by Sara King
Three dozen hands went up.
Joe stared at Libby. Was she really eight? Up on the table, in front of all the kids, she seemed like she was five times that.
“From now on,” Libby intoned, “You’re all members of Zero’s patrol. Any time you see someone stealing, shout, and the rest of the bully patrol will come help you.”
“How are we supposed to eat if we can’t take food?” a big kid asked.
“Share,” Joe said, despite himself.
Libby glanced at him and jumped down from the table. Reluctantly, Joe took her spot. He peered over the sea of little faces and tried not to remember he had just made a sixth-grader piss himself. “If you’re nice to your other group members, maybe they’ll share,” Joe said. “It’s what you all learned in kindergarten.”
Behind him, Maggie raised her hand. “Joe?”
“Yeah,” Joe said, turning to her. “What is it, Mag?”
“I haven’t been to kindergarten yet, Joe.”
Joe sighed. “Can someone tell Maggie what it means to share?”
“I know what it means,” Maggie said, puffing up. “It means everybody eats a little less so nobody starves.”
Nebil came back ten minutes later to an entire cafeteria of kids all sitting down, eating or talking. His pale eyes flickered over to Joe once, finding him at a far table in the back of the cafeteria, before going back to silently scanning the tables from the front of the room.
After lunch, Nebil took them to the gymnasium to run laps for two hours. By this time, all of the children had bald heads and scars, and several were still red-eyed from crying. After everyone rinsed the sweat from their bodies in the noxious alcohol showers, Nebil herded them to another amphitheater-style classroom.
Joe’s heartbeat quickened when he recognized the array of weapons upon the tables in the center of the room. Trying to look casual, he brought the others to sit in the very front row, as close as he could get to the guns, wondering if they were loaded.
The battlemasters moved to stand along the walls as an Ooreiki with a secondary commander’s seven-pointed star emblazoned on its chest stepped into the room. Their eyes met and Joe knew that Kihgl immediately understood why Joe was sitting in the front row. The secondary commander gave Joe a baiting look, even stepping away from the table and gesturing to give him easier access.
When Joe remained in his seat, hands fisted, Kihgl made a derisive snort and began making his introduction. “You know who I am. I’ll be teaching your first class on Congressional weaponry, after which, Battlemaster Nebil will take over for me.” He scanned the children in the room with his sticky brown eyes. “Believe me when I tell you we will not be able to teach you every single weapon and how to use it. We will only go over the basics, and if after you graduate your unit decides to, say, go after mud-dwelling janja slugs, then they will teach you then how to use the weapon that corresponds with that task—in that case a Viscous Burrowing Motionseeker, or an VBM. Because there are three thousand different species of soldiers in the Congressional Army and ten times as many different species Congressional Soldiers have to burn on any given day, Congressional troops have over thirty thousand different kinds of weapons in their arsenal. What you see here are just the most basic forms of Ooreiki Ground Force weaponry. These are specifically built for Ooreiki use, which are heavier than can be comfortably carried by Human hands. But don’t worry, you Humans will receive your customized weapons once we reach Kophat. Until then, the concept is the same. We’ll teach you to use these and more, though like Linin said, we’re wasting our time training you. Humans are weak, stupid, and ill-prepared to fight what Congress has to throw at them.”
The alien’s four slender appendages caressed a gun. “I know this because I’m an Ubashin veteran. That means I survived the last Dhasha rebellion.” Kihgl’s fingers stopped and he looked up. “Only two Ooreiki grounders made it off Ubashin alive. Does anyone know why the two of us survived?”
Hesitantly, one girl suggested, “You’re good shots?”
Kihgl snorted. “Anyone else?”
“You captured the Dhasha leader?”
“Are you an imbecile?” Kihgl snapped.
It was Libby who said, “You were really good at hiding.”
Kihgl’s face folded into wrinkles of pleasure. “Exactly. The only reason I’m here today is because I was better at hiding than the rest of my Corps.”
“You hid?” a boy said. “I thought you were gonna teach us to fight.”
