by Stacey Mac
“No, I’m saying we all have to leave our sectors, and refuse to join any militia thereafter.”
I don’t respond. What he talks of is considered in Galore – and likely in Resolute too – as treason. In our part of the world, we have a word we use for a soldier who abandons society all together, though the existence of them is merely a rumour.
“Vagrancy?” I say, a tone of mockery slipping through. “You want the entire population to become vagrants?”
This word was on my lips earlier. I had been thinking about the term ‘jumper’, and how it was a filthy name, but not as bad as this one; almost, but not as bad. I have been alive for the majority of Galore’s existence, and in that time, I know of no Galore citizen who has become a vagrant. A few have made conspiracy theories in the past about lost soldiers of our sector, that while we assume they are dead, they are really just runaways, trying to live without a militia to protect them. The idea is ludicrous.
“It will never happen,” I tell him. I try to say this softly, though, because he really looks like he means what he says.
He shrugs, unaffected. “I know that, but it’s still true.”
I watch him for a while, mystified. I suppose I had always seen him as someone content with his life, not one theorising how to mend humanity. In fact, I can think of only one person who bothers to think about humanity at all: my father.
I continue to stare as aggressive flurries bite his skin. The stubble on his jaw is slowly turning from dark to white as more frost collects along the bristles. His long eyelashes are covered as well.
“I thought your family were frontline soldiers?” I ask him suddenly, the confusion getting the better of me.
He turns in surprise. “They are.”
“So what business does the son of fronters have considering vagrancy? Aren’t you supposed to be all in love with the idea of dying dramatically in bloody combat or whatever?”
A wry grin slides across his face, and he rolls his eyes. “First off, darlin’, I ain’t considering becoming a vagrant, I was just talking. And secondly, I am a fronter, and I probably will die one day in glorious, bloody combat. Doesn’t mean I got to love the idea of it.”
We sit in silence again for a while, me shivering, he seemingly comfortable, and finally, I say: “If I could bring back one thing, it would be cameras.”
When I look over at Dean, he seems deep in thought. “Photo machines, right?”
I nod. “Right.”
“And how will cameras bring back humanity as it once was?”
“It won’t,” I shrug. “I don’t believe anything can. But I don’t have a picture of my parents, and I might not ever see them again. I keep thinking that I wish I had just a picture of them, you know?”
He nods, watching me carefully, but says nothing.
I swallow. “When you leave, I’ll never see you again, either.”
His relaxed expression becomes troubled, but still he says nothing.
“And if you plan on leaving soon, then this might be the last night of punishment I get.”
Like before, when I’d mentioned him leaving, his body language becomes suddenly defensive, closed, and his eyebrows smash together. “What makes you think I’m going to let you off the hook so easily?” He says, less lightly than he probably intended.
I say nothing, and a staring war ensues, wherein my eyes narrow as I watch him evade my comments, and his eyes become guarded; and in the space between breaths it becomes clear to the both of us that I know he is hiding something, and he knows that I know.
“We’ve got a deal remember?” He says finally. “We’re starting our own militia.”
A laugh escapes me, “Right. What will we call it?”
Galore is abundant in flora and fauna, Resolute is named for their unreasonable survival, considering the amount of attacks they have suffered. Scarce is empty, a wasteland.
“Roam,” I say.
He smiles. “Deal.”
Chapter Thirteen
This will be the worst of it.
The thought is comforting, because it means tomorrow, and every day thereafter, will be better. Dread can be bearable if you only dread one day at a time.
Exam day consists of lots of waiting, which is what I am doing now. There are only three mats on the floor, spread far and wide, and only a handful of initiates undergoing their assessment at any one time. At some point, my name will be called, along with whoever my opponent is, and we will take a mat. So sooner or later, this will be over, and the world will be just slightly easier.
This particular part of the Arena’s wall has become my spot. I took up residence here around three hours ago and I haven’t moved yet. Mia is currently being assessed, so Vincent has moved forward to watch, and I’m alone. My fingers ache because they are clenched. I should run, stretch, shake out my limbs, but I honestly don’t want to do anything other than stand here and dread.
