Wormhole Cultivation [Book 2] - Chapter 21: A Polite Report (Patreon)

I started the conversation with Kurosawa a bit cocky. Age difference probably affected my judgement too. Two centuries at the fourth stage meant he was stuck there for good, with no fifth stage in sight. Next to him, I looked like a young genius. But not long ago, the same could have been said about Novak.

I was apparently turning into one of those arrogant pricks I'd hated so much back in my first year!

So I shoved my pride deep down, remembered he was my superior, and chose the format of a polite, almost bureaucratic report. Without emotion, though the jabs at Johnson didn't disappear, they were all backed by facts.

I started with our very first meeting and his ‘dislike’ of praxi. I went acidly through his attempt to get rid of the praxi at my expense, through yesterday's incident with the portal, and the wormhole activation.

At a moment like this, it's not unusual for a division head to suddenly start suspecting ‘non-human personnel’ of unreliability. It's an almost expected reaction. I even admitted that, in Jonson's place, I might have considered a similar course — caution during a crisis, a healthy self-preservation instinct.

The problem wasn't the suspicion. The problem was how he'd decided to act on it, and what it led to. Setting the moral side aside, he'd screwed up badly.

Yes, the exploded jaw was the result of my own mistake. I'd been very worried he had some kind of defence. I overdid it, but I didn't kill him. If I'd used the Cutting Hook, his head would have split in two.

Kurosawa didn't seem to appreciate my justifications, so I went back to Jonson and his negligent attitude toward genuinely important safety protocols. He'd been so afraid of aliens that he'd put personnel at risk and literally sabotaged his own job.

I understand intrigue exists in every organisation, but this was already too much.

"Schemers don't change," I said, drawing a thick line under my report. "They just keep creating problems."

"Schemers aren't the only source of problems," Kurosawa told me, with a clear hint.

"My master doesn't consider me a problem," I said, "but a tool for solving them."

Kurosawa glanced back at the beaten praxi, at the two unbeaten technicians with very guilty faces, and didn't seem convinced.

"We'd sort of got used to your master working far more subtly," he said. "Get back to work, Sullivan. And go deal with the problems written into your actual job description."

Polite, dry, and not a single hint of how this would end.

Everyone involved in the incident was left in limbo. Until the official inquiry concluded, no one was punished or rewarded. Only treated.

Jonson was locked away in a capsule for a long stretch. Given what his jaw had turned into, there was nothing left to piece back together, so it required a great deal of regeneration. My praxi got off with mere bruises their own regeneration could handle, and the cadets' arms weren't a problem either. The shoulder guy would be fine by tomorrow, the wrist guy in about a week. The cut was clean, so they'd just reattach the piece — no need to grow a new one.

I didn't feel guilty about punishing those idiots so harshly. They weren't first-years anymore, where any injury could mean expulsion from the academy.

What was strange was that they'd made it to second period at all. At least the idiot who'd charged at me with a sword.

The next few days everything froze in that unpleasant state where the higher-ups are ‘looking into it’ and all you can do is wait. Kurosawa took over Jonson's office himself and dug deep into everything. A few times he was personally present while the praxi worked, which made the toothy ones nervous, and Daubo nearly made some mistakes.

I wasn't nervous. I'd have been satisfied with the overwhelming majority of possible outcomes.

Bao told me a day after the incident that the diagnosticians of the Hall of the Order had confirmed the lab wing's security system had been deliberately disabled by hand, minutes before everything began. The trail led straight to Jonson's deputy's account — not the most subtle cover-up. I don't understand what he was counting on. That the Order wouldn't find any spare specialists during the wormhole hysteria? The fleet and intelligence handle wormholes, not school security.

No official verdict followed, but nobody bothered me, nobody told me anything, so I had time and relative peace amid the general hysteria over the demons. That turned into a separate push for my own development.

Misty Step — that's what actually saved me during the standoff with Jonson. I'd performed it without preparation and without an upgrade, relying purely on instinct and Kate's advice.

It was time to stop being afraid and putting off Space Techniques for a better moment. One day it might turn out that yesterday was the better moment.

Still, I shouldn't forget caution either. Misty Step, performed carelessly, wouldn't just throw me into the ceiling, it would fuse me with it.

I started with small, controlled movements in the biggest, cleanest halls I could find. No obstacle courses!

And my first God's Stroll I actually trained outdoors, in short sessions, with all my armour off entirely. Fortunately, a fourth-stage body handled thin atmosphere fairly well, and my head still stayed relatively clear after twenty minutes or so of light activity.

A week of training later, once I'd started performing short Strolls fairly confidently without risking smearing myself across a ceiling, and had gone back to training indoors and in armour, the Jonson business finally moved off dead centre.

The new division head appointed was a woman named R. Delgado, transferred from deputy head of the Surveillance division. That division was responsible for the school's cameras, sensors, and other security systems, and worked closely with Order.

Jonson himself was still growing back his jaw in a capsule and couldn't contest the decision.