The little brown frills in Kihgl’s neck began to flutter as he gave the boy an icy stare. “You will learn soon enough, Human, that some things can’t be fought.” He turned back to the rest. “I survived. That’s why Congress forsook me with this wretched job in the first place—they thought I might have some insights to keep you weaklings alive if we see another Dhasha rebellion.” Kihgl laughed, a guttural grunting sound that boomed across the room from the base of his stubby throat. It reminded Joe of a toad’s croak. “Well, I don’t. None of this—” he spread his tentacles over the equipment on the table, “Will do you any good. It’s all luck and wits, and, since Humans have neither, your survival will be up to the ghosts, not my teachings.”
Kihgl paused, scanning the room. “Questions?”
“Yeah,” Joe said. “Are those guns loaded?”
Kihgl locked gazes with him before he lifted a gun and pointed to a black cylinder above the trigger. “If it were loaded, it would have a glowing blue plasma charge in the chamber, here, and a plasma clip attached here.” Kihgl pointed to an empty notch settled in the top of the gun. Then he set the alien weapon down. “Any other questions?”
“How far can those things shoot?” Joe asked.
Kihgl gave him an irritated look. “Accurately? Two ferlii lengths, if you’ve got a scope. The laser is much more, though it depends on particle and atmospheric interference.” Kihgl touched a longer, lighter gun.
“Which is the better weapon?” Joe said.
“Depends on what you want to do. Plasma packs a lot of punch, but laser is better for—” The Ooreiki stopped and scowled at him. “Why do you care, Human?”
“I want to learn to fight.” So I can blow the rest of your head off.
Kihgl stared at him for so long that Joe thought he was about to get clobbered. Abruptly, he said, “I’m wasting my time. You’re all Dhasha fodder, anyway.” He gathered the guns into his boneless arms and strode from the room.
Joe was outraged. Kihgl hadn’t even bothered to tell them the names of the weapons.
Joe led the others back to their quarters, ruminating on this. When they got back to the barracks room, black Congie gear lay in piles beside their beds, neat and new. Compared to the flimsy white skivvies they’d been wearing, the rugged black gear seemed…ominous. Joe, Scott, and Libby were the only ones who could even lift the rifles. After determining they weren’t loaded, then determining there were no actual clothes to wear in the mess, Joe fiddled with the alien buckles, harnesses, and straps, trying to figure out how to put his gear on. Finally, he threw it aside in frustration, startling the other kids.
“They don’t want to teach us,” Joe said. “None of them do.”
“Why not?” Scott asked.
Joe sighed and sat down against the wall. “Maybe they’re afraid of us.”
Libby looked up shyly from where she was fiddling with the piles of black alien gear. “They are. They’re holding Earth hostage. That’s why they took us kids—they did it to ruin the next ten years of our military.”
Joe gave her a weary smile. “Even with our military at full strength, Lib, the government couldn’t stop the Draft.”
“Yeah,” Libby said, gesturing at the other kids in the room, “But what about twenty years from now, when we’ve got our hands on their technology? It would be a different story, wouldn’t it? We might not win, not with Dhasha fighting for them, but we could give them a hard time. It works out better for them if they don’t have to deal with our genera
tion until Earth’s had a chance to adjust. See, if we grow up here, in space, the little kids like Maggie won’t remember anything except what the Congies tell them, so they’ll be able to make us like them and forget about Earth. Then, if Earth rebels, they send us back to fight and Earth ends up being put down by humans, not aliens, so Congress isn’t the bad guys, it’s us, the kids who got brainwashed and turned traitor.”
Joe stared at her.
Libby’s enthusiastic expression suddenly disappeared, and she lowered her head and looked away. “Never mind. Master Ryu was probably wrong anyway.” She went over to a corner and sat down, refusing to meet his eyes.
“I wanna go home,” Elf whimpered. He looked terrified by the piles of gear. “Can we do that, Joe? I don’t wanna touch the guns. I miss my dad. He told me not to touch guns.”
