by Kate Elliott
I grab for my stun gun as a young man looms above me. He’s no older than I am and yet already in the heart of the war, ready to die. The worst thing is his face, intensely focused and utterly impassive as he swings up the ax. I am nothing more than an object that’s gotten in his way and has to be destroyed.
I trigger the stun gun. Its net of sparkling current coalesces around his body. He spasms as the charge jolts through him. Then, of course, his enhancers suck it up and turn it into energy, and the ax slams down onto my head.
8
There’s More Going on Here than Even the Wily Persephone Can Know
I’m bounced out of the simulation so hard I’m momentarily stunned. We’re using one of the academy simulation rooms, a large chamber that looks like a padded cell with gray surfaces that tilt and move so we can role-play and take practice performance tests.
Solomon points at me with a two-finger gesture. “You are so dead, Perse.”
“Dammit!” I pull off my headset and throw it at him, but for a big guy he has incredible reflexes and dodges with a laugh. “Where in the Sixteen Courts of Hell did those Gatoi soldiers come from? I’m supposed to repair the train, not get my brains hacked out.”
“Just adding a little extra color.”
“The color of my brains is not going to be in the final exam. Why are you such a jerk to me when you play antagonist?”
He grins, all teeth and taunt. “How do you know a direct attack won’t be part of the test? If you don’t survive, you can’t fix the train. If you don’t fix the train, you don’t pass and you don’t graduate. I’m doing you a favor and watching your precious ass, just like I always have.”
My heartbeat has slowed enough that I can laugh bitterly as I snag my headset off the floor. “Fine. You have a point. Shall we do it again? Only this time without the berserking Gatoi and their fucking axes.”
“You’d rather face the Phene with their scary-ass four arms and their creepy Riders?”
“The power grid exam is to gauge my diagnostic and repair speed. Not survival.”
“I’m just a squarehead, Perse. After graduation I’m going to get sent straight to the front lines. You need to know how to survive.”
“Yeah. Yeah. I get it.” Frustration thickens my voice. I flash to a horrible vision of failing and having nowhere to go. Nowhere but home.
“Hey, Perse. It’s okay. You’ve got this.”
He settles a heavy hand on my shoulder and squeezes. When we’re standing side by side the top of my head only reaches his epaulets. Were he not the person I trust most in the academy I’d find his size and confidence intimidating. He comes from circumstances so opposite to mine that he understands needing to get away from a home that will kill you either in body or in spirit if you don’t escape.
I clench a hand as I battle not to burst into tears. I’m not a calm person; I just fake it. “Shut up. Let’s go.”
Before we can tug on our headsets for another round a ping chimes through the air, followed by an expanding halo of orange light, which I perceive just beyond my right eye. It’s the academy signal for an urgent incoming message.
A banner of coruscating words throbs in front of my eyes.
Stone Barracks cohort report to the Eyrie in 30 minutes
I groan, my pulse accelerating like I’m back in the simulation. “This can’t be good.”
He elbows me. “You worry too much. We’re so close to graduation it’s probably just an hour of Mandatory Fun. Maybe we’ll get to pretend we’re contestants on Idol Faire, performing the classics.” He claps out a backbeat. “‘It’s like that, and that’s the way it is.’”
I flip him a rude hand gesture as I blink at the exit. The seal slides open to reveal the equipment hall with its shelves and bins. We turn our headsets, gloves, boots, and coveralls over to the clerk, another academy student. Every cadet at the Central Defense Cadet Academy works extra hours beyond their duty rota. It’s how citizens pay for an education. Her black hair is pinned up in a bun, not cut short like mine, and she’s neatly dressed in the brown fatigues that are our daily uniform. She offers the shy smile of a first year not sure if she can be friendly with fifth years. Solomon and I both smile back so brightly that she looks a little dizzied.
“Aren’t you captain of the championship rugby team?” she asks with a worshipful gaze at Solomon.
“So I am. Cadet Solomon, at your service.” He reads her name tag. “Do you play, Cadet Phan?”
