13'Sao-La
A plain door admitted one at a time to this building, the one specified out of many rows, all stark
and pastel, all oversized like tabernacle tents. Places of torment and fear, tabernacles. They
also brewed a left-behind loyalty that still guilt-gashed his heart. He nudged the door open with
a foot.
People's voices bubbled out at him as if a congregation, benedicted and released, were swarming
inside. 13'Sao-La spurned the sound and the memories it pricked open. He closed himself against
whomever and pushed inside as he'd been ordered to.
Square windows glared from one side of the single large room. Dust flecked their glass like tracks
of shit-footed spiders. A couple of tall, deep windows holed another side. Cobwebs gray-tangled
their recesses. Streaks of dirt, snips of plastic, twists of paper, and other working debris
murked the rough floor.
Nothing like the arenas he'd reported to for years. How could his Rollkeeper send him here?
Familiar cadences badgered his ignore. He yielded to them ...
Tlaxtli practice rejoiced between the corrugated walls! Spin-gauntlet, Rolling-pyramid,
Flurry-volley, Three-high-joust, and five more forms from the Kata-for-Waiting! Other ollomani
darted among these cooperative exercises; they hotfooted three concurrent rounds of Dodge-tag.
The clench between 13'Sao-La's shoulder blades eased — such a blue-funked qi-che ride among the
Voiceless to here. The ribs healing over his heart gave up their ache. The active-cast cradling
them chafed no more. He stood arrived in the League again — where he knew, and tabulated,
everyone's heart. And where all faced out at an outrageous world together, alongside, shouldered,
with him.
All garbed for practice: tight bands swathed groins and where necessary, breasts. Instanter,
13'Sao-La stripped off his travel clothes. His skin prickled with freedom. His various scabs
echoed with itching. He jammed t-shirt, jeans, and sandals into his kit.
He prowled along a wall, graphing the room. He counted the ollomani: six, twelve, twenty-one. He
allotted them routinely as crystal Ally, barbed Enemy, or muddy Unknown. At twenty-seven — three
Allies, six Enemies, and too many disgust-full Unknowns — he snorted with renewed stress. He
tallied again, with rigor, with the same ending. Once more, sinews twitched in his shoulders and
his teeth gritted.
Daily, 13'Sao-La tended his lists of Allies and Enemies. Practice with forty-one rostered ollomani
comprising "Mapilca." Mapilca his team now, Yaxchilá before, Izapa before, Copán before, all
spanning four years. Rejudge these players, juggle his indexes, mostly snare and snarl and
compound faults for each Enemy, gladly prod Ally into Enemy, lastly begrudge promotion from Enemy
to maybe Ally. Arrived today, he expected such routine, but too many other-rostered ollomani mixed
in here. Too many Unknowns, too much mud in sight.
Third-Days, he reveled in the Kata-for-Tourney. Dawn found him briefed and assigned to a new
triad. Full light pitted unpracticed Mapilca threesomes against Unknowns from another roster,
different each time. Fresh chance to levy his roster-mates, new Unknowns to condemn as Enemies.
Did today mean a new kind of tournament? More dross for his lists?
13'Sao-La used simple rules. An Ally victored with him, unwrapped tricks for him, or labored an
arena chore alongside him. An Ally didn't go to gloat after driving defeat over him. An Ally
didn't fall to whining when he drove defeat. An Ally never teased, sneered, or called him
"kid" in from-USA or any other language. An Ally spoke crystal, true and friendly. He found few
Allies. He kept even fewer.
His many Enemies failed him in these and other ways.
Of course, 13'Sao-La did not judge Governors, the only other people he knew. How could he reckon
Ones with so much to teach, so much presence, so much authority?
An olli flashed past him. Not in play, he ignored it. He wasn't visible to Dodge-tag until the
Timekeeper clocked this Interval; jumping in mid-game was not allowed anywhere in the League. The
hard-rubber ball ricocheted. An Unknown lunged through a Spin-gauntlet, whacked the half-kilo ball
with his wrist pachcab. It rocketed away.
But everywhere else in a true arena — practice, labor for care and repair, roster chow, pleasure
and sleep in bunkrooms — 13'Sao-La drove to fathom every face, Ally or Enemy. Unknowns could not
be trusted. Unknowns took too much of his attention, mind that should be spent improving his
game. Unknowns sullied his world. Unknowns vexed him.
He didn't count limbo times, when he slept gong-she, mixing with the Voiceless on his separate way
to the next tournament.
Now 13'Sao-La drove for a full tally. Face, posture, gesture, gait, or voice triggered whatever
past he shared with each man, each woman. Thirty-six, forty-two, fifty-four — still too many
drawing blanks. Sixty-three, sixty-six — his back cracked with tension. Seventy-two, eighty-one
— his bruised ribs flared; his scabs demanded scratch. Finally: ninety-six ollomani, so far,
clustered in this room. Over two-thirds Unknown. Just six of the rest were Allies.
But why cluster here? Why add him to this dungy cluster? In a strange town with no arena nearby?
Why meddle with his familiar?
