The Raging Ones

by Krista Ritchie

  Resting my arm on the wall, I put a cig between my lips. I only take one drag before he swiftly plucks the cigarette from my mouth. And stomps it beneath his boot. That little …

  I blow smoke into his face.

  He shuts his eyes tightly. Burning.

  I end up pinching mine closed, the stinging worse than I predicted.

  “Why?” he snaps like I’ve gone and put us in a bind.

  Our eyes flit open together. “Why what?” I point at him. “You started it by being a real nasty crank. I might as well have strapped the world to my back. Sometimes I can’t think right when I’m feeling what you feel.”

  Court glares at the ceiling. His eyes roll before he jiggles the key and unlocks our door. We enter a flat too small to escape each other.

  I plop on a creaky cot and fight my wool coat off my arms. Cursing all the while. Then I bundle it in my hands.

  Brick walls insulate the heat all right. But wet, heavy snow fosters mold, creeping from floorboards to ceiling. Too far away from city-center for reliable electricity, Court torches two lanterns for light and the fireplace for heat.

  Fleece blankets. Two rickety cots. Sink and bath basin, water pail nearby. It’s not our lack of necessities that drives me mad.

  Two years in this gods-forsaken city and I still cringe at the enclosed, musty space and insufferable neighbors above us. Jumping like they’re high-strung Babes. Boom, boom, boom.

  Dust, dust, dust.

  Pluming from our ceiling onto us.

  Spending the first eight years of my life in remote, northern Grenpale villages couldn’t prepare me for city living in Bartholo. Nor did the next eight years alone as a Hinterlander: wandering across the unforgiving Free Lands with barely anything but ice and snow in sight.

  And while I see myself more as a Hinterlander, my time in Grenpale forged me. I still carry the Grenpalish accent. A deep lilt that I’ve been trying desperately to rid these past two years.

  I wrench off my long-sleeved black shirt. Now bare-chested but warm.

  On the nearby windowsill, I reach for a crumpled paper. My brows knot as I try to read the flyer, center-stamped with the triangular StarDust emblem. Black with three gold stars. No one in my Grenpale village could read. The one book my pa found, he threw in a fire for kindling.

  I rub my temple, remembering what Court taught me. For months, he’s fed my brain Influential knowledge: mathematics, language, histories. After I concentrate on vowels and letters, words begin to make more sense.

  StarDust Wants You!

  The worldwide association of aerospace research and travel is seeking skilled Influentials to make history. Become the first to voyage into space in over 300 years. Enrollment begins on March 24, 3525, at Altia’s Museum of Natural Histories & Figures, 892 North Rimerick Road, Yamafort, 9 o’morning. Enrollment fee is 5,000 nonrefundable bills upon arrival. Bring one bag with your belongings.

  Only five will be hired for the prestigious Saga 5 Mission. Good luck.

  The smallest print at the bottom reads: The Saga 5 Mission will last beyond all deathdays. Expect no return home.

  One-way travel suits me. I haven’t much to return to anyways.

  We have much greater problems.

  StarDust only wants Influentials. And in Grenpale, none exist. My northern lilt is better than it was two years ago. I’m sure of it—but will it ever be erased completely?

  I dunno.

  We have to pass as Influentials. I’m far from one, and Court is a Fast-Tracker.

  The thought gnaws at my brain. My sole talents were built from harsh climates. Right beyond the winter wood. In a country landscaped by snowcapped mountains, isolated from electricity and most everything else.

  Grenpale depends on hunting and crafting durable shelter. Not the comforts of a market or a damned hotel.

  I still don’t fully understand Influentials. Maybe I never will.

  When I met Court at sixteen to his fifteen, I was a Hinterlander, and I hadn’t bathed in countless months. He asked me if I had any soap. I wasn’t sure what he meant by that.

  Without pause, he said that I had a stench about me. I’d been alone for so long that my smell went unnoticed.

  And I wonder, every now and then, if I still have that stench. If it’s something that won’t ever be washing off. If these Influentials will be sniffing me out.

  But to pretend to be Influentials and enroll in StarDust, I need to adapt as well as Court.

