13'Sao-La
He flowed within this Flurry-volley. Olli arrived low from his left; he returned it high and to
the right. And contra. His pachcab hand replied with force. Broken too many times to repair, he
left it curled, ready to strike. His serving hand worked with finesse. He targeted and drove,
varying speed, accuracy, curve, and drop.
Including him, ten ollomani in opposing lines traded two of the heavy balls with a smooth, quick
rhythm. Their breaths echoed his, and his theirs. Their arms and legs answered his demands, and
his replied to theirs. All without ponder, familiar, comfortable — as life should run.
A door opened, slammed shut. The Ruleskeepers, were they returning? Had they disciplined
6'Akhal-Teke and his mates already? Duty concluded, thorough, Rules-based?
Relief surged through 13'Sao-La again. No one would see those Rule-breakers anymore. Murder
violated Rules, and killing a Voiceless was definitely murder. Only a sacrifice within a game
court, given and taken according to the League's Rules, escaped that name. The Ruleskeepers,
probably summoned by the Timekeeper, had broken through the crowd and arrested those harassing
him. Ever since, the cluster — crystal, barbed, even muddy ollomani — had esteemed him. Ever
since, they had practiced standard — according to the Kata-for-Waiting, though, not the
Kata-for-Practice — even though everything outside this very room wasn't standard. His
most-valuable kit — within it, 8'Issaw's heart — rested in a window-well where he could eyeball
it easily.
"Attend to roll-call!"
13'Sao-La drove an arriving olli to the floor. Its thud joined a snapping riff of others.
A Rollkeeper — a mud-stained Unknown despite ... nevertheless ... cleansed somewhat by ... her
tunic of authority — commanded from the room's front door. She infoplated, barking a name a
second, presuming replies in between.
"13'Sao-La." Number thirty-seven in this list, fifth from Mapilca in the room. He bawled back,
"Aye!"
By roster's end, 235 names shouted, 124 answered.
The Rollkeeper hung the infoplate from her belt, then braced her fists on her hips. "Handle is
9'Krot. I Rollkeep this Ready Room. Remove your coeur glyphs. The Voiceless mark them too well.
Unnecessary for them to connect us or note our strength ... for now. You there —" she pointed at
an olloman near the front "— collect them all."
A few moments of bustle, then they attended 9'Krot quietly.
"Ollomani of Copán, to me!" She smirked over the command.
Twenty or so grinners paraded forward, Unknowns all, fresh with Team Copán since 13'Sao-La's tour
there. They greeted the Rollkeeper easily and strutted to positions along the wall behind her.
Anger surged in 13'Sao-La. Example why only Governors presided over mixed rosters! A crystal
Rollkeeper never booned her roll-mates. Mud-slinging! Jaw muscles cramping, 13'Sao-La
advanced to challenge this display of bias.
A hand caught his elbow, broke his surge. He flared around.
Ally most crystal, 5'Khting-Vor released his grip. Veteran Mapilca, heeded, his tanned skin laced
with scars, he shook his head and patted the air, advising patience.
13'Sao-La snarled, but heeded.
9'Krot led her roster out the front door, but returned quickly. Glum, her ollomani followed,
carrying room-cleaners. She waved them to labor tending the quiet, automated sweep-and-suction
devices. Moving on, she addressed the rest of the room.
"We will pattern this place as a Ready Room." 9'Krot lifted a finger, pointing it over their
heads. "In the back, check if that big door still opens."
13'Sao-La followed the gesture, saw that a tall and wide vehicle-door took up most of the rear
wall, with a smaller people-door set into it.
"Cancel that!" hollered a new, harsher voice.
13'Sao-La jerked back.
Another Rollkeeper strolled toward 9'Krot, the front door closed tight behind him. He held out a
palm. "That roll is mine!"
With a gulp of resolution, 9'Krot shook her head and stepped forward — into a combat position!
The challenger acknowledged in kind.
13'Sao-La flinched. Ollomani dueled in two ways only: as practice, guard-padded to prevent
injuries; and as reward for winning a tournament, in the Governor's Court. In such a place,
8'Issaw had honored him with her skills, her passion, her life, and her heart. Yet, here, with no
tournament and no pads, two ollomani, Rollkeepers even, squared off against each other. The Rules
must prevail. 13'Sao-La advanced again.
Again, steel fingers clamped his elbow. Again, 5'Khting-Vor waved him back.