“When yer bein’ assessed, I know you won’t want to,” Dean had said a few nights ago, before we had parted ways, “but fight to win, Tess. Don’t think ’bout it so much, just do it.”
Quite frankly, it wasn’t really my intention to win anything, just to get through it and out of it.
“M00148,” calls Flint at that moment, addressing the spectators. A girl steps forward, Desiree I think her name is, and stands at attention before Flint, who gestures to the mat furthest away from him. “G00163.”
I step forward too, stand at attention, follow Desiree to the mat.
I take off my jacket with stiff fingers and drop it to the floor. Over my shoulder, I spy Dean. It’s been several days since I last saw him, but now he watches me. He slouches in that easy way. His head nods almost imperceptibly, urging me.
I turn back to my opponent. She isn’t slight, but she doesn’t outweigh me by much. Her long hair is tied up in a bun, and she cracks her knuckles slowly. It would look menacing, except that her face is about the same colour as a sheet.
This girl is not threatening, she has never mistreated me, I have no reason to be scared of her. It’s almost worse; harder to hurt someone who doesn’t look like they deserve it.
Flint clears his throat. “Initiates, time to fight.”
A few of the waiting or finished initiates start to collect in front of our mat, and my eyes glance off theirs as I pace around the perimeter. I see Vincent, and he gives me a thumbs up.
For just a half-second I allow my eyes to close. Don’t think, just do it.
When I open my eyes, I look through Desiree, not really seeing her, just her blurry outline. She could be anyone. She could be an asshole, an enemy. I turn her into a shadow, a nobody, and forget the blood and muscle and thoughts and feeling she is actually made of.
My hands come up to guard my chin, and I stalk her, ready to strike first. A hammer fist to cause quick injury: the carotid artery, the solar plexis, the jaw bone, the temple or the kidneys. I watch her hands drop away, extending forwards, and I find the opening. My wrist snaps out and I strike her throat. She jumps back in shock, retching but recovering quickly. She stumbles a little as she begins to circle again, but I can’t afford to let her shake it off, so I rush her again, and this time she is cautious. Desiree brings her hands up higher to protect her face and I strike her kidneys, forcing her arms to drop and taking the opportunity presented to lash out again at her exposed temple.
She hits the mat, gasps, blinks up at me.
And there I see Desiree again, a nurse’s child. The same nurse who tended to my mother after she’d returned to Galore with two missing fingers, her hand bundled up in a bloody shirt. There is a red mark swelling along Desiree’s hairline, and her hands still clutch at her side. “St-stop,” she wheezes. “Stop. I’m out.”
My hands drop to my sides, lead weights. My gut twists, preparing to throw up.
Flint crosses the mat to me, where he says something vaguely congratulatory and hands me a slip of paper with some words and a rank. He drops a slip on Desiree’s tremb
ling back, who remains collapsed, and calls out to the next fighters.
Vincent comes over, too. His hand slaps my shoulder and he probably says something, but I’m not paying attention. Instead I bend to the ground, and put my hand out to the nurse’s daughter. She looks up and takes it unquestioningly. I see a familiar limp as she straightens, and realise that I’ve caused some deep muscle bruising. She gives her neck a little stretch, mutters her thanks to me; even gives me a small smile, and staggers away. I wonder when in history it became normal for someone to thank their attacker.
Around me, my friends are offering quiet compliments on my footwork and other stupid things, and I watch Desiree go over to the wall and slide down to the ground, still catching her breath.
When I finally look away to consult the slip of paper in my hand, I see the black charcoal pencil markings where they smudge the page: Status 2.
*
In the cafeteria, the mood is lighter. Many initiates have completed their examinations in their respective courses, and will spend the rest of the day spectating, including me.