Joe tore his eyes off of Libby, still a little stunned by what the eight-year-old had pieced together. He forced himself to smile at Elf. “We’ll get you home. It might be a hundred years from now, at the rate they’re adding time to our enlistments, but I’ll make sure of it, okay?” He glanced at the alien rifles. “Until then, you need to do what the aliens tell us, all right?”
Elf’s eyes widened. “A hundred years? You think we’ll live that long?” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I thought only Santa Claus lived that long.”
Monk frowned. “There is no—”
“With all the drugs they’re feeding us?” Joe interrupted quickly and loudly, giving her a pointed scowl. “Hell, who’s to say we wouldn’t live three times that?”
“Somebody who shoots us,” Libby muttered from her corner.
Joe glanced at her. “Yeah, I guess there’s that.”
Libby peered at the floor, the bald ebony dome of her skull soaking in the reddish light. Joe wondered what she was thinking, and why she constantly refused to meet his gaze. He still couldn’t believe her mother had told her she was ugly. She was one of the cutest kids he’d ever seen, and had the pert chin and delicate features of a future supermodel. If it weren’t for her teeth, she’d be beautiful—the type of eight-year-old they put in clothing magazines and on TV. And teeth could be fixed.
“Am I getting any bigger, Joe?” Maggie asked, flexing her bicep.
Joe turned away from Libby, suddenly feeling the injustices of the world as if they were leaden weights strapped to his shoulders. Halfheartedly, he said, “I’m not sure. We should start keeping track.”
“Okay!” Maggie cried. “Mommy used to mark it on the door with a pen.”
“Then we need a pen,” Joe said, glad they didn’t have one. The last thing he wanted to do was track just how freakishly fast the younger kids were growing.
In silence, Libby got up, went to her pile of gear, and rifled through it until she brought out a black marker. She handed this to Joe shyly, still not meeting his gaze.
He stared at her. She memorized all of her gear already? Then he realized that a marker would be the first thing an eight-year-old kid remembered seeing. “Thanks, Lib,” Joe said, taking it reluctantly. He glanced around for something to write on, finally deciding on his blanket. “Okay, Mag, lay down. Right there. Hold still. Feet at the edge. Stop wriggling. Okay, we’ll check it again in a couple days. I’ll mark it Maggie Day One because I’m not sure how long we’ve been on this stupid ship already. What about you, Libby? You interested?”
Libby shook her head silently and looked away.
“I am!” Monk shouted, shoving her blanket at Joe. She was about five inches taller than Maggie. Maggie, meanwhile, had confiscated Joe’s blanket as her own and was holding it up to Scott, who was sitting on the floor and rolling his eyes.
Joe finished with the others, who were already laying their blankets side-by-side, comparing them with serious looks, and looked back at Libby. “You sure?”
Quietly, Libby said, “I’m gonna be tall, Joe. I don’t need to check.”
Something about the way she said it made Joe believe her.
#
“Libby, get in the car. I forgot my eye kit.”
Libby watched as her mother hurried back into the house, heels clicking loudly against the circular cobblestone driveway, leaving Libby standing alone beside the Ferrari. Libby stared at the little Barbie lunchbox her mom had packed her, which was dwarfed by the enormous pile of her mother’s luggage that even then their housekeeper, Marcella, was trying to stuff into the trunk.
Something was wrong. Her mom always packed Libby more stuff than she could ever possibly use.
“Marcella,” Libby said, “where’s Mom going?”
Marcella’s brown eyes widened, but instead of telling Libby what was going on, she abandoned the luggage and fled back into the house, rubbing her hands on her crisp white apron.
“Mom,” Libby said when she returned, “Where are—”
“I said get in the car, Libby!” her mother interrupted, slamming the trunk down on what few bags Marcella had managed to pack for her. “I’m late as it is.”
“Late for what?” Libby asked, still not moving from beside the little cherub fountain in the center of the courtyard. She eyed the Ferrari warily. Her mother never let her ride in the Ferrari. It always attracted too much attention.
“The shoot. Jean-Jean wants to do one in front of an alien ship. He got me a suite at the Hotel del Coronado and dinner at Donovan’s. Now all we have to do is get there.”