  I crumple the paper in a tight fist and notice that Court unbuttoned and shed his suit and waistcoat. Bare-chested among flickering flames. Eyes barbed and muted gray.

  He steps closer to where I sit just to adjust a water pail on the fire.

  I grimace at the old scars puffed along his muscular abdomen. Cutting crudely along his ribs. Slicing up his collar. Deep and light, they mar him and rip through black inked designs. Ones that I learned city Fast-Trackers often wear: the inked scorpion on his arm, spider on his side, crocodile across his back, snake threading a gnarled wound above his heart.

  I asked him why the extinct animals. Court doesn’t believe in the gods or a better world than the one that exists today and cold-blooded reptiles and arachnids represent a time before the Great Freeze.

  All he said was, “I’d rather immortalize the creatures that basked in heat than the ones still living in frost and snow.”

  He despises the foundation of this world while I just loathe most people.

  And I’m no stranger to scars. Claw marks from snow leopards became a right of passage for most Grenpalish children and I gained even more as I wandered on my own. But the ones that Court has—they aren’t from the type of beasts you meet in the wild.

  If anyone should leave this pitiless world and travel as far away from these people, it needs to be him. I unfurl the flyer again.

  Kneeling on one knee, Court nudges a log with an iron poker. Windswept hair hangs over his brown lashes. Fire crackles, swarming the wood, and an ember sizzles on his cheek.

  In effect, it tickles mine. I roughly itch my face—a damned reflex.

  “Mykal?” Court breaks the quiet and cranes his neck over his shoulder. “I don’t need your sympathy.” Without even a glance beforehand, he felt me.

  “And I won’t be needing your foul attitude.” Using my thumb, I flick my forefinger at him.

  Court stares blankly. “You forget no one understands that vulgar gesture but you.”

  “I taught it to you—so you understand at the very least.” I picked up the flick of the forefinger from my pa, a village Fast-Tracker who gesticulated and cursed at the gods during twelve-hour hunts. Then I shared the knowledge with a few other Grenpalish children my age.

  Court tosses the iron poker aside and stands. “When we enter StarDust as Influentials, you can’t act like you’ve been to Grenpale,” he reminds me like I never understand this.

  I lived in Grenpale.

  Every time a lady gave birth, they’d swaddle the newborn in a blanket. Before they returned the baby to the ma, they pricked the tiny heel with a Death Reader. A small two-pronged, handheld thing.

  It looked like a strange gun with a flat screen. The only tech I’d ever seen growing up.

  Minutes later, the Death Reader would reveal the newborn’s deathday. Babes and Fast-Trackers would return to their ma. All Influential newborns were willingly sent to another country.

  To Altia, Orricht, or Maranil. Where Influentials thrived.

  The night a lady gave birth to an Influential, my village celebrated. The child will be living fer forty years, did you hear? Grins and hugs and toasts of ale.

  I was surrounded by Babes: those who would die between infancy and twelve years.

  I was surrounded by Fast-Trackers: those who would die between thirteen and twenty-nine.

  Influentials were nowhere to be seen: those who’d live past thirty extraordinary years, some even reaching a hundred and fifty before they say goodbye.

  “Influentials are me
ant fer somethin’ greater than this harsh life, Mykal,” my pa said, nudging my head with a rough, affectionate hand.

  He never said it bluntly, but I heard the meaning. Influentials have enough years to improve our world. To learn. To progress. Fast-Trackers only have enough time for a laborious life. To work. To endure.

  And Babes.

  Babes have enough time to live however they like. In whatever way.

  Really, they have no time at all.

  I buried my pa when I was just eight. He lived to be twenty-six.

  He’d even helped me dig his own grave.

  I thought about those Influentials as I laid him to rest. They seem to live forever. While the remainder of us just do what we can in our time.

  I scratch my jaw and smooth out the flyer. That’s just it, isn’t it? If I never grew up around them, I can’t pass as one of them. Not well.

  But Court can.

  “We only need five thousand for one enrollment fee,” I say, proposing a new plan that excludes me. “You might be able to steal as much again.”