13'Sao-La heeded, then attended the duel, horror and confusion ridging his neck. 9'Krot dumped the
challenger and kicked him unconscious. Efficiently, she stripped the other's Rollkeeper tunic,
leaving him nearly naked. She directed two ollomani to lug the loser to the med-tek station,
ordering full recovery. She snatched up the infoplate and added a name to the roll displayed
there.
When she looked up again, 9'Krot shot them a quick grin, then scowling, demanded, "What about that
door back there?"
#
5'Khting-Vor revealed only, "Wait," so 13'Sao-La waited. 9'Krot segmented her roster and over four
deca-seconds, delegated structure repair. Neglect had tainted the Warehouse Pattern, cavernous
shelter, roomless interior, cheap walls and floor, easy access by foot and vehicle; they repaired
that even as they re-patterned the building into the League's idea of a Ready Room, exercise
clearing, waiting lounge, food and drink servers, minimal hygiene, physical and virtual interface
to the rest of the world, including sentry posts. She welcomed twenty-six more ollomani, all
Unknowns. She also augmented her roll with four more unconscious challengers.
13'Sao-La's crew added a Front-Door Bench to the building's stubby entrance room. He frequently
glanced outside. Under afternoon suns, pastel-colored warehouses marched away in every direction.
He heard rumbles of transport, but none of the trucks rolled through this area of the storage
park. Maybe all the warehouses within sight were idle also. The Voiceless often muttered about
recession. Were these warehouses muttering too? Pining for re-use in better times? Was the
League assembled here to usher in those better times? As the Governors constantly promised?
Another Rollkeeper posted through the entrance room, bearing an llevar. It screened a man's stern
face, glimpsed like Governor Sigma's. Were Governors sanctioning these changes? Why? The
warehouses mocked his muddle.
Inside the main room, the new boss-challenger beckoned to 9'Krot.
"I present Governor Sigma," he said, tapping the llevar. "He will bless my seniority."
"I asserted first." 9'Krot slapped the llevar.
The man tucked a grin into the side of his mouth and fronted the foilscreen. Shoulder to shoulder,
the Rollkeepers plugged 13'Sao-La's view, but he could still hear.
"Governor Sigma, I, 17'Kuna, senior 9'Krot in Le Coeur. I should command here."
"You bothered me for this?" a third, smaller voice demanded. "Settle it yourselves.
Meeting adjourned!"
13'Sao-La didn't see the first blow. He did hear the llevar clatter to the floor. He did follow
17'Kuna as he staggered sideways, his face turning to reveal blood gushing from his nose.
13'Sao-La heeded then, observing technique and effect. Even as Rules crumbled, he sought
self-improvement. Around him, the others heeded also.
The male Rollkeeper turned stagger into stalk. His arms assumed defense. His legs crouched, ready
to retreat or advance. He didn't bother with the steady flow of blood, except to sip it from his
lips.
9'Krot, furious that her first blow wasn't decisive, poised for combat.
They circled each other, eyes watching, assessing, searching. The woman feinted. The man blocked
a non-existent blow. She punched up under his left ribs. He spat a mouthful of blood into her
face.
She flinched. He followed with an uppercut. Her head snapped back. He drove knuckles up into the
soft flesh between her jawlines. She staggered. He sank his boot into her belly. She collapsed
backwards. Pulling himself erect, he glanced around for other challengers. Only the pair saddled
with med-tek moved, silently gathering 9'Krot and bundling her off for treatment. 17'Kuna picked
up the roster infoplate and clipped it to his belt.
Then he strode along the front. "Our Voice shall Thunder off the Mountains! Our Fists shall
Lightning our Victory!"
The Governors' song about future glory. 13'Sao-La choked back familiar pride, too strange amid
unfamiliar acts and words.
"Cue me," a remembered voice said behind 13'Sao-La. A hand pushed his back. He stepped out of its
way, and the murderer 6'Akhal-Teke sauntered by, followed by the five others believed Ruleskeeper
dross. All of them smugged as they passed.
No advance this time for 5'Khting-Vor to check. The walls swam around 13'Sao-La. The floor
reeled. The League, his whole world, warped with a sickening wrench. The faces were the same, but
the place and most importantly, the Rules had changed. Ally, Enemy, and Unknown blurred into a
dingy mess that enveloped him.
He hadn't felt so lost since his father, the Patriach, had driven out his mother for falling
sterile. The sect had then banned her from their enclave. They wouldn't let him follow her.
She had called him "Isaac."
