Plebian or Noble. Plebian will likely never reach a field operator status, but may end up as support personnel, guards, admin, analysts, and the like. Noble indicates a strong potential to achieve Paladin rank, which is the standard operator classification. Ninety percent of Oracle active field agents are Paladin class. Only ten percent are Knight class. Before you ask, there are no strict definitions of Knight class, only a general concept that each Knight operator is strong enough to be the equivalent of three or more Paladins.”
“What about Champions?” Britta asked.
“Champion was a theoretical classification for individuals who might have the abilities of ten or more Knights. It was recently decided to be a viable theory and two Champion class individuals have been identified by Oracle senior management.”
“Chris and Tanya,” I found myself saying.
“Yes Declan, Chris and Tanya. There may be others, but none have been clearly identified. However, both Chris and Director Stewart feel that all of you have the potential for Paladin, if not Knight classification.”
“What about Champion?” Delwood asked, clearly already in love with the title.
“Chris feels that at least one of you has that potential, but he says it’s just a feeling and he refuses to say which of you he thinks it is,” Gina said. “Now, it’s getting late, you all have plenty of work to do, and your survival class comes early in the morning, so let’s adjourn, shall we?”
Speculation on the potential class Champion ran like wildfire around the group as we left the classroom and split off into our friend pods. I mostly ignored it, still bothered by the idea that groups of citizens might face discrimination because of accidents of birth or infection. I had never paid attention to politics before, not seeing a value in it. But as our discussion struck close to home, I was beginning to see its importance. Suddenly, the idea of having rights taken from me made me wonder at the sheer balls of the original colonists who dared take on an empire for freedom.
There’s a song about high school never ending and how the struggle for popularity, status, and the control of public opinion carries through to adulthood. I had thought it hilarious when I heard it. Now I was chilled at the implications.
Chapter 17
Friday marked the end of our first week at college. It was also the worst day of my life.
Survival class started with the same workout as Wednesday. Ariel tried to get me to stand near her and Ashley, but then I saw Mack wave to me from across the room near the were pack.
True to his word, Jenks pushed us just a bit further with the PT. Then he and Caeco handed out the eskrima sticks and he led us through a set of swings and strikes to loosen up. Next, we spent fifteen minutes on the same partner drills, only faster. He also added a few more patterns.
Mack and I were hitting a rhythm, getting smoother and faster. Only the giant were douche and his punching bag… er… partner next to us impeded our pace. Delwood kept crowding our space, backing into us and making wild backswings that promised pain if we got clipped. We moved over twice, yet there never seemed to be enough room for him.
Jenks stopped the class and with Caeco as a partner, demonstrated how to block a swing and disarm your opponent. We used single sticks at first, going back and forth and trying it both left and right handed. It was an oddly intuitive drill. It just seemed to make sense. After stopping the force of the swing with your own stick, you wove your free arm over and under your opponent’s stick, twisting your upper torso and yanking their stick free with superior leverage. It was going great until a free-flying stick hit me in the shoulder.
A glance sideways showed that Delwood had disarmed his opponent so violently that his stick had actually shot through the space between us. Picking it up, I tossed it to Matthew, who was unlucky enough to be partnered with Dullwood. A baton slashed through the air and knocked my toss back at me.
“Don’t throw sticks at us, shithead,” Delwood snarled.
“Actually, it’s his stick and you hit us,” I said, picking up the stick and handing it to Matthew. Delwood’s eskrima stick thundered down and smashed it free from my hand, the end of his baton sliding down the stick and smacking my knuckles. I reflexively smacked him