by K A Riley
Outflanked, outmaneuvered, and heavily outgunned, Terk goes down hard under a second barrage of paint pellets. Like Card, he looks like he’s been through a blender. Karmine and Kella laugh as they watch him squirm on the ground, but I can’t bring myself to find any of it amusing. Terk’s cries of pain at the impact of the pellets are all too real. I don’t care how simulated it all is or what kind of projectiles are being used. There’s nothing artificial about being shot.
The fear is just as real as the pain.
Even though I’m sickened at the thought of leaving two of my team behind, I realize I’ve got no choice. Scrambling out the back door of the dark shed, Amaranthine and I duck under some twisted fencing, squeeze through a wooden gate with missing boards, and slide for cover under the rusted hulk of an old army jeep.
Leaving behind the sound of Brohn’s team laughing over Cardyn’s and Terk’s moaning bodies, we decide to put some more distance between us. It should give us time to regroup and maybe salvage what’s left of this strategic debacle.
In the dark shadows under the jeep, Amaranthine and I exchange a look and then make a run for it. We sprint as fast as we can through more makeshift alleyways, past a row of old refrigerators, around a wall of car tires, and on a breathless winding run through a maze of synth-steel walls.
Finally, we hit a dead end. Amaranthine stops with her back pressed against a wall. Its pristine silver-white shimmer makes her look even more grim and haggard than I feel.
“Okay,” I pant, my chest heaving, “that was exciting.” My hands are on my knees, my heart in my throat. “We may have bought some time. Maybe we can get around behind them.” I point up to the top of a pyramid of large wooden crates. “Maybe we can even make it to higher ground.”
“Nice thinking!” a voice calls out.
That’s when we both freeze.
It’s Brohn again. His voice seems to be coming from all around us at once.
How does he keep doing that?
Amaranthine turns to face me, her eyes wide with a combination of confusion and terror. I shrug my tight shoulders, as mystified as she is about where Brohn’s voice is coming from or how he could have tracked us down so fast. I’m just turning to peer down a small alleyway formed by a series of concrete barriers and one of the synth-steel walls of the maze when a glimmer of movement just behind Amaranthine catches my eye. A small panel drops down in the wall behind her, and a shadowy figure appears in the opening.
An hand thrusts through the portal and latches like a vice onto Amaranthine’s neck. Her scream is choked silent by the tightness of the muscular arm that follows. The shadow leans forward to reveal Brohn, the sinister blade of a knife glinting in his hand. Across the distance, he gives me a playful wink before sliding the knife slowly across the lower part of Amaranthine’s neck.
He seems to be enjoying himself. But it takes me a full two heartbeats to remember that it’s not real. Amaranthine’s shock, like Cardyn’s and Terk’s pain, however, is definitely real. She gasps as Brohn relaxes his arm, then she slides down the wall to slump onto the ground, puddles of red paint pooling along her collar bone and staining her shirt. She’s not hurt, of course, not really. But the sudden, quiet attack, coupled by the fear of being choked to death, seems to have sapped the life out of her. Her arms are folded across her knees now in surrender, her hair in a dark waterfall cascading down her face. I look back up at Brohn, who points with two fingers to his own eyes and then at mine.
His mouth forms the words “You’re next,” and with a smile, he disappears back into the shadows. The portal in the wall drops shut behind him while I bolt as fast as I can in the opposite direction.
Okay, Kress. Keep it together. You’re alive. You’re armed. You still have a chance.
I slip my rifle off my shoulder and chuck it to the ground. It’s too heavy, and it’s not doing me any good in these tight quarters, with no idea where the enemy is. I slip my handgun out of its holster and hold it at the ready by my cheek. My back is to the wall now, literally.
If I can just make it to the other side of the clearing, I can regroup and re-plan. This thing isn’t over. Not yet.
