Salvation

He always felt mildly guilty whenever he studied their mentor too closely nowadays, drawing comparisons in his head. Despite hir considerable height, Dellian could never consider hir as strong as a body that size could (or should) be. Of course age played a part in that.

Out in the middle of the zone floor, Alexandre remained reasonably robust looking; though Dellian did wonder if the black V-neck referee’s shirt sie wore revealed maybe too much cleavage for someone with so many years behind hir. (Dorm rumor put hir at 180.) But Alexandre’s cinnamon-shaded skin was practically wrinkle-free, contrasting nicely with hir thick honey-blond hair, which was always cut in a severe bob ending level with hir chin. Wide gray eyes could express a great deal of sympathy, yet as Dellian had found on the many occasions his misbehavior had been discovered, they could also be stern. And this year Alexandre had decided to grow a thin beard. “Because it’s stylish,” sie told the kids, slightly defensively, when they asked and snickered. Dellian still wasn’t sure about that.

Alexandre caught his eye and gestured: Get into position.

The teams started to line up along the center of the floor, spacing themselves evenly, each taking a half, with the referees between them. Dellian and his cohort claimed his customary place in the middle of the Immerle team’s semicircle. Yirella was at his side, her two muncs flanking her. Girls only had two muncs each—why would they need more? Dellian craned his neck, giving the visiting team a fast appraisal, seeing which player’s cohort seemed tightest and most responsive.

“Their number eight,” Yirella said. “I remember him from last year. He’s good. Watch him.”

“Yeah,” Dellian muttered absently. He remembered number eight as well—remembered spinning tackles that sent him cartwheeling away from the hurdles, cursing as his opponent streaked away with the flagball.

Number eight was a thickset boy with brown hair oiled back over his skull. From a quarter of the way around the arena floor he gave Dellian a fast, dismissive look, calculated to insult; his munc cohort copied it perfectly.

Dellian’s fists closed in reflex.

“Mistake,” Yirella chided. “He’s goading you.”

A quick flush rose to Dellian’s cheeks. She was right, and he knew it. Too late to try to return an insult; number eight was no longer looking in his direction.

The Ansaru team’s three girls took their places in the command pens around the rim, walking across the floor with a grace Dellian envied; his own gait resembled a boulder leading an avalanche—no style, but it did get him places. However, he enjoyed their obvious disapproval as they registered Yirella remaining in the arena, wearing her protective bodysuit and an easy forty-five centimeters higher than the tallest boy. Teams were restricted to thirteen members, including tacticians, but there was nothing in the rules about one of the tacticians actually taking part. Yirella had won that argument a long time ago.

With a theatrical flourish, Alexandre and the Ansaru referee produced two flagballs each, holding them up high; the Immerle pair started flashing with a red light, while Ansaru’s were yellow.

Both teams grinned as they saw them.

“Two,” Dellian breathed in delight. Now that’s more like it. Until now, they’d always played one flagball. This was going to be a real test of skill and teamwork. He and the rest of the team put on their helmets, giving one another slightly nervous looks.

This was both the pain and the joy of being the first generation of binary humans to be birthed on Juloss. There wasn’t an older year to pass down the wisdom, like warning them the arena game rules would change. Dellian and his yearmates were always dropping hints to the younger years about how to handle themselves in games and tournaments. But they were the pioneers; everything they underwent in the estate’s training program was fresh and new. Sometimes it felt like an unfair burden—not that he’d ever admit that to Alexandre.

“A point will only be given when both flagballs are put through the goal,” Alexandre announced. “Winner is first to fifteen points.”

“Janc and Uret, play defense on one flagball,” Ellici’s voice announced in Dellian’s helmet comset. “Rello, you take the second.”

“Gotcha,” Rello announced greedily.

“Hable and Colian, go midblock on Rello’s flagball,” Tilliana said. “Let’s lure them in. Only intercept when they’re on final snatch flight.”

Dellian breathed out in relief. He’d been fearful the girls would assign him defense—again. He knew he was so much better at intercept.

“Ready one,” Alexandre said loudly.

Everyone tensed up. Dellian’s munc cohort clustered around him, holding hands to form a ring.

“Ready two?” the Ansaru referee asked.

Ansaru’s boys yelled: “Yeah!” Dellian and his team let loose their signature call—a hooted warble they’d developed over the last couple of years, which to their ears sounded magnificently savage.