by K A Riley
“That hand on her hip during the sniper lesson wasn’t exactly standard military protocol,” I tell him, trying to hide the slight tinge of bitterness that wants to take over my voice.
“It was just to help center her weight while she tried that decked-out M900 Squad Level Assault Rifle.” he says. “The one with the big Zeiss scope.”
“Sure,” I say, nodding my head. “That incredibly specific explanation makes perfect sense to me.” I don’t bother pointing out that he wasn’t nearly as eager to put that hand on my hip when I was stumbling around under the weight of the exact same gun.
But I tell myself for the hundredth time that I’m not jealous.
Okay.
Maybe I’m a little jealous.
Meanwhile, Cardyn has been his usual great company, and he’s the best at getting me out of my own head. His new favorite hobby is teasing me about my scores, which are posted at the end of each day on a viz-screen down in the Silo.
“I didn’t know the target shooting scores could get as low as yours,” he says, scanning our names and ranks on the floating holographic chart next to the lockers.
“I didn’t know I.Q. scores could get as low as yours,” I snap back.
“I may not be the smartest guy in the world—”
“You don’t need to finish that sentence,” I say.
Card laughs and gives me a playful nudge. “Nice to see you drop all that seriousness.”
“I haven’t been that serious, have I?”
“You haven’t exactly been a pile of laughs lately.”
“There’s not much to laugh about around here.”
“I could say the same about the Valta. But we had fun back home.”
“Yeah. But back then it was just you, me, and Render. Now it’s…this.” I nod over to where Brohn and Rain are sitting side by side on her cot and then over to where Kella, Karmine, and Terk are off to the side comparing notes about which service pistol has the best weight-to-recoil ratio per caliber of ammo or some such tactical talk that I still don’t totally get.
Card gives a nod over to the cot where Amaranthine is lying face down with her blanket covering all but her smelly, bare feet. “Well, at least Manthy is still her usual sociable self,” Card whispers.
I elbow him to knock it off, and we sit in silence for a minute. Then we reminisce for a while. We talk about Render, about Brohn’s sister Wisp, about the other Neos and Juvens we left behind. We talk about the new Cohort of Sixteens and laugh about how there’s no way the Valta can survive in their hands. Eventually, we start talking about the serious stuff, the things that will change our lives, or maybe end them, like who’s going to get which deployment. What will happen with the war. What we’ll find once we’re out there in it.
At some point, we stop talking and find our cots. I lie down and stare up at the gray ceiling, thinking about how far I’ve come from the Valta, but how far I still have to go to live anything resembling the normal life I used to dream about as a little girl, before the drone attacks ever began.
In the morning, it’s more of the same. We get up. We put on our government issued training uniform: green cargo pants, form-fitting black tank-tops, and black combat boots. We head up to the Agora for more training, which, for me, means more watching Brohn and Rain, deeply immersed in quiet conversations away from the rest of us.
At the end of each day, we step into the Capsules and drop down into the Silo for food and water. After that, we scrub ourselves off in the communal showers. Girls first, then the boys. We sleep for maybe three or four hours—it’s hard to tell since there are no clocks, and the strange sifting of light through the red sky and constantly shifting cloud-cover up in the Agora makes it hard to determine time by the position of the sun. Even the temperature is unreliable. On any given day, we’ll experience radical swings from excruciating heat to biting cold. Yesterday at target practice, my fingers were so numb, I could barely pull the trigger of my Sig Sauer 2040. Later in the day, the temperature had skyrocketed, and we were forced to shed the heavy green coats they gave us on the second day and finish off our training exercises in a hellish heat.
Not that I’m complaining. Fed up with their discomfort, the guys all ripped off their soaked black t-shirts and finished the day sweaty and bare-chested. So, some good came out of it anyway.
This morning, after we step into the Capsule Pads and rise up to the Agora, Granden and Trench greet us for what they tell us will be our final outdoor challenge before we’re assigned back to Hiller in the Beta Cube.
