by Stacey Mac
“Initiate, what contraband has been discovered in your belongings?” Shouts the trainer, for all to hear.
The boy mumbles incoherently.
“Again,” the trainer commands, “Louder!”
“A pocket knife,” says the boy, his voice breaking. He is maybe fifteen, still hindered by gangly, child-like limbs.
Without another word, the trainer throws an uppercut into the boy’s kidneys. As the kid doubles in on himself, a round-house kick hits the back of his knees, bringing him to the floor.
Something to know about initiate-survival: fear invites pain, weakness invites more pain, and arrogance kills you. So, though the boy is probably going piss blood for the next day or two, he is on his feet immediately, before the trainer can kick him again. Because in Galore, you have to appear indifferent to pain, but not impervious to it.
“Initiate, what rule have you broken?” Asks the trainer.
“Obey.”
Behind him, Snare shakes his head in mock disappointment.
There is always one. Everyone brings contraband to the training compound, of course. Maybe we all just need a token of ourselves; something to grip onto to navigate the labyrinth. Most of us are smart enough not to hide it in our bags or visible pockets.
Perhaps it seems harsh, to be publicly battered for a small infraction, but to be honest, he is lucky he didn’t receive worse: time in the gym, or in isolation. A jab to the guts is comparably gentle. They are preparing us for the very worst of the war – to be pummelled, captured, tortured. The truth is that statistically the majority of us will be shot or blown to bits, the rest might starve or die from exposure. But someone clever once decided that the best way to build a soldier was to beat him into nothing. So that, essentially, is why we come here; to become nothing, so that we can be as one.
The boy is sent back into the mass of initiates, and we are dismissed to collect our room numbers. There is a collective sigh as everyone relaxes and begins to file towards the doors we came through.
I slide Tilly’s locket back into her hand once we are surrounded by enough people to conceal the transaction.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
“Put it away!” I hiss at her. “And don’t let it show again.”
I lead us to a trainer standing at the entryway and show him my UIC tag. He consults papers in his hand and then mutters: “level two, room six,” without glancing at me.
Tilly is on the same floor as me, but a different room. Good. I can show her how to get there, and I won’t have to rock her to sleep.
I worry about Tilly’s turn to lose herself and become nothing, and I wonder if she’ll survive it.
*
It is too early when I wake. The windows along the far wall of our sleeping quarters are covered with thin blinds, and no light leaks through. I lay on my cot unmoving. Around me I hear the sleeping sounds of forty or so other senior initiates. They are spaced out in rows of cots just like the one I lie on; too short, the mattress too thin, the blankets not thick enough. This is called conditioning; yet another genius way to make us more soldierish, stronger. Like going without proper bedding will teach your body to grow an extra temperature-controlled layer of flesh.
I contemplate this as I wait until it is time to rise and prepare myself for what lay ahead. This is my final year of training, which means that by now, I’ve gone through eight years of conditioning: uncomfortable sleeping arrangements, rationed food, gruelling training. I should now be peaking in physical performance; a well-trained soldier, battle-ready. I poke my thighs, testing the resistance of muscle there. I’m not as weak as people think. Years of farm labour has given me calloused hands, a strong stomach, and endurance, if not muscle. That ought to count for something. I know how to feed myself from the land, how to weather the cold. That ought to count for something too.
But it doesn’t. And I’m not a good soldier.
When light turns the room to grey, I get up, stretching. Along the back wall a few rows behind me, old rusted lockers stand waiting. I find the one with my code and retrieve my training uniform: black pants, black t-shirt, black jacket.
In case you hadn’t gathered, Galore loves black things.
“Ready for another round?” Says a voice to my right. Vincent stands there, collecting his own identical uniform, black hair tousled and sleep in his eyes.
“Sure,” I say casually. “It’s been a while since you beat me up.”