Stricken to silence by his question, she shakes her head. Her flustered smile would be funnier if I wasn’t sure some disaster is about to explode in our faces.
I tug on Solomon’s beefy elbow, which my wholehearted yanking doesn’t budge by a millimeter. “By my estimate it’s going to take us twenty-two minutes to get there.”
“See you again,” he says with a sly wink that makes Cadet Phan blush.
As the equipment hall door slides closed behind us we head out at a jog across a grid of playing fields, taking the straightest course toward the Sun and Moon twin pagodas and the sky-tower that stand in the center of the academy’s giant campus. We’re well matched; he’s faster and stronger, but I’ve got endurance.
“She’s a baby first year, Solomon. Don’t even think about it.”
“Who said I was thinking about it? I was just being polite and giving her some social capital. She’s probably already pinging members of her cohort.”
“‘Large, not-so-bright future marine can speak words of two syllables!’”
“‘The dashing future marine was accompanied by a future engineer who was entirely unable to speak because she was contemplating the glorious career that awaits her. Someday when he’s leading a phalanx of grunts on a rock-grabbing mission in a border system, her engineering unit will be assigned to dig latrines for him.’”
Even though we’re running I have good enough aim—speed, trajectory, and angle—to punch him on the upper arm, not that I stagger him. He’s a massive packed bundle of muscle honed to its highest peak of performance.
“Weak ass, Perse.”
“Fuck you, Solomon.”
He starts a little dab of a victory dance while still running, stumbles, and barely avoids falling flat on his face. We both start laughing, then hush as we pass a corridor of classrooms in session. We jog down a walkway shaded by solar panels. The run has drained off almost all of my anxiety by the time we enter the central compound. Second-year cadets on gate duty salute us as we dash past.
We race around the edge of Heaven Lake, where bottom-feeding plow-headed cephalaspis cruise below surface-breathing lungfish and miniature long-snouted ichthyosaurs. By the time we pound up forty-five flights of stairs to the observation deck of the sky-tower my legs and lungs are burning. It’s a climb we cadets do three times a week. The view is worth it.
The Eyrie is the top observation deck of the sky-tower, walled with transparent ceramic for a 360-degree panorama of the campus and its encircling forest. Thirty klicks to the north, and easily visible on a clear day, rises a sky-tower that’s a clone of this one. It’s part of an industrial park built for the war effort; twice a year we cadets get run through a seven-day training exercise on its avenues and blocks while the workers get their holidays.
Our Eyrie has an open floor plan, with classroom lattices in one quadrant, couches and comfortable chairs in another, and a cafeteria in a third. The fourth quadrant is a staging ground for various activities involving a sky pier that sticks out from the observation deck. Solomon, still breathing thunderously from the climb, gives me a thumbs-up because there’s no rappelling or light-glider equipment being made ready for training off the sky pier. I whisper a prayer of thanks to the Celestial Immortals for this small mercy.
That doesn’t mean we’re out of danger. Our instructors have something evil planned. The question is what.
While they wait, the other Stone Barracks cadets are lounging in the couches and chairs. Our rack-mates, Minh, Ikenna, and Ay, wave us over to w
here they’re sprawled on a big couch, sipping at lime soda and artichoke tea.
A huge virtual screen displays Chaonia’s number-one entertainment and news stream, Channel Idol. It’s a rare treat for us. Cadets are allowed no communications or news except monthly letters from home for those who have family who bother to write. The show on-screen is a retrospective of last year’s Idol Faire, the biggest competition in the Republic of Chaonia, the one everybody watches. A segment on fourth-place finisher Bako, who crafted sculptures in free fall, dissolves into the smiling image of the third-place finisher, Ji-na, who was voted “the Face” of the season for her incandescent smile. Several of the cadets whoop enthusiastically as the screen replays one of her ethereal ribbon dances.
Behind us a bell rings. The doors close. Anyone who isn’t here is out of luck. But I count all of Stone Barracks cohort as present. We all made it in time. Good for us.