“You’ll be in two teams,” Granden announces. “Based on a random draw and to keep this a fair fight, Brohn, Karmine, Kella, and Rain will be on Team One. Kress, Cardyn, Terk, and Amaranthine will be on Team Two.”
Even as he says this, I know there’s no way these teams were chosen at random. I’ve been keeping track, and I know that Brohn and everyone on his team have scores right up at the top. Cardyn, Terk, and I are at the bottom. Amaranthine is dead last. This isn’t a fair fight. It’s a set up for a slaughter. I look one by one at the Recruits on my team. Not one of them seems to notice or care who’s on which team. Cardyn is happy that he and I get to be together. Terk is just happy to have a war game to fight in. And Amaranthine wouldn’t care if it was her against the world.
“This drill will be like capture the flag,” Trench explains. “Except no flag. The objective will be to take out the members of the other team before they take you out first.”
We’re each given three weapons: a knife, a handgun, and a rifle. Granden explains that this exercise will teach us which weapon to use and when. “You still won’t be using live explosive artillery in the field, but just like the shooting range, these weapons will fire real projectiles. You won’t be ‘shot,’ just ‘tagged.’”
“We’re going to be shooting at each other with live rounds?” Terk asks.
“Not just yet,” Trench smiles. And I can’t tell if he’s joking about the “yet” part. “No. Each magazine contains small cartridges of paint. The cartridges are a plasto-gelatin compound, but if you get hit, it’ll sting. A lot. This will be a real fire-fight, so you won’t be targeting dummies anymore.”
“I guess that means we can’t target you anymore, Terk,” Karmine teases. Terk gives him a “Hey!” and a half-hearted shove that still manages to knock Karmine off balance.
We’re outfitted with a belt that holds a sheath for the knife and a holster for the handgun. We’re shown how to sling the rifle across our backs and adjust the strap for optimal comfort and movement.
“The knives aren’t sharp,” Granden explains. “Instead, they have a thin strip of red paint stored along the edge and a small pocket of paint in the tip. Contact with the knife on the edge from a slash or in the point from a thrust will cause the compartment to open up and release the paint. If you get tagged, we’ll know it.”
Karmine says, “Marvie” and fondles the knife, holding it up to the light like he’s inspecting a precious jewel.
The weapons are heavy. The knife alone weighs enough to slow me down. I’m sure the weight of the gun is going to pull my cargo pants down, and I have a brief panic attack as I imagine myself standing there in my black tank-top with a 20-lb. gun on my back and my pants in a bunch down around my ankles.
On Granden’s instructions, our teams retreat to opposite ends of the Agora. Once there, with Trench on our side and Granden over on the other, Trench inputs some codes into his Catalyst. As we watch, the Agora morphs into a maze of half-walls, mini-bunkers, concrete barriers, and deep trenches. There’s even an empty transport truck and a collection of overturned cars. The sound of gears and hydraulics hums through the air as all the necessary props of war nestle into place throughout the expansive Agora. It’s an impressive sight with all its transforming objects rising up and folding out from underground. It’s also a depressing sight. The scarred and battered mess of a re-created war-zone reproduction reminds me way too much of home.
With a quick flurr
y of his fingers on his Catalyst, Trench calls up another set of walls—this time at least six or seven feet high and all white synth steel—rises up to complete the maze and cut off our view of the other team across the way.
As Granden makes his way to the far side of the arena, Trench steps up onto an observation platform and calls up three holo-screens that glisten to life in shimmering full-color around him. “I’ll be standing here,” he explains and gestures to the screens. “I’ll be monitoring your performance, assessing how you apply pressure, and how you react under it. You’ve spent the last two weeks learning how to take aim and shoot. We’ve talked about strategies and battle conditions. Well, the talk and practice are over. This challenge is simple. Same as life. It’s kill or be killed.”
With that, Trench sends us into battle.