  Gray eyes pierced upon me, Court freezes cold.

  A shiver snakes down my neck.

  Beneath his breath, he murmurs, “Don’t.”

  I won’t be holding my tongue. Not about this. “There are some things deep in my blood that can’t dissolve. This’ll never be working for me the way that it’ll be working for you. As soon as I show up, they’ll know I’m not one of them.” I shake my head, gaze lifting uncertainly to the ceiling. “It’s just as you said. Influentials aren’t in Grenpale. You’re the closest thing I’ve come to one, and you’re not even an Influential. You’re a damned Fast-Tracker.”

  Court crosses his arms, muscles bulging. When he wears his silly suit, you’d never realize how his body reflects the long, backbreaking hours he’s spent sparring me. Toning his torso and shoulders.

  Vorkter Prison cut his muscles down. Broke him until there was nothing but skin and bone. Every day, he fights to grow stronger than the day before.

  I fight because it’s what I’m good at. When I dress in those same silly suits, I’m unable to hide the definition in my arms and legs. Influential clothes wear me more than I wear them.

  Court is the better liar. He’s the better deceiver and I’m not gonna be the one to drag him down.

  Before I add this, Court says, “This doesn’t work without you.”

  I snort. He’s become the illogical one between the two of us. “It’d work far better without me than with me. You have a chance on your own. You bring me along and we might as well check in for two cells at Vorkter—and don’t act like you’d be okay with going back. After all you’ve told me, I’d never fucking believe you enjoyed that wasteland.”

  Vorkter’s crimson fortress juts out of the blinding white landscape like a bloodred spear, visible only from the Free Lands. I never crept close enough to enter, but I heard the curdling echo of imprisoned men and ladies. They wailed like vicious predators and petrified prey all caged together.

  Court motions to me with two fingers. “Stand up.”

  At his command, I glower but rise.

  Before I open my mouth, he says, “You’ll be fine.”

  “In no time I’ll be ruining you, Court.” My eyes pulse cold. “Can you see that?”

  “No.” The strength in this single word shuts me up. “It’s not what I see.” In two assured steps, his legs touch my legs. His towering height surpasses mine. “And it’s not what I feel.”

  Silence.

  It speaks as loudly as the palpitating, aching sentiment that beats at me.

  My chest collapses with each deep breath and his follows suit.

  Court holds the back of my head. I feel the movement like my own. Like his hands are my hands. My hair is soft like winter wheat between his fingers.

  I stand as rigid as him, but this strange force inside begs me to seek comfort in his presence. To draw closer, to be nearer.

  Skin to skin.

  Heart to heart.

  Our eyes glide along one other, muscles flexed in taut strands, beads of sweat building across our chests. Heated more from these riled sentiments than the fire.

  I lick my dry lips. “What are you getting on about—”

  Court lifts my callused hand and places my tough palm on his bare shoulder. At the touch, he intakes a heavy breath. Or maybe I do. Not knowing the origin, him or me, sends a ripple of fear down my spine.

  He’s afraid too.

  Another breath, his or mine, tickles my lungs. Our eyes meet. The longer we stand this close—the longer we touch—my nerves respond. Tingling and blazing like the bottom of a flame.

  Dizzy, I blink a few times. Doubled emotions. Twice as strong. I’m here but I’m there.

  In his narrowed eyes, Court so much as says, You feel what I feel; I feel what you feel. His thumb brushes my hand and my veins throb with his.

  I keep a firm grip of his shoulder.

  This connection was forged in an instant. Not over time. Not as we grew to learn about each other. Our attachment stems from a place that has no title or history. No one would believe us, and so after a while, we gave it a name.

  Our emotions and some senses are linked, we say.

  Court clenches my hair as though to plead, Hear me. “I have no chance without you, Mykal. If I leave you behind, I’m still here. We’re still here. I’d feel you every day across these lands, and if that happens, we both might as well be in Vorkter.” His palm falls to my neck. To show me. To remind me.

  Why we can’t split. Even if we wished to.

  I almost rock forward, to place my hand on his cheek. On his head. To hold him closer.