“Mom, why do I only have a lunchbox?” Libby asked.
Her mother wrinkled her perfect nose. “Because you’re always complaining about me bringing too much luggage for you. Now get in the damn car or I’ll tell your teacher you won’t be needing karate lessons anymore.”
Libby frowned. “It’s taekwondo.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Her mother waved a perfectly manicured hand and yanked open the door on the driver’s side. “Just get in the car, Libby. Don’t make me tell you again.” She slid inside, one long, perfect leg at a time. Libby heard her mutter, “Little brat,” before the door slammed shut.
Feeling a weird pang of foreboding, Libby got in the passenger side and shut the door. The solid click of the door locking into place reminded Libby of a prison gate clanging shut. She hated road trips. Her mom would always be looking in the rearview mirror, primping, making sure her windblown look was perfect even though she would never put the top down and get the real thing.
Road trips, in general, were hell for Libby. The first thing her mom did upon reaching a shoot location was to hand her off to the staff. While her mother was out posing in new and exotic locales, Libby was often confined to a hotel daycare or the back of an RV. Libby would rather stay at the house with Marcella, but her mother liked to say that Libby needed to get out and “experience life.”
Libby had figured out a long time ago that really meant her mom just didn’t want to pay Marcella to watch her.
So it was with absolute boredom and a lot of resentment that Libby watched the lines of cars pass by on the freeway. Traffic had been crappy ever since the aliens showed up, but most of it was to get out of the city. There was almost nobody stupid enough to try getting into the city, where all the ships had landed. As far as traffic was concerned, their trip into San Diego was a breeze.
“Mom, can we please put the top down? It’s hot.”
“Then turn up the air conditioning,” her mom said. She was dabbing at some mascara along the corner of her eye. “I don’t want the stylist pulling out hair because I got it all snarled in the wind.”
“Can we listen to the radio, then?” Libby asked.
“No. I’m driving. It’ll distract me.” Dab, dab. The applicator came back with a tiny clump of black, and her mother glanced down at it, then returned her attention to the mirror, leaning forward over the steering wheel to get a better look.
Something started to burn in Libby’s chest as she watched her mom drive. “Doing your makeup doesn’t distract you,” she noted.
“If you were pretty, like me, makeup would
come natural to you, so of course it wouldn’t distract you.” Dab, dab.
At her mother’s words, the awful pain in Libby’s gut returned, and she spent the rest of the trip curled up against the door, waiting to be released into a stranger’s hands. When the car finally pulled to a stop, she sat up.
A huge obsidian sphere loomed over them, too close to be safe. It had landed in the middle of a playground, squashing the swingsets and monkey-bars flat. Libby stared up at it, suddenly finding her throat very tight, her hands sweaty and cold. The glossy black surface gleamed even more perfectly than her mother’s pampered skin. A spiral staircase erupted from the bottom, the exit hole puckered and uneven like some sort of zit. An alien stood at the base of the staircase, watching them.
“Well, we’re here,” her mom said. Dab, dab. “Go on. Get out.”
Libby reflexively grabbed the seat. “I don’t want to get out. I want to stay in the car.”
Her mother stopped dabbing at her makeup to give Libby a long look. She sighed, deeply. “They told us we’ve gotta give up our kids, Libby. You think I want to do this?”
Libby swallowed hard, looking at the alien. After years of being alternately ignored or used as a photo op, the thought had certainly crossed her mind. “Mom, I don’t wanna—”
Her mother’s award-winning features tightened in disapproval. “Are you seriously going to do this? Seriously? Do you know how awful it is for me, to have to give up my kid? Because they’ll kill me if I don’t?”
Libby bit her lip and looked at her lap.
“I don’t have a choice, Libby,” her mother went on. “What, you want me to fight the aliens for you? What, with my purse?”
“Sorry, Mom,” Libby managed, remembering to reach for the calm Master Ryu had taught her. She was finding it difficult. “Maybe we could come back in a few days?”