10
The battle arena is a chaotic mess of obstacles, barriers, concrete tunnels, drainage ditches, and even piles of smashed up furniture. Everything from old construction equipment and heaps of building materials to car frames and old appliances.
“Which way should we go first?” Terk asks. It takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me.
Wait—how did I become the leader of this team?
Just to be sure, I look over at Cardyn and Amaranthine. They’re both gawking at me, wide-eyed. This is insane. I’m used to being the one stepping back while others take the lead. It’s not that I’m not confident. I am, in certain ways and in certain situations. If I have a job to do, I’ll always put my best effort in and do it well. I just do it quietly. And alone. But assigning jobs to other people, well, that’s Brohn’s area of expertise.
Unfortunately, for today he’s the enemy, so I don’t think I’ll be looking to him for guidance.
Swallowing hard, I glance around at what has bizarrely become “my” team.
Terk has the potential to be a great soldier. He’s big, strong and fearless. But like me, he’d rather follow orders than give them. Cardyn is smart and a real team-player. He asks all the right questions and has great intuition for what needs to be done. But he’s always had trouble getting outside his own head, and he has a long history of second guessing himself.
Amaranthine is, well, insane.
That makes me the odd one out and the only logical choice to lead our group toward what will probably end up being an absolute slaughter.
“Okay, there’s no way Brohn will try a direct frontal assault,” I say after a brief pause, trying to make my voice sound controlled and authoritative. As I speak, I glance around at our surroundings. “They’ll try to outflank us.” I point over to a row of battered aluminum sheds tucked behind a line of low concrete barriers. “We can use those for shelter while we move.”
“Move to where?” Cardyn asks. We’re thirty seconds into the battle simulation, and he’s already got a seed of terror germinating in his voice.
“Don’t worry,” I reassure him with a hand on his shoulder. “The ‘where’ doesn’t matter. It’s the ‘how’ that counts. We’re bound by the borders of the arena. There’s no objective to this battle, other than survival.”
Card nods nervously. “So it’s like Trench said. Kill or be killed, right?”
“Right, which means we have two choices: stay where we are, or else move. We either play offense or play defense. It won’t matter what we do, who wins, or who loses. The only thing we can’t do is sit still. They want to see how we react under pressure.”
“I can answer that for them right now,” Card stammers. “I freak out and wet myself under pressure.”
Terk and I both laugh at what I secretly hope was a joke. I’ve never seen Card so nervous, and it’s not helping my own mental state to watch his silent freak-out. “This way,” I say with a confidence I don’t actually feel.
The others follow me, heads turning left and right as we crouch down, weaving through the jungle of junk in our way. I’m not sure how Brohn always falls into a leadership role so naturally. It feels like way too much responsibility. I know this is just a simulation and no one will really get hurt, let alone killed, but the thought of making a wrong turn, of letting my team down, weighs on me like an oppressive force of nature. I can feel it pushing me down, and it takes all my strength to lock my uncertainties and insecurities away for the sake of the team.
Still ducking low, Card and Terk follow me, with Amaranthine dragging along behind. We keep zigging and zagging around obstacles, down into shallow trenches dug into the earth, and in and out of small, barren rooms formed by the walls of the maze. The entire arena is a marvel of technology.
For a second, I get caught up in imagining all the work that must have gone into creating this huge Agora, which can apparently transform into nearly any environment. In the Valta, it took us years to clear away rubble from bombed out buildings and to shore up the houses and businesses in danger of collapsing on any of us who happened to be walking by. Meanwhile, here in the Agora, they accomplish in a minute what it took years for us to do…and they do it with the simple touch of a button.
Snapping myself out of my thoughts of home, I lead my team down a small embankment and up the other side, where we enter into a large open area.
My team. It has a strange sound to it, one I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to or even like.
Brohn’s team.
That makes sense.
Rain’s team. I can see that. Those two are leaders. They’re the ones Card, Terk, Amaranthine and I should be following into battle. The current arrangement feels more dubious with each step I take.