At the usual bench, Vincent is consoling Mia, who received a status four ranking, while he got his usual status one. Tilly is close to combustion – she is still awaiting her chance to be assessed in survival. Delilah is in the first aide wing; she won her fight but got a perforated eardrum for her troubles, and Adriel is shovelling down his food, uncaring about exams and mostly oblivious to any change in the daily routine. I’m mostly just sick, and starting to wonder whether the nausea is a virus, or just self-loathing.
“Oh, shut up, Vince,” Mia suddenly snaps, startling Vincent in the middle of a sentence, “I screwed it up, alright? Stop sugar-coating it. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t get all the private training that your partner got.”
I feel that snide jab hit a nerve. “Don’t start, Mia. You want my status? I’ll swap it with yours.”
The rankings are ordered from five to one, with one being the highest ranking. A status one ranking lands a soldier out in front on the battle field to take the first blow, assuming they have the best chance of survival. Basically, my status two will put me out there as well, which just pisses me off, because I’ve maintained a steady status five up until now, and been quite content with it.
Mia falls quiet immediately, and hides her face behind her blonde hair. Vincent resumes his attempts to soothe her, though he should know by now that he will fail. Mia is a nice girl, but an immature one. There is no interrupting her sulking once it starts.
“Gah!” Beside me, Adriel suddenly startles and falls sideways.
“Hey, brother,” Dean says, laughing as he shoves Adriel along the bench. He addresses the table. “Mind if I join you?”
“Sure,” Adriel grumbles. “Why don’t you take any of the empty seats available, seen as this particular one is taken?”
“Sorry, initiate, I like your seat best. Scoot along.” Dean muscles his way in between Adriel and I, shoving him unceremoniously as he does so. Adriel chuckles.
“I heard your status this year has improved quite drastically,” Dean says to me.
In light of the recent exchange between Mia and I, I am thinking further analysis of said rank is not helpful. Instead, I say: “I wouldn’t say improved, so much as fluked. I got lucky.”
“Of course you did,” Dean says, rolling his eyes.
It is at this point that I look up, and see that every person at the table other than Adriel is gaping at Dean. When Dean looks across the table at Mia, Vincent and Tilly, they look away, all abashed and nervous. It only now occurs to me that to them, Dean is still a trainer, and Resolute or not, having a trainer sit at your lunch table is not commonplace. At least, not in Galore.
“Your new friends seem nice,” Dean says to Adriel.
Adriel nods and continues shovelling scrambled egg into his mouth. “Kind of skittish though.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Don’t know why, I think even my arms are bigger than yours.” Adriel pulls back his green shirtsleeve to reveal his bicep and flexes it unimpressively. I scoff into my eggs. Across the table, Mia and Vincent’s expressions begin to crack, watching the exchange, but they still look wary.
Tilly, however, perks up to speak. “Um, what do we call you?” She asks Dean, ducking her head in the case of a rebuff.
Dean’s head snaps over to her, as if only just realising she is there. For a second he just stares, amused, and then awareness dawns. “Ah,” he says, turning to me, “the little, lost minor?”
“The very one,” I nod.
“Well, little lost minor. You can call me Dean, just not when your trainers are around to hear it.”
Tilly looks unconvinced, but when she glances over to Adriel for reassurance, Adriel winks, and Tilly blushes.
“This is Tilly, I’ve hired her as my personal bodyguard,” Adriel informs Dean.
“Tough job,” Dean says seriously to Tilly, “This guy has a lot of enemies, and about the same amount of friends as he does muscle.”
Adriel punches Dean’s arm, and Tilly’s eyes widen, and then she cracks up laughing.
I laugh too, and my sickness fades a little.
“You going to eat that?” Dean asks me, pointing to my plate.
I drag it closer towards me. “In fact, I am.”
“I could give you an official order to share it.”
“You could,” I smirk, throwing a small piece of egg in his face, “Doesn’t mean I’d listen.”
He mirrors my smirk, takes the egg from his cheek, and places it deliberately in his mouth.
When I look around again, the others have resumed their staring.
*
“What does this mean, exactly?” Delilah lies on a cot, her head heavily bandaged.