My nemesis, Cadet Jade Kim, wears the coveted tiger emblem of cohort captain, an elected position in the final year. Naturally a horde of suck-ups surrounds the gloriously perfect cohort captain, although Kim’s melting stare—as good as a kiss—is directed at a tall, elegant cadet standing nearby. Surely glamour girl Pon is too smart to succumb to that swaggering conceit.
Seeing me, Kim calls, “Oi! Asshole! You got here after all. I thought you would be late again.”
“Speaking of bad dating choices,” Solomon whispers in my ear as I ignore Kim.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time. I was a dewy-eyed and innocent first year.”
He snorts. “I saved your butt from that disaster.”
“So you did. I can’t even joke about it.”
“You have bad taste in crushes, Perse. And given how many crushes you get—”
“Shut up.”
He laughs as he catches my glance toward Cadet Pon, who of course isn’t looking at the likes of me.
We slide onto the couch, our buddies making room. Just as I’m about to ask if anyone knows what is going on, the sound on the screen goes silent. Ji-na’s ribbons continue to weave flowing patterns in the air.
Senior Captain Ray strides out and places himself on a portable speaker’s dais set in front of the screen.
We all jump to our feet and snap to a still and silent attention like a baby protoceratops sensing a hunting azhdarchid. Regular sessions of any kind are led by our drill instructors. The presence of the commander is unusual, and unusual means bad.
The senior captain is a small, wiry man with the sour face of a person stuck at a job he didn’t want and couldn’t refuse. I have a lot of sympathy for his situation. His gaze rakes us.
“Stone Barracks. You’ve survived five years at the Central Defense Cadet Academy. Out of 150 in your original cohort, you have a graduating class of 139. That’s the best retention rate of the 20 cohorts that make up the year-five brigade. Combine that with your attendance record, your overall aggregated test score of 90.54, and of course your four-year streak winning the brigade hockey championship. I’m here to tell you that you’ve won the graduation prize. Through cooperation and support you beat the other 19 cohorts of your brigade. You’re number one.”
A wave of restless excitement pours through our assembled ranks, but we remain silent because we haven’t been given permission to cheer.
“In honor of your triumph I’m here to tell you that you’ve already been passed through your final exams. You won’t have to take them with the rest of the fifth years.”
A shocked murmur runs through us.
“This makes you the best and brightest of the citizens of the Republic of Chaonia. You will become our first defense against the Phene aggressors.”
His voice drops a tone, and we all lean forward like we’re about to catch something he intends to throw.
“We here at CeDCA all know that Queen-Marshal Eirene and her marshals have been readying a bold plan to halt Phene depredations forever. That’s why you’ll all be shipping out early, next week instead of next month. And today you’ll receive your placements. Dismissed.”
He steps down from the dais and walks over to talk to our drill instructors Chief Bu and Chief Dara. The still-silent screen segues from smiling Ji-na to a montage of last year’s second-place finishers, but the ping of an incoming message draws my attention away from the frivolous entertainment show.
Orange letters burn into the air, viewable only by me.
My heart stops. Metaphorically, of course.
Report to Naval Facilities Engineering Command, Beacon Division, Shield Fleet. Designator: Restricted Line Officer Beacon Engineer.
I dance around with my arms in the air. I can’t stop grinning. Everyone else around me is just as ecstatic. We’ve probably all gotten our first choice, even Solomon, who wants to be posted straight to the thick of the action.
A second message flashes.
All cadets allowed a five-minute call to their official contact: all classified information interdicted. Loose lips sink ships.
The noise level drops from cheers to the buzz of conversation as everyone clicks through. They’re excited to be given this chance to speak with their families and tell them whatever unclassified fraction of the news they can. I have no one to call. My “official contact” is a shell number that connects to an empty drop box nested inside the online menu of a nondescript ramen shop in the capital city. But I step toward one of the big windows, dip my head, and pretend to call, mouthing words to a listener who doesn’t exist.