“This might not be the best place to set up camp,” Cardyn says with a look around, noting the absence of shelter. I nod my silent agreement. Card’s sensible and cautious nature makes him a perfect second-in-command. When I tell him so, he thanks me with a blush and wide smile. I feel like I’ve just told a golden retriever he’s a good boy. If he had a tail, I’m sure it’d be wagging at top speed right now.
We skitter out of the open area, pleased to have avoided an easy ambush. I keep thinking I’m catching glimpses of movement through the spaces between barriers and along the far walls. It’s never occurred to me before how much my imagination ramps up my fear. But here they are, feeding off each other with total disregard for my sanity.
“Hey,” Cardyn says to me as we continue along, “this is way more fun than fighting for survival back home, huh?”
I put a finger to my lips. “I’d hardly call this fun,” I whisper.
“You manage to make everything fun,” he whispers back. “I think because you don’t try to. Anyway, I’m really glad we’re on the same team.”
“You might not be, if I wind up getting us all killed.”
“Just ‘tagged,’” Terk reminds me from over Cardyn’s shoulder. “No one’s getting killed in here.”
I thank him for the reminder and allow myself a little internal chuckle. I’m not sure which is bigger, Terk’s body, his heart, or his uncanny ability to keep everything grounded in reality as a means of self-preservation.
As if to remind us that we’re not alone, a voice calls out from somewhere behind us. “They’re not in the drainage ditch!”
It’s Karmine.
“Or under here,” Kella’s voice replies.
“Over in the clearing by the piles of lumber! We’ll corner them there,” Brohn’s deep voice declares. That’s what a leader should sound like. Decisive and strong, rather than uncertain and vaguely terrified.
“I’m heading there now,” Rain calls back.
Uh oh. My team looks around at the piles of wood lying in uneven stacks around us. We have a matter of seconds before they jump us.
“We’d better get out of here,” Terk says, and I couldn’t agree more.
“This way,” I urge. “There’s a narrow alleyway between an arena wall and a line of metal crates up ahead.” My team follows, unquestioning. We hustle down the alley, anxious to get as far away from the wood pile and the ominous voices as possible.
; Since we know where they’re headed, I’m hoping maybe we can slip away and circle around behind the enemy somehow. Maybe we can even turn this thing to our advantage.
I cross my fingers, then cross my arms across my body—our old tradition from back in the Valta for warding off bad luck. I’m already imagining our success.
But seconds later, I discover that I allowed hope to settle in prematurely. I should have seen this coming. A few days ago, Trench led us in an exercise called the “Pincer Envelopment Movement.” The idea is to draw the enemy into a straight-line formation while flanking them on either side. You disorient them, disrupt their ability to communicate, and cut off their escape route, all at the same time. It turned out to be pretty simple, not much more than a hinged, two-jawed animal trap.
Brohn, Rain, Karmine, and Kella set the trap for us.
And my team, I realize too late, has just stepped right into it.
“Got ‘em!” Brohn’s voice calls out triumphantly.
For a second, I wonder how he got ahead of us, but my heart begins to sink as I realize that all their shouting and calling out to each other back there was a trick, a way to get us moving to exactly where they wanted us.
In a flash, the quiet of the arena explodes in a frenzy of screams and gunfire. With paint slugs whizzing in the air around us from every angle, we retreat back into the alley, stumbling over each other in our haste to find some kind of shelter.
Card shoves me ahead of him. I crash into Amaranthine, bounce off of Terk’s back, and hit the ground hard. Terk spins around, picks me up by my jacket collar and belt, and tosses me almost ten feet toward a crooked aluminum tool shed. I roll into the dark of the shelter as Amaranthine dives in after me.
Through the small doorway, I see Card take a hail of hits to his neck and chest. He drops like he’s been hit by a fast-moving cannon ball, his face and most of his upper body covered in dripping red paint. It would be a hysterical sight, and I’d probably tease him mercilessly about it if it—weren’t so realistic and utterly terrifying.