I’m getting ready to make my move when a hard blast strikes my Sig Sauer 2040, which flies out of my hand and skitters to a stop under the twisted body of an old solar-celled car several feet away. Instantly, I drop down and roll under a steel I-beam, slide down into a shallow trench and scramble along its length until I’m convinced that I’m clear. Squatting down, I scuttle through a long concrete pipe, through a maze of half-walls, and into a small brick shed not much bigger than a dog house.
Breathing hard, I allow myself a split second of pride, knowing that I’m the last one standing from Team Two. That’s small consolation, though. I know perfectly well that my team was hand-picked and set up to get wiped out. Still, I have no intention of going down without a fight. Forget Hiller’s points and assessments. I owe it to my team to salvage something out of this total and absolute fiasco.
The day’s drawing close to dusk, but it’s still way too bright out to risk making a run for better cover. I can’t hide in this tiny shack forever, but I don’t know where else to go. I should have taken more time to memorize the layout of the training arena. I bet that was supposed to be part of the training—and I blew it.
On my hands and knees now, I crawl back out of the brick shed. No sense making it easier for the others by cornering myself. Now I’m crouched in a shadow behind a low concrete barrier. I know it’s just a matter of time—maybe mere seconds—before I get tracked down and shot to death. I know that what will hit me won’t be real bullets, but the thought of getting hit at all—by anything—makes my eye twitch. I’m pretty sure my heart’s about to thump its way out of my chest.
For a moment I wonder who will deliver the kill shot. Brohn would probably go easy on me, at least I would have thought so before I saw the terrifying way he took down Amaranthine. I’m going to have to yell at him for that. That whole moment is going to give me more than a few nightmares.
Maybe I’ll get lucky since I’m the last of my team, and he’ll just shoot me in the leg. Better still, maybe he’ll just let me surrender. If that’s even an option, that is.
Karmine would be less merciful. He’ll want to send a signal to me and to the Trainers: He’s all business, and he’ll do what it takes to win, friendship be damned. Kella would do the same, only she might add an extra shot or two just to prove that a pretty blond girl from a tiny mountain town can still be a ruthless animal on the battlefield.
Rain scares me the most. She’s a five-foot tall genius with a chip on her shoulder and an obsession with winning. She’s your best friend when she’s on your side, but your worst enemy when she’s not.
My head is throbbing from exhaustion, fear, and from the anticipation of getting caught. I may still have a knife and a shred of a chance of eluding Team One, but let’s face it, I’ve become a prey animal. My heart rate is jacked up, and I can’t remember the last time I took two even breaths.
I can hear Brohn call out “Clear!” every time he rounds a corner or investigates another possible hiding place and doesn’t find me. I take a chance and peer around the corner of the chipped and pitted barrier just outside the small opening of the shed. With my head close to the ground, I duck back quickly when I see Rain, not more than twenty feet away. Her back is to me for the moment, but she’s way too close for comfort.
“I’m seeing her boot prints!” she calls out, and Karmine and Kella reply in unison that they’re on their way over.
With my gun long gone, I withdraw my knife from its leather sheath, careful not to make too much noise in the process. This will be my last hope, though I can’t begin to imagine how I could possibly take out all four of the others before they blast me to pieces. I figure if I can just get one of them, I’ll still qualify for a few points from this challenge. Maybe I won’t be totally excluded from consideration for Special Ops.
If Hiller and her
crew really are watching our every move, they’ll be pleased to see that I refused to go down without a fight.
My pulse goes crazy at the sound of the others jogging right toward me. I’m somewhere between crying, hyperventilating, and throwing up in my mouth when I slip out the back of the shed and scurry down a pathway behind a low wall.
That’s when things go deadly quiet. Forget about calm before the storm. This is quiet before the kill.
I avoid the temptation to squint my eyes shut. Just on the edge of the battle scenario, Trench is not more than thirty or forty feet away, watching me watching him. He’s standing on his little platform surrounded by his screens. If only he’d tell me where the others are. But when we make eye contact, he just shrugs his shoulders.
I can’t help you, Kress. You’re on your own.