After ninety-three excruciating seconds of faked conversation I close down the false call. While waiting for my friends to finish I grab a celebratory glass of pink dragon fruit soda and drain it. Cadet Kim starts sauntering in my direction, so I desperately look around for backup and finally spot Solomon. Given that Solomon is one of the most popular cadets in the academy, it’s odd to see him standing off by himself, head tucked to one side, talking to the back of his hand at an angle so no one can read his lips.
Weaving through the crowd allows me to avoid Jade Kim while coming up behind Solomon.
“No, sir,” Solomon is saying. “I don’t have anything else for you.”
He catches sight of my shadow on the floor. With a startled glance over his shoulder, he slaps the hand against his thigh to shut down the connection.
“Was that one of your uncles?” I ask. “Can’t your family ever be glad for everything you’re doing for them?”
He scratches his chin, mouth tight.
I’m ashamed of myself for having brought up such a painful subject, so I change my tune with a bright smile. “What posting did you get?”
“I got what I needed,” he says with a rare frown. “My family will be okay now.”
Around us, cadets link arms and start singing the traditional “Hymn to Victory.” The big screen shifts to a close-up of last year’s Idol Faire winner, a young musician popularly known as the Handsome Alika. He’s a charming sight—any winner of Idol Faire has to be either genuinely good or visually enchanting, and he’s both—but that’s not what stops me dead and kills the joy in my heart.
The sound has come back on, but the in-room feed is drowned out by the cadets’ singing. However, I can hear the unseen announcer’s slyly teasing voice through my personal feed, a few milliseconds delayed from the in-room feed, the gap so small most people wouldn’t notice.
Will the Handsome Alika return to compete again in this year’s Idol Faire? What’s he doing right now in preparation? Follow us for our daily check-in on where Princess Sun’s goodwill tour has taken her and the stories of the citizens fortunate enough to have met her in person!
The view spins dizzily skyward from an overhead image of the republic’s capital city of Argos, pulling out into space. The camera’s eye twists past the triple wheels of Orbital Station Hesperus and falls into the bright prism of one of Chaonia System’s five beacons.
A rainbow splinters across the screen. Experienced from outside, the passage through the beacon takes place in the blin
k of an eye. Viewers are dropped out of the beacon into Chaonia’s sibling solar system of Molossia.
At first the image zooms out for us to see the system in its entirety. Channel Idol never loses a chance to remind its audience that we’re at war. Molossia System is the main staging ground. Heavy cruisers and fast frigates spin a slow defensive patrol around the second planet, Yǎnshī, which anchors the crucial beacon to Troia. The fifth planet boasts the triple-wheeled Naval Command Orbital Station Pánlóngchéng and twin adjutant orbitals, as well as a constantly shifting array of ships like so many minnows flashing in the shallows of a vast ocean. The main munitions depot and military and civilian shipyards orbit the third planet. Here, ships freshly birthed from the yards undergo inspection and complete space trials while battered cruisers and frigates limp in from the front lines for repairs and refitting.
The camera’s view narrows back to the beacon that’s in high orbit above the fourth planet: Molossia Prime, with its famous marble-blue glamour shining against the black of space. The announcer’s voice turns gaggingly chirpy.
“After five busy months building morale at factories and training camps, the princess and her Companions have been allowed a week off for a little fun in the sun.”
A dizzying plummet drags the viewer’s eye toward a balmy archipelago stretched along the equator. The focus narrows to a cluster of reef-ringed islets and at last zeroes in on a solitary yacht afloat amid the blue calm.
The Handsome Alika sits in the shade of an awning, plucking at the strings of his famous ukulele. But it’s not him or the instrument I care about. It’s the group he’s part of. He’s no striving pipa player or impoverished scholar poet or risk-taking frontier adventurer, hoping to make it big and thus buy a permanent residence or access to education for a struggling family. He’s really the Honorable Alika Vata. He already has it made.