  I stay put, our hardened eyes digging into each other. Filled with pained, lonely times and emotions we’ve been sharing over the course of two brutal years.

  I try to fight this link, a futile battle, but I try for his sake, at least. My nose flares. Bones grinding against the pull.

  My abdomen and arms and legs coil taut. And I bear down hard on my teeth. Eyes welling and scorching. I dig my fingers into his shoulder.

  His stoic face never reveals what his emotions do, but if my eyes well from my resistance, so will his. I watch the water brim.

  He will always feel what I feel. We can’t escape this.

  “Mykal,” he says through gritted teeth.

  My head thumps. “Years or distance could break our link. Then you’d have no reason to care. Think about this.” It’s the last argument I have.

  He processes my words quickly. Court always feels like he’s running out of time. Urgency is an undercurrent to his emotions, no matter which one.

  “And what if it never breaks?” he questions. “I’d never take the risk. I’d never leave you here, Mykal.” We stare strongly at each other. Our hearts thud with the same beat. Same speed.

  It frightens me first, then him. We don’t move in farther, fearful of being too in sync.

  I resist the pull that urges me to him. I grit my teeth again. I might as well bang my fists against brick, but I force my feet back. Our hands fall from each other.

  Court used to say that I found him.

  I used to say that he found me.

  The truth is that we found each other, and while it never goes without irritations, I’m as afraid of losing this link as I am of strengthening it. I’d do anything for Court, but maybe he’s right. We lose if I stay here and if he goes alone.

  We have to work together. There’s no other way.

  I just nod in agreement and plop back onto the squeaky cot. Together, then.

  I settle with this.

  While Court grips the water pail with a mitt to remove it from the mounting flames, I toss the balled flyer at his cheek.

  Without even flinching, it bounces off his jaw and falls to the floorboards. His ill-humored eyes land on me. “Everything with you is short-lived.”

  “At least I’m able to hold a smile.” I kick my leg onto the cot and find a piece of dry root to
chew on. It helps curb hunger and boredom and thankfully Court has grown used to the woody taste.

  In jest, you’d think he’d flash a grin. Even a mocking one. But no. Seriousness fixes his features. I watch him pour warm water into the bath basin.

  “Were you always this sullen, Court, or did Vorkter steal your smile?”

  He eyes me over his shoulder. “I don’t understand—what is a smile?” No lift of the lips or glimmer in his gaze. He tilts his head like he’s over the banter before it’s even begun.

  I grin into a laugh. “Your attempt at a joke was mortifying. Please don’t ever do that in front of me again.”

  Court straightens up, empty pail in hand. “You have the smallest room to talk about mortifying. Yesterday, you—” The pail slips from his fingers, metal clattering against the tub.

  I gasp a lungful of air, suddenly jolted up. What is … My head heavies. Blinding cold dizzying me. I press the heels of my palms to my temples. My body quakes, my throat abruptly dry and raw.

  “Mykal.” Court grimaces.

  “It’s not … me,” I grind out. Is this his agony? I try to reach him. Only a few paces away. He grips the sink basin for support. Shivering profusely. I feel his teeth clank together. Mine throb.

  Then a crushing weight slams at my shoulders.

  He rests his forehead on his hands. Knuckles white. I barely hear him breathe out, “It’s not me either.” We both grit down, head-splitting yells between our teeth.

  Pain wrenches us to our knees.

  Something icy wets my cheeks, my nose and ears.

  We both look up, but flurries aren’t falling through the ceiling of our flat. I pat the floorboards, but my fingers skim powdery snow. In reality, there is none. Cold blankets me in familiarity. Outside.

  I’m outside.

  Though I’m inside. Court is inside. Which means …

  Court’s eyes lift up to mine, filled with recognition of what this is and what’s to come.

  Our senses. Our emotions.

  We’re being linked to someone else.

  FOUR

  Franny

  When I wake, I inhale sharp, brittle air with a panicked gasp. I tremble, teeth clanking and, with terrified spurts of breath, my gaze darts from side to side. Yellow stains wet my ankles and discolor the snow. Someone took a piss on me.