The new head was also a Four, but roughly a hundred and fifty years younger than Kurosawa, and still had decent prospects of a breakthrough. On top of that, she actively went on raids and fought in the arena. I got the distinct impression she'd been put here to keep an eye on me.

I carefully asked Bao about it — maybe he'd heard rumours.

"You thought they'd pat you on the head after you exploded the boss's jaw? Or maybe hand you the position?" Bao asked me, in Zola's tone.

"No," I answered honestly. "But I expected someone with qualifications in this specific field."

"There's no one like that!" Bao threw up his hands. "You're literally the most qualified person, and the only reason the fleet hasn't poached you is because nobody wants to deal with Novak." Bao laughed. "Even I've already been approached. And that's despite the fact I studied law in the federation."

"Ha," I returned his laugh. "And you haven't touched Gravity."

"Purely combat techniques," he said.

"Which the fleet has no use for, of course."

"I like my position," Bao said. "Order was exactly what I dreamed of."

Soon after her appointment, Delgado personally went round every division to introduce herself. She turned out to be a woman of few words, not prone to smiling. With me, she spoke exactly as much as the matter required — not a single wasted word.

Which could also have been a kind of game in itself.

As long as she made no aggressive moves, that suited me fine. Well, and to be ready for any aggression, I upgraded my Space techniques to the fourth stage.

It seemed I could now put away my jetboard and use the God's Stroll instead. Admittedly, at first it was rather frightening, I was afraid of crashing into something. But after a few days I adapted, and the technique no longer demanded the nerve-wracking concentration that used to eat up an entire stream of consciousness under boost. Now the steps fell naturally, almost without thought, as if I'd always known how to step across space rather than run through it. Misty Step stopped being a technique of desperation I only used once a crisis, and turned into something I could summon mid-motion without losing my rhythm.

The most interesting combination turned out to be Misty Step paired with the Monkey, which had already once let me beat Rene.

I was hoping it would help me deal with Kate!

Yes, I'd known worse defeats, but that didn't mean I didn't want to beat her. It would heal my wounded ego. Which wasn't such a bad thing. It only sounds bad. It would show my growth!

Though I'd stacked the deck a little. For the sparring-tag session in our old format, I picked a hall where I'd spent a week training the Misty Step-plus-Monkey combo. Concrete, columns, beams, tight gaps Kate couldn't squeeze through, and plenty of exposed rebar that could work as a lightning rod. The perfect setting to show Kate just how much I'd changed.

The first few exchanges gave me everything I wanted. She went for a classic burst-acceleration charge; I answered with a God’s Stroll — a step that looked, at a glance, lazily slow, but that actually carried me two dozen metres sideways, behind a large column. Kate had to rebuild her trajectory mid-flight and scramble madly across the concrete beams, and by then I'd already added Misty Step, dissolving into mist just as she tried to cut the angle.

She materialised where I no longer was, and the gap between the beams kept her from slipping through.

I let myself have a bit of fun, for all her previous taunting.

"You're a bit sluggish today," I said.

"O-o-oh," she shook her head. "You're asking for it!"

She tried to circle round the obstacles. She was fast, but I was taking shorter routes, slipping through a gap between two columns so narrow her shoulder wouldn't have fit through, and waved at her from the other side.

Kate switched into frenzy lightning mode. I nearly stopped being able to see her — just sparks scattering off her technique. Traps I was now managing to dodge, and bursts of lightning bolts.

She held to that, at least, without pulling out anything stronger.

But past the next gap, before I'd even properly gathered my body back out of the mist, a surprise was waiting for me. She'd guessed my trajectory, and a lightning-charged fist projection swept round the column and shot straight at me.

Lightning Hook — a projection that flew in an arc and curved mid-flight. The equivalent of the pure Hook I'd used to shatter Jonson's jaw.

I panicked and Monkey'd before my leg had fully hardened.

The Hook slammed into the concrete, scattering a minimum of sparks. My leg had hardened and unbearable pain spread up my body from the sole of my foot.

"Fuck!" I swore, losing control of the movement.

Three healthy limbs let me stabilise, but Kate came round onto my trajectory and a burst of finger-bolts hit me painfully in the legs, stomach, and face.

"Ran out of luck!" she announced cheerfully, as I went tumbling head over heels onto the concrete.

Twice I managed to dodge, and four times I smacked my head and shoulders against concrete corners before landing tailbone-first on the edge of a slab.

That gave me an unforgettable sensation and made me arch like a bow.

"U-u-uhh!" was all I managed.

"That's for your cheek!" Kate declared. "Get up, you prick, I want to do that a few more times, for full satisfaction."

"Shut up, Kate," I asked, regaining control of my body and reaching for my right leg. "Fuck! Just help me instead."

"Oh, don't play it up."

"My leg," I said. "I messed up with Space. Take off my trainer."

Kate stopped mocking me and pulled at the trainer I was pointing at.

"No-o-o-!" I shouted. "Leave it! Looks like it's fused with my body."

Bloody hell, does it have to be cut off? Again?

I hate Space injuries!