I can’t believe there was ever a time when I actually looked forward to being assessed, marked, and graded. Now more than ever, I’m sure Hiller and her brain-gang are up there in their silver Observation and Assessment Halo, watching every move I make. Every mistake, every little flinch in the face of danger. I can picture them in front of their monitoring screens, pointing and laughing at my total incompetence.
My cheeks burn and my brain throbs at the thought of it when all of a sudden, the pain in my head and the liquid fear churning through my veins stops, only to be replaced with a strange feeling of euphoria. I feel like someone’s just pumped some kind of narcotic into my blood stream.
Setting my knife on the ground, I ease up to peer over the low wall, half expecting to see the barrel of a gun jammed between my eyes.
But instead, I spot a small black dot in the distance just above the tree-line between buildings seven and eight, the Eta and Theta Cubes. Even before the dot has moved close enough for me to make out any detail, I know exactly what it is that I’m looking at.
Render. You’ve found me.
He comes to a landing on a high branch of a tree between the two large buildings overlooking the fenced-in Agora. Squatting back down to avoid detection, I stroke a pattern on my forearm tattoos to call for him to come to me. But strangely, he doesn’t move.
It doesn’t occur to me at first that summoning him into the middle of a battlefield, even if it’s just a war game, might not be the best idea in the world. But my overwhelming surprise and joy at seeing my friend overrides my common sense. All I feel right now is a deep desire to stroke his feathers and make sure he’s okay.
How did you find me? Why won’t you come to me? What’s wrong, Render?
His head jerks around, and I follow his gaze, my breath catching hard in my chest.
Over on his small platform, Trench has a long silver-barreled rifle raised up, his head on a slant as he squints into the scope.
He’s got an itchy trigger finger, and his sights are locked on Render.
11
Forget the game. Forget Terk, Cardyn, and Amaranthine, who are somewhere in this maze sulking and covered in red paint. Forget Brohn, Rain, Kella, and Karmine, who have come out from their various hiding places and are now standing in front of me in a daze, wondering why their final victim suddenly decided to sprint right at them.
I don’t think. I don’t contemplate the repercussions. I don’t hesitate.
I just dive right between the Team One Recruits, who actually lower their weapons and step back, startled, probably trying to figure out how it is that I don’t even seem to see them as I dash madly forward, my eyes wild with determination.
I don’t have time to worry about them, their shock, or their incredibly slow reflexes. In a flash, I’m past them in a full-speed run, covering the forty-foot distance between myself and Trench in what feels like the blink of an eye. Lowering my shoulder to turn my body into a battering ram, I dive right through his holo-screen projections and slam myself full-tilt into his ribcage, under his left arm. At the same time, I grab the barrel of his rifle with my palm.
But I’m too late.
He gets his shot off.
The bullet explodes from the gun and screams through the air.
The heat from the gun’s barrel sears my hand. The pain is intense. I can smell the skin burning on my palm, but I don’t have time to worry about that. Trench and I tumble to the ground in a tangle of limbs. I’m not sure if it’s the explosion from the massive gun, or if it was my head hitting against Trench’s, but there’s a ringing in my ears that feels like it’s going to blast my eyes out of their sockets.
Trench must have thought I was attacking him personally, rather than trying to stop him from killing a bird. He reacts, unlike Brohn and the others, with swift and decisive military precision. With his boot pressed into my side, he catapults me off of him. He’s thin as a reed, but strong as a horse. I fly though the air and crash to the ground.
The impact knocks the wind out of me, but I don’t care. I roll over and scramble to my feet, scanning the branches along the tree line, then up to the sky for any hint of Render. As Brohn and the others run up and start asking what the hell is going on, I shake my head and sprint toward the fence. The last thing I want to do is look for Render on the ground. I’m stopped in my tracks by the crack of more gunfire, this time coming right at me. The ground in front of me and on either side is riddled with bullets that kick up divots in the dirt and grass. I slide to a stop and look up to the turret where Chucker is firing off warning shots at my feet. Apparently thinking I’m trying for some sort of insane escape attempt, he’s just lowering his rifle and yelling for me to stop when he’s dive-bombed from the side by a feathery black missile.