For the last few years, Vincent has been my training partner when it comes to hand-to-hand combat. I suspect (due to the fact that I’m a useless fighter), that he only offers to pair up with me to spare me the assault of a less generous opponent who would probably pulverise me. He is one of the few genuinely kind people in our initiate group.
“How about you? You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” he says, yawning. His casualness is fake, of course. Excitement shows in his brown eyes, practically radiates from his dark skin. Like most other initiates, he is anxious to prove his worth to the militia, and to bring honour to our sector etcetera, etcetera. He’ll make an excellent lump of nothing.
*
In the Arena, Snare stands once more in front of the initiates. The scene is the same, except this morning we stand among our own ranks and in perfect lines, from tallest to shortest. First the minors: those aged ten to twelve. The novices: aged thirteen to fifteen. And finally the seniors: aged sixteen to eighteen.
I’m standing at attention somewhere towards the back of the senior initiates, but I can see Snare flanked by Galore trainers, going over the schedule for the first four weeks of training: hand-to-hand combat for the seniors.
“And now, a surprise!” Snare says.
I huff impatiently. I was hoping he was finished. I need to wipe off the sweat that has been collecting in my hands for the last twenty minutes.
“Last year, we had a little visit from our Resolute brothers and sisters.”
My ears prick. Resolute is the name of our allying militia, or our brother militia, as it has been referred to for some time now. Their boundaries do not border ours, but there is only a space of fifty miles or so between us. Practically neighbours.
“I’m happy to announce that this year you will train with them once more.” Snare continues with false joviality. “Please join me in welcoming the initiates and trainers of Resolute!”
At his words, the Galore initiates raise their right index and middle fingers to their chests; the symbol of alliance.
Resolute enters from the same fire exit that the Galore trainers came through yesterday, and they mill along the back wall, facing us from across the Arena.
The comparison is ridiculous. As we, initiates of Galore, stand in perfect drill position: an army, the Resolute initiates stand casually in spicks and specks, some leaning against the Arena’s walls, others with arms over another’s shoulder – completely at ease. Their grouping is much smaller than ours, comprising of only around one hundred initiates and three trainers.
If we are an army – then Resolute is a tribe: uncivilised.
Last year it was the same. Galore initiates learnt that Resolute soldiers are bred differently in Resolute-world. While Galore is strict, organised, militarised; Resolute is...not.
I lower my head to hide the smile that fell from my mind to my lips. I watch a Resolute boy elbow another in the ribs, and then duck as his target takes a half-hearted swing in retaliation.
A snort breaks in the back of my throat. I glance around nervously to check I’m not being watched, because I don’t much feel like being dragged by the hair to the centre of the Arena and flogged for being happy or whatever.
I find that I am being watched. By a trainer.
A Resolute trainer. He is standing apart from his group, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. I shift my eyes away quickly, but not before I see his stupid smirk.
I recognise this asshole instantly
I’d just hoped I’d never have to see him again.
Chapter Four
Snare has dismissed us to our first training sessions. Minutes ago he told us that the senior initiates would undergo combat training for the next four weeks, which means that after breakfast I’ll go back to the arena.
Vincent slides onto the bench seat, shoving me sideways. His breakfast tray clatters noisily against mine. “Move over, Tess.” His eyes are bright, anticipating.
I narrow my eyes and shove him back. Just as I’m thinking that I’d much rather be alone, Mia and Delilah take the seats across from me, and I sigh. It is much harder to sulk and talk at the same time.
“Hey,” I say, but even my fake voice sounds dreary. “How have you two been?”
Despite the blond hair and high voices, these girls are tough as shit. Even Mia, the thinner one of the two. For some reason she has braided her hair intricately into a weave at the back of her head, which is stupid because she’s about to spend the day grappling with a sweaty body. Her shirt is also coming unbuttoned at the top, and when she moves, I can see her impressive cleavage bounce.
“You look…nice,” I tell her. Which isn’t untrue, but is unnecessary.
