The Raging Ones

by Krista Ritchie

I recoil, dust fluttering on my shoulders. Boom. I flinch. The ceiling clatters. I protectively shield my head with my arms. This happens every other day, the tenants upstairs either jumping in joy or fighting one another. I like to pretend they’re lovers. It seems happiest.

  Boom. Still, I haven’t grown used to the noise. The worst outcome: the ceiling is going to cave in. I’m going to die here.

  “Franny, look at me.”

  I hesitantly force my gaze from the ceiling—boom. Back to the ceiling. “It’ll crush us.” I scan the small flat for an escape, for safety. Away from this death trap.

  Boom.

  I stand.

  Court stands. He clutches my arm, gripping tufts of soft black fur from my coat. A stolen or bought pair of slacks, white blouse, and a bra beneath, discomfort everywhere I turn. “You must grow accustomed to formal and business attire,” he’d said. One of the worst parts of being an Influential has to be this bra.

  But it’s not the most difficult part.

  You must grow accustomed to living when you should be dead.

  That is.

  “Shhh,” he coos, not as warmly as you’d think. He draws me closer and my raging pulse starts to slow in time with his.

  My arms ache by my sides and his hand hovers beside my cheek, tempted to put his skin to my skin. Touch heightens the link, I remember. He fights the urge and stays put.

  “One hundred and thirteen,” I mutter to myself over and over.

  “A hundred and thirteen what?” Court asks while I convince myself that I will live so very long.

  “It’s my deathday.” I have to have one. So I won’t be frightened to the bone by every gods-awful noise. All my life I’d made peace with dying. I wanted it more than anything and now the very thought of death terrifies me.

  The infinite possibilities plague me like a sickness.

  Court stares straight through me as though he understands this feeling. Like he’s met it a long time ago. Then he says, “You die at a hundred and four years. It’s written on your identification. You can’t tell people differently.”

  “I know,” I say tiredly, “but I can tell you, can’t I?” I blister at his stern features that say no. “Court—”

  “You’ll slip up. It’s easier if you pretend you’ll die at a hundred and four at all times.”

  I huff, encumbered by so many restrictions and customs I need to remember. I just thought … with them I could be more myself. Like a Fast-Tracker. Why does he have to snuff out the only fragment of light?

  I try to be calm, my shoulders dropping, and I expel a breath. “Will you tell me I’m safe?” I shouldn’t even ask.

  Court is a fortress of miseries and cold realities that now belong to me. He towers above my frame, forehead lowered toward mine, staring down. “I won’t tell you you’re safe because none of us are. It’s why you must study.”

  And why he refuses to waste time talking about himself. And why he’s asked little about my life unless it pertains to StarDust. I’m not sure why I even care to know more about him, when he doesn’t seem to care to know about me. Maybe it’s the fact that I can feel his emotions, his senses, and I’d like the full story, not just the bits and pieces he’s offered me.

  But I respect his reasons enough to plop back down on the cot without arguing.

  Court remains standing, putting distance between us and I feel more like a chump for panicking in the first place. Over a ceiling.

  If I start believing the sink basin will kill me, I’ve gone absolutely mad.

  From the towering stack of books, I reach for the heaviest text. My head still pounds from trying to read World History: From Ancient Civilizations to the Thirty-Sixth Century. A hefty book that Court apparently stole years ago to teach Mykal about our world.

  I remember the part about Influentials spending most of their time and funds studying agriculture, and since the Great Freeze of 2501, StarDust has done nothing more than collect data and pretend to have the resources to do more than it can. Last Court heard, the Saga 5 Mission was supposed to dust the cobwebs off the aerospace department.

  I already asked what the mission entails and why now, after all this time, they’re focused on space travel—and what the aerospace directors at StarDust are searching for in a candidate.

  It appears as if Court knows everything—he is a know-it-all through and through—but he knows next to nothing about this. He shook his head and said, “I’m uncertain.”

  The mission is cloaked in as much secrecy as StarDust itself.

  I’m not confident about our odds and Court keeps talking about how we don’t even have the bills for enrollment yet. It stresses him more than my poor reading.

  Too exhausted to dive into the dense history text, I focus on my other novel. I spot the end of the sentence. More confidently, I read, “… that swam … deep in the … okean.”

  “Ocean,” he corrects.

  I frown and inspect the word. His certainty binds me.

  I wish he’d mention his childhood in Yamafort, but he acts as though that life died with his deathday—and he was reborn again. At least Mykal tells me about his “pa” and Grenpale and the Free Lands. I once asked how Court knows how to read.

  Trying to cross the cavernous hole between us.

  Just once.

  He said, “It’s not important.” Even if it is to me, he still considers it inconsequential.

  I stifle my hurt and move on.

  “Heaviness,” I read, “… weighed deep—” Boom.

  I jump.

  Someone cracks a smile in amusement. I feel their lips upturn at me, but Court’s remain pin straight. I turn my head, half expecting to find Mykal, but he left early this morning. He felt me from far away. As I concentrate on Mykal a little harder, a chill whips along my cheeks.

  I shiver, not searching for a draft. Mykal is outside in the snow, dedicated to catching game for us to eat. Just this morning, I asked them why Court couldn’t just buy meat or thieve it from a market.

  Neither spoke a single word. I sensed Mykal’