Render attacks claws-first, raking at Chucker’s face and giving him a sharp peck to the temple with his beak. Then he flies off before his victim knows what’s hit him. Chucker swings around in his post at the top of the turret, raising his rifle again as he tracks Render, who’s soaring in tight, twisting loops just over his head, preparing to renew his attack. His wings are spread wide at first, but now he clamps them tight against his body, his eyes on his target. He’s in total attack mode.
I’ve got to stop him before he gets killed.
Tapping the black implant markings on my forearm, I enter the raven’s head as he enters mine. In the weeks we’ve been apart, I’d all but forgotten what it feels like to fly, but it all comes back to me now in a rush. I’m puffed up by a surge of adrenaline, my body excited by this new potential.
Unfortunately, I don’t have time to enjoy it. Chucker is whipping around, trying to get a bead on Render while Trench shouts and runs toward me from behind, Brohn and the others following close on his heels.
My mind is a swamp of overlapping images, and I’m having trouble sorting them out. My connection with Render has changed. It’s more expansive, more three-dimensional than it was back home. I can see Chucker with his gun up above in his turret, his thick finger on the trigger. His back is to me.
No. He’s facing me.
He’s aiming at Render.
No. He’s aiming at me.
Render and I are on opposite sides of him. How does he have both of us in his sights at once? Trench and the other Recruits are behind me, but I see them from Render’s point of view. They’re down below, running toward me. They’re small. They’re shouting something I don’t understand. Wait. Are they behind me or in front of me? I see myself, my hair and clothes, a mess of dirt and sweat, looking up at the black bird of prey, whose sole purpose right now is to protect his friend.
Sorting through the dizzying images and concentrating as best I can, I try to explain the situation to Render:
They didn’t know you were my friend. I’ll explain it all to them. You’ll be safe. I promise. Trust me.
What I get in return from Render isn’t language—at least not in the way humans understand language. Instead, I get a flood of feelings, a stream of instinct and emotion. He’s tracked me all this way...Without a Conspiracy of his own, I’m his only family…He’s protective of me…He trusts me…He loves me…He’ll do as I ask…
/> Render banks abruptly and disappears into the black branches of the forest while Trench comes to a screeching halt next to me, with Granden and the Recruits, all seven of them now, thundering along behind. I breathe a sigh of relief as I see Chucker lower his weapon just as Trench spins me around.
“You’re in so much trouble, Kress,” he shouts into my face. “You completely disrupted the battle-sim challenge, left the arena, and you just attacked a Trainer! And over what? A bird?”
“He’s not just a bird,” I stammer. “He’s Render, he’s my friend! He came all the way from the Valta to be with me!”
Trench doesn’t seem to know what to say, but Card, haggard and covered in a rainbow smattering of paint, has just jogged up next to him and tries to explain. “They have some kind of special connection,” he pants. “The bird’s smart. Kress has had him forever. He’s super-protective of her.” He puts his hands on his knees and looks out over the Cubes into the dark forest. “I’m not sure how he managed to…”
Everyone has gathered around now, and suddenly I’m the center of attention. Great. I’m living my worst nightmare.
“I don’t care what the hell that thing is,” Trench hisses. “Or how the hell he got here. You’re Seventeens. You’re Recruits. That means you’re ours. No distractions. No outside visitors, birds, people, or anything! You think we’d let you bring a stray puppy into this place?”
“He’s right,” Granden says with a sad shake of his head. “We can’t have a bird flying around the Agora while you’re training.”
Terk, who’s covered in paint, nursing a bloody lip and a gash on his thick forearm, steps forward. “Why not? It might be good to have him around. He can be like our mascot.”
Standing in Terk’s huge shadow, Rain agrees. “He’s been with Kress in the Valta since we were Neos. She trained him. He does all sorts of stuff.”
I’m standing, listening in silence, my heart warmed at the outpouring of support for Render, and, by extension, for me.