“Thanks,” Mia says, smiling.
I turn to give Vincent a smirk, but he’s looking away, across the table at Mia, and nodding enthusiastically – like he honestly agrees with the whole niceness rubbish. I roll my eyes. Vincent has been infatuated with Mia since we were minors, and never outgrew the hormones. One glance at Mia’s pink face, however, tells me that she isn’t exactly hating his gawking.
I smile into my breakfast.
Speaking of which, other than a little bread bun, there is only a cup of milk on my tray. This will be my breakfast for the next twelve weeks – ration food. It is supposed to teach us how to be hungry - to prepare us for life on the frontline, where you may find yourself starving in the woods while you wander back home.
I let the others prattle on to each other while I sit silently, pretending to listen. Seen as sulking shamelessly is off the menu, I settle for sulking quietly.
Bad enough to start off with combat training, bad enough that I’m already a lousy fighter, but I’ll have to perform in front of Resolute initiates as well.
And him. I’ll have to see him. Maybe I’ll even have to train in front of him. I don’t know yet, he might only be training the minors or novices.
I shudder involuntarily.
“Come on, Tessa,” Vincent calls. Everyone in the cafeteria is already on their feet and moving towards the hallways again, heading in different directions to their first courses of the year. I drop my tray on the shelves by the doors and begin rushing to catch up to Vincent, Mia and Delilah.
Before I escape, there is suddenly a tugging at my jacket.
“Tessa!”
I look over my shoulder.
Shit.
Tilly cowers away from my annoyance. She still looks scared, and from the looks of her pallor, she didn’t get any sleep last night. I soften.
“What’s up?” I ask her gently, but my eyes shoot away again to see how far the others have travelled ahead of me. I need to go.
“I... um...” Tilly hesitates. “I don’t know where to go,” she says, her lips trembling, like she might cry again.
I scowl. “Can’t you follow the other minors?” Can you not fucking look after yourself at all?
“I lost them,” she blushes.
By now the cafeteria is empty. Everyone is rushing to their training areas, because being late to instruction is like politely requesting to have your eyes poked out. I look to the clock on the wall. We have exactly two minutes until the first session starts. I won’t make it in time to my own session if I take Tilly to hers first. So I should be leaving now.
But I’m not. Because I’m fucking stupid.
I assess her again, her little bird-like frame could be knocked over by strong wind. I can’t bring myself to be the wind that knocks her over. I know I won’t run off and leave her to wonder around alone. Frankly, the thought of it is worse than requesting to have your eyes poked out.
“Come on,” I huff, pulling her jacket sleeve, “Run!” I tell her, hauling her out to the hallway.
I make her run up three flights of stairs and down another hallway to her first course: Survival. The hallways here are lit with solar lighting – one of the only forms of energy we have managed to hold onto from the free world. Tilly wastes time gaping at them as we streak past, I guess she hasn’t seen much in the way of energy before now. I grab her hand and pull her along. We reach the doors to her training room just in time.
“Quick, go in quietly and line up with the others,” I tell her. “You will probably be the smallest there, so stay to the back, and they won’t notice that you’ve arrived.”
She bobs her head, the blood leaving her cheeks, and she starts to shiver.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Chin up. You’ll be fine.” At that, I push her roughly through the door, spin on my heel and take off again, running full out now.
Looks like my bad luck is holding.
There really isn’t a point to my sprinting; I’m late already, and I won’t be able to sneak into the arena unnoticed. I hurtle down the stairway and bolt across the wooden floor, slowing only when I’ve once again reached the entrance to my doom.
I stop before opening them; straightening my jacket and brushing my ponytail back over my shoulder. There is no use trying to slow my breathing, I’ll only waste more time. I push carefully against the doors, and slip quietly through the gap between them.
And of course, at least sixty initiates and two trainers turn to stare at me.
The look on the initiates’ faces is easy to read: amusement, disbelief. Some – like Vincent – look pityingly.