In the first aide wing, I sit beside her, looking at the blood stain on the left side of her head. Delilah appears to be fine, although she speaks louder than necessary. In her hand she holds the note I just gave her. Her face morphed between interest, confusion, and finally eagerness as she read through it.
I shrug. I came here because I don’t really know what it means. Not the subtext, anyway.
When we left the cafeteria, Dean had walked ahead of the rest of us. Once I’d reached the exit however, his hand came out of nowhere, clasping my upper arm, pulling me to the side. “I know you’re off the hook, but I want to see you again.”
At that, he had disappeared into the crowd, and I’d peered down to see the note he’d pushed into my palm.
“Oh, come on. You are such a fucking disappointment when it comes to gossip. You’ve got to give me something. I take it he hasn’t been torturing you at night?”
I trust Delilah, but I don’t trust anyone enough to tell them exactly what I’ve been doing at night. “No, we’ve sort of become friends, in a manner of speaking. It’s a long story.”
“But, he’s a trainer, right? Is that even allowed?”
I shrug again. “Probably not, but he is Resolute.”
She nods. “Resolutes are weird.”
“I don’t know that they are weird. Maybe they’re kinder.”
Delilah rolls her eyes at me, like the idea of kindness is juvenile. “Whatever, it isn’t the point. When were you dismissed from disciplinary action?”
“I don’t know, three days ago maybe?” It was exactly three days ago. Dean told Trey that I’d ‘learnt my lesson’.
“But he wants to see you again tonight?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Holy shit…he likes you.” She grins as she says it.
“But I don’t think that’s the reason he wants to meet with me.”
She frowns. “What else could it be?”
“Why do you think I’m here?” I sneer.
Her smile grows wider, “I think you’re here because you are trying to figure out whether you like him, too. I can save you the long journey to an epiphany, the answer is yes.”
I know that, too. “I’m serious, Del,
I think there is something going on with the Resolutes. Do you think…” I look over my shoulder to ensure we are alone. “Do you think they could be here to spy on us?”
“Us?” she guffaws. “Why would they?”
I shrug, rather than fill her in. “I don’t know, just some odd things I’ve noticed. Do you think they would, though?”
She chews on it for a moment, and then shakes her head. “If Resolute were sending spies to Galore, they wouldn’t send them to the compound, would they? What intel could they possibly get here? Besides, they would have to be stupid to give us up as allies. We’re the strongest army anywhere.”
Again, I don’t answer.
She leans forward to hand the note back to me and I take it from her. “Go and meet him. I think you’re nuts, but if you like him, then go. Just do me a favour and stop talking about spies in Galore. If you turn into one of those paranoid conspiracy types I promise I’ll dump you.”
I roll my eyes for her benefit and look down at the back of the much abused assessment slip in my hand.
I’m upholding the truce,
I’ll see you at 2000 hours.
*
Sadly, when I exited the hospital wing I felt no more enlightened than when I entered it. As I ready myself for…whatever awaits, I think about conspiracy theories and the conversation-that-never-happened and wonder if there is anything to it or if I’m just getting creative out of boredom.
I look dejectedly into my locker at my five outfits (all fit for general combat) and wonder if I’m supposed to be getting dressed for a date or a mission. Regardless, I really have no options available for the date/mission, and so I slam the locker door shut with a low growl and abandon the process.
I am unsure of where I am supposed to be at 2000 hours and the only idea I have is the gym. I know that I want to go, I just don’t know where I’m supposed to want to go, and the thought of Dean standing around waiting for a few minutes and then giving up makes me embarrassingly anxious.
At precisely 1956 hours, however, my worries are absolved. There is a loud knock at the door to our dorm. The entire population of dorm six turns to stone at the sound, and then we shatter, scrambling to hide contraband, or jump onto our cots. Technically, the lights aren’t out and we can do what we like for another four minutes, but the threat of a trainer catching you sitting on a cot of the opposite gender’s in your sleepwear playing with forbidden items (pun intended) is reprehensible. Believe me when I say that the punishment for trafficking illegal goods and adolescent groping are equal in their severity.