An olli rebounded off the floor near him. Vex clamped his jaw. The olli scored the wall next to
his hip with a dark, crumbly smear. Rules exempted him from Dodge-tag now; their violation lined
his throat with cramp. The olli arced back into the room, high over the practicing swarm. An
Enemy snared it. She spun with its momentum. She flipped the ball sidearm toward another watching
face — through a Rolling-pyramid.
Five Unknowns squatted on air: two fronted three; elbows locked elbows; knees jutted beside
knees. Across those bent knees trotted two more Unknowns, their arms wide for balance. Another
squatting player on each end linked the sides with straining arms and legs: the Riser — Ally —
passing his link on by bringing facing ollomani's hands together behind him even as he stepped onto
their knees; the Faller — Enemy — stepping down and twisting to become a new link before joining
a side, her knees serving as steps for another player who became the next Faller. Constant motion,
changing tensions, precise coordination. All in the Rolling-pyramid shone with sweat and frowned
with concentration as they worked their way along the room. A grueling, rousing exercise, one
13'Sao-La excelled in, as he did all the forms of the Kata-for-Waiting.
The Rules of Dodge-tag banned warnings; they demanded agility, surprise, and force. Two in the
pyramid should dodge, did dodge. One lifted a chin. The other hung a step. Blithe, the olli
rushed toward its target, another Unknown; she slapped it clean and drove it on. Perfect relay,
perfect interrupt, perfect play — even from Enemies and Unknowns.
Another olli smacked the wall over his head. Who tried to tag him with it? Who flaunted Rules to
include him now? Anger scoring his neck, 13'Sao-La veered from the ball. It dropped with a dying
dribble on the scuffed floor. Glowering, sidelined, ruled from action, he could but prowl on.
Just in from the south on a lonely train crowded with Voiceless. Didn't know much, though
questions roamed uneasily through his mind. Didn't usually expect much, though now he wondered how
the others could drill like standard, driving toward tournament.
His Rollkeeper had messaged yesterday, ordered him to Ganj Dareh today. Standard life: the roster
coordinator said "go"; he went. Tournament victors, Mapilca homed at the arena. Defeated, the
roster gong-she'd, he dawdling toward the emptiest nearby, there to be told where next to begin the
Kata-for-Practice. No place to return to, no place to push on to. Wherever he went, there he was
— till it was time to move on.
This time the Rollkeeper ordered more. Wear his Coeur glyph. Check in for the "Rendezvous of
Futures." Tell the key-strokers he came from Broken Glass — as true as any, as false. Ignore the
gong-she assignment. Go straight to the allotted can-feel.
Why? Processing at the drome, he had heard that five tlaxtli can-feels had been set up in this
town. Never before in four years with the League had they gathered, for practice or for
tournament, outside an arena. Never since the League had offered him sanctuary from Voiceless life
had so many ollomani come together at one spot. Why?
An olli drove on him again. Fury banished Rules. It gripped his jaw. It ridged his neck with
burning cramps. 13'Sao-La found the thrower — a glance back along the trajectory — an Unknown,
grubby and deformed — as he leaned, replacing his face with his left hand. The hard rubber kissed
his palm. He drove it down, then whipped it, underhanded, up and across the teeming room. A
Three-high tumbled out of its way. He chased it.
The Unknown waved and strode to intercept. Just beyond arm's reach, he cried, "Ha, I knew it! It
is you."
13'Sao-La faltered. Crystal words from a mud-mouth?
"Hey, boys and girls! It's the killer of 8'Issaw. Right here with us. Gander his garbled hand.
Told you it was our lucky day." He clutched 13'Sao-La's elbow and leaned in close, leering up into
his face. "Tell me how it felt: the first true Kill in the League. No accidental death this
time, eh? Go on, tell me!"
13'Sao-La recoiled. He gathered his kit to him, protecting its precious contents. Not his clothes
or toilet articles. No, he defended 8'Issaw's heart, abandoned by her soul, cut warm from her
chest, stowed carefully in a stasis-block. She had honored him with her death. He honored her
with the rest of his life.
A handful of Unknowns clotted around. They grinned and jostled. The first one preened. "Handle's
6'Akhal-Teke. Meet my buddies." He fronted 13'Sao-La. "Won't reveal, eh? Let me tell you then
— because I know how it feels now. Grand, ain't it?"
The others smirked. 6'Akhal-Teke whispered, drawing them closer. "My buds and I took your unwrap,
13 — don't mind if I call you that, do you? On our way over to this little burg, we hopped on the
Death Train you started."
13'Sao-La backed again, but shoulders and hands nuzzled him forward. Muscles all over his body
quivered, nervous, baffled. "It wasn't like that," he blurted. "She was a gift from the
Governor!"
"Then we have the Governor to thank for the Voiceless chippie we planked and blanked," 6'Akhal-Teke
said. "Tall, she was."
"Willowy," another added.
"Long, brown hair. She liked to touch it. So did we."
"Smart mouth. Snapping eyes."
"We snapped her all-right!" 6'Akhal-Teke cackled.
"Take them!" a stern voice resounded over the assembly.
Suddenly, 13'Sao-La was free of the oppressive chests and hands and faces.
