifty pushups while he stood on my back or pullups with weights strapped to my waist. Whatever it was, I had to complete the torture in full, or he would come up with something worse. My body cursed me to my face, but it obeyed.

  I truly don’t think I understood the limits of the Hellebes body until that day, the beating that even I could bear. At one point, he called a short break to drink water and eat some bland energy bars. “Keep that Geothermic energy flowing strong while you rest,” he told me, “Otherwise your body will lose its strength and eating will replenish less energy. Also heals your injuries a bit, if you’re used to it.”

  Easy for him to say. I couldn’t even name all the places on my body that throbbed in pain. My head felt dizzy, and I think I’d have passed out if not for the steady stream of Geothermic energy I made sure to burn.

  After only about five minutes, he made me get up and start my training again. He went back to the basic stances and set me to breaking cinder blocks and even black iron. He showed me how to punch and kick straight, so that the bones aligned, using the first two knuckles of my fists and the ball or heel of my foot. And my shin. That was sheer pain. Musha taught me to always commit and never pull back, an easy lesson to learn when he screamed at me like a demon and held the threat of harsh punishment over my head.

  If there was a brutal way to teach me, so he did. That was the way.

  By the end of the day, my muscles were pushed to exhaustion and I had more of my body covered in bruises than not, some blue and purple from it. My fists were cracked and bleeding at the knuckles, dry from gripping weights, and felt like lead weights themselves. For four hours, I had burned planetary energy taken from the floor vent, siphoned from beneath the ocean itself.

  “Six o’clock sharp tomorrow,” Musha grated in his harsh voice as he closed the door to the Iron Dojang behind us. “We’ll start on basic hand-to-hand combat.”

  I felt my body groan. Not my mouth, lest he hit me again even outside of the dojang. Wordlessly, I left to find the showers. I’d go anywhere to get away from this madman, but my body needed something to relax a bit. Bddo had already shown me to my bunkroom earlier, and hopefully I could remember how to get to it in my present state.

  A few minutes and one elevator later, I stumbled into the locker room nearest my bunkroom with my new set of sleepwear and a towel in hand. I fumbled with my dobok, throwing it in a heap in my locker and heading for the shower at the back. A voice in my head mumbled something about modesty, but I paid it no mind. Only a few heads turned my way. What would I tell them anyway, to go use the men’s room?

  The showers were all situated along one wall with narrow dividers, with two or three Hellebes currently using them. I took the closest one and soon basked in the warmth, sinking down, curling up, hugging myself, whimpering quietly. I hurt so badly . . . Would I die from this pain? Was that possible? Surely that long run from the valley to the shelter hadn’t been this horrific. You’ll be okay, Lyn, I told myself over and over. You’ll make it through. You’ll make it. My numbed mind strayed back to Mani, replaying comforting scenes from my homeland, scenes of Nytaea, of my friends. Oh, not them. Not now. I’d replayed their deaths in my head so many times already, deaths I hadn’t personally seen but could easily imagine. I was past it.

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  Slowly, I stood up and began to rinse myself off. All the men were now gone. How long had I been there?

  When I was finally finished, I put on my sleeping clothes, loose and moderately soft. Better than I’d expected, plus the fit didn’t matter. I headed back to my bunkroom, where four of my seven bunkmates were already in bed. I headed straight for my bunk and climbed in, falling asleep almost immediately.

  The next day was more terror.

  Musha met me in the Iron Dojang at six o’clock, right on schedule. I made sure to get there a few minutes early, just in case. Sure enough, he was already there. Somehow, my body had healed miraculously fast: the benefits of Geothermic energy channeling. I still felt the lingering effects of his punishment, however.

  “Come on in,” he said, waving me inside as though we were about to sit down to some Nytaean Royal tea. And then more gruffly, “Let’s start warming up.” He ran me through some stretches and warmup exercises, and I got through the first half hour or so without messing up anything badly enough to merit punishment—for which my aching muscles were glad.

  Then we got down to combat training, just as promised.

  “The first and most basic weapon of a Hellebes,” he said, “is his fists. Yesterday, I unleashed a small amount of that power on you, and you probably thought you were going to die, huh? Well, the truth is it takes a lot more than that to kill a Hellebes, even a little string bean like you. The more I push your body’s limits, the more you’ll be able to push yourself when needed. Your body can take it.”

  I gulped.

  “Now, you’re probably wondering when we’re going to get to Geokinetic training, but we don’t even touch that here in the Iron Dojang. We’re training in the basics. I want you to be able to fight even when disconnected from the ground. On a sea ship, in a sky ship, even in a copper room where your Geokinesis has all been stripped away. For now, you need Geokinesis, so we’ve got access here. Now.” He put his hands up in a fighting stance. “Come at me.”

  I hesitated.

  “No hesitation! Now!” he roared.

  My body leapt into action, and I crossed the space between us, readying a punch.

  Musha swept me off my feet with a quick backhand fist, and I was down. My momentum threw me forward and to the left, but I caught myself with my hands and sprang back up into my stance.

  “You’re learning,” he said. “Always get back up immediately. Your attack was too slow. Again!”

  I came at him a second time, readying a kick. But Zent’s training paid off as I spotted a flicker in his eyes, a twitch in his hips, and I backed off.

  “Good,” he said. “I was about to block your leg and shove you on your back. Now defend!”

  He rushed at me, readying a punch with his right hand. I could see it coming, and I adjusted my stance and formed an X-block, taking his blow on my forearms. Still, I gritted my teeth at the pain. My arm wasn’t strong enough to take his blows.

  He backed off, and I lowered my guard, returning to a neutral defensive stance.

  “Come on, kid, what do you do if you can’t reliably block attacks? If your opponent is stronger? You’re thinking like a fool.”

  He was right. If he could move quickly, then so could I.

  He came in for another swing, and I read his movement, dodging to my right. But it was a feint, and his left fist lashed out, breaking through my guard and catching me on my right cheek. This time I did cry out in pain, as the blow knocked me all the way to the floor. The click of my teeth was less than pleasant, and I tasted blood. I didn’t catch myself, and my head smacked the steel floor despite my best efforts, eliciting a shuddering gasp. One shaky breath later, I stood back up, shaking off my dizziness. He was right. I was a Hellebes. I could tough this out, headache or no.

  “Don’t make a move unless it’s the right one,” he said. “Otherwise, there’s no use.”

  Next, he came in with a kick. I hopped backwards, and then dodged to the left as he swung with a left hook. He kept me dodging and weaving until finally he performed a quick combo and caught me in the chest, knocking me back. That same painful bruised spot from yesterday, directly between the ribs. I kept my footing this time, ignoring the fire in my ribcage. Breathe, Lyn, breathe. It had become my mantra.

  Musha went on like this, teaching me one step at a time to evade attacks, and eventually how to strike back. He didn’t dish out punishments anymore when I failed, he just kept putting my stamina and speed to the test through hands-on training, beating me up along the way. He taught me throws and holds and submissions, most of which involved me lying flat on my back and gasping for air at some point.

  I couldn’t have been gladder when noon rolled around and he let me go for lunch. We were to pick back up at four o’clock in the afternoon.

  Once more, I stumbled upstairs and, after changing into my new gillsuit—Hodge had found me one that fit all right—made my way to the mess hall where lunch was being served. As beat as I was, I was famished. I encountered Ccal and Jed in passing, hardly even acknowledging them in my state. After a hot meal—yes, an actual hot meal—I was feeling much, much better.

  After leaving the mess hall, I went to Hodge’s office to see about getting some adjustments made to my suit, as per Bddo’s helpful suggestion. My sleepwear, my training dobok, those were fine. But this . . . thing was just not going to cut it. If I ever got caught in a fight wearing my baggy gillsuit, I feared I would only trip myself. The suit itself relied on being skin tight, armored though it was on the chest area, and the breathable “gills” worked best if there was no room for wrinkles.

  Upon reaching the quartermaster’s office, I knocked on the door—loudly, as Bddo had—and was eventually greeted by the wide-eyed face of Hodge. “Hodge, I need you to fix my suit,” I said, before he could open his mouth to complain.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “You know what’s wrong with it! You gave it to me.” I sighed. “Look, I’m tired right now. It’s just too big, and I need someone to make some alterations.”

  He looked me up and down. “Yes, perhaps. And why are you asking me?”

  “Because you’re the quartermaster! You’re in charge of clothing!”

  “Providing it, yes, but not altering it.”

  “Yeah, but surely you’re good with . . . y’know, clothing machines and stuff.”

  Hodge paused. “I am, yes.”

  “Oh, and I need a wrist console, apparently.”

  Hodge pursed his lips, tilting his head to scratch at his frizzy mess of hair. With a long sigh, he opened the door wider. “Here. Come inside.”

  Surprised at the invitation, I followed him into the office and saw that it mostly consisted of storage for clothing and other equipment. It was sorted into aisles, with standard issue apparel here, accessories there, surplus items there, and so on. He led me over to the accessories aisle and rummaged through some boxes, finally coming up with a wrist console just like the ones worn by Zent and his men: A flexible screen affixed to a band meant to integrate seamlessly with the left sleeve of a gillsuit.

  “Here,” he said. “Try this on.” I did so, and he instructed me on how to put on the straps so that it fit snugly. “See? One size fits all,” he said, almost as if proving a point.

  I mean, it was the last notch on the adjustable band, but . . . yeah, it did fit. I wasn’t going to complain.

  I turned my arm, inspecting the device.

  “Don’t ask me how to use one,” he said defensively. “Ask one of the soldiers.” Then he brought me over to his desk, where he had all manner of tailor tools such as scissors, needles, thread spools, and a few larger machines. He even had some of them out, and seemed to be working on some sort of prototype . . . boot? I wasn’t sure.

  “So you do work on stuff here,” I said.

  “Not for you,” Hodge answered quickly. “It’s not my job. Plus, well . . . never mind.”

  “What?” I demanded.

  He looked me up and down with a bug-eyed stare. “You’re a female. Females are strange. Non-standard. I have just enough experience with female specs to know the differences are aggravating.”

  I laughed. As frustrating and lazy as he seemed to be, he was at least amusing. “What are you saying, then?”

  “Nothing. Like I said, it’s aggravating, and you are by extension. I won’t fix your clothes for you. But if you want . . . I can show you how. You can use anything you want here.”

  I stared at him. “Really?”

  “Yup.”

  I’d never heard anything so silly in my life, but it would do. I could get creative. I could be creative.

  ??