The trainers however, are not so easy to read. One nameless trainer looks indifferent. Trey looks... almost... pleased?
“Are you waiting for an invitation to join us, girl?” He says it like he’s spitting ice. A grin stretches across his wide, unshaven face.
I put my head down and walk hastily towards the others, biting my tongue. I know better than to say anything in response, but Trey is perhaps two years older than me, and yet he talks to us like we are children. Or dogs.
Before I can reach the back of the group, Trey stops me. “To the front, initiate, if you don’t mind.”
I freeze. This is what I swore I would avoid this year. I told myself I would try my best this time not to be humiliated in front of everyone again, and I couldn’t even make it through the first session.
As I walk numbly towards Trey, I see Vincent’s hand twitch towards me, like he wants to stop this. I give an infinitesimal shake of my head in his direction. No point getting on his white horse now.
I round the group of seniors and finally come to stand at attention in front of Trey. I don’t look at him. I am not permitted to. I focus on a crack on the wall twenty feet behind him, and hold my breath.
He comes to put his face right in mine, like he did yesterday. I feel the disgusting warmth of his breath on my skin.
“What rule have you broken, initiate?”
“Obey,” I say, swallowing hard.
“What time are you expected to be here, seniors?” He calls.
“Eight hundred hours!” the initiates call back to him.
Without another word, Trey lifts his hand and brings it down hard and fast against my cheek, and for the second time in three days, my face stings from a man’s palm.
My head snaps to the left and I stumble, but manage to catch myself before I fall. I will my trembling legs to straighten at attention. I have to be indifferent to pain. I grit my teeth and manage to stand straight and tall. My face burns, but I’ve had much worse. Nothing is broken.
That wasn’t so bad.
“Will you be late tomorrow, initiate?” asks Trey in a bored voice.
“No, trainer,” I say. At least my voice sounds strong.
“Well, I think some additional training is in order. Y
ou will report to the gym every evening at twenty hundred hours. Do you think you can remember that, initiate?”
I grit my teeth. I’d rather have an eye poked out. “Yes, trainer.”
“We will see,” he says. Something gets his attention over my shoulder and his eyes shift away from me.
I relax infinitesimally.
“Ah, Dean, just in time for you to meet your new detainee. This initiate will be reporting to you tonight for disciplinary training. Make yourself free.”
“Sure,” says a drawling voice behind me. “For how long?”
I recognise the voice.
“Until you’re satisfied she can read the time,” Trey snarls. “You’re dismissed, initiate.”
Anyone but him. Anyone but him. Anyone but him.
I take a step in the direction of the other initiates, and see that the senior Resolutes have arrived. They now stand idly behind the Galore seniors.
And with them, of course, is him; the asshole-turned-trainer. Because who else would it be?
Of course it will be him.
I take my place along the Galore assembly. Breath, I tell myself. It isn’t that bad.
But I’m lying and it is exactly that bad.
I lift my eyes to find the no-name trainer is speaking. “Run,” he orders. “Ten laps. Pace yourselves.”
We take off like a gunshot has fired at the starting line, all of us shoving ourselves into open space as we begin to jog the perimeter of the arena. Feet pound the timber floor and echo off the walls. The only voices are those coming from the Resolutes, but Galore initiates are too busy trying to claw their way to the front of pack, eager to be first. Vincent, however, slows to run beside me.
He reaches to place a hand on my shoulder briefly before it slips off. “You okay?”
“I’m great.”
“Don’t sweat it, alright? Tomorrow, it will be someone else, and Trey will forget all about you.”
The thought of tomorrow doesn’t appeal to me. I pick up my speed and run ahead of him, wishing I could sprint in the direction of the exit, but I can’t. I try to escape mentally instead, feeling the drumming of feet against the floor, my breath flowing rhythmically in through my nose and out past my lips. This, at least, I can do well.
