Alexandre and the Ansaru referee came in, talking together cheerfully. Dellian was grateful he had Alexandre as his year mentor; some of the other adults who looked after the clan children didn’t have hir empathy. He could still remember the day, six years ago, when he and his yearmates had it gently explained to them that they weren’t omnia like the adults, that their gender was binary, fixed—like people on Earth millennia ago.

“Why?” they’d all asked.

“Because you need to be what you are,” Alexandre had explained kindly. “It is you who will be going out to face the enemy in combat, and what you are will give you the greatest advantage in battle.”

Dellian still didn’t quite believe that. After all, Alexandre, like most of the adults, was nearly two meters tall. Surely soldiers needed that size and strength, and sie’d also told the boys they were unlikely to reach that height.

“But you will be strong,” sie’d promised. Only that was a poor consolation for Dellian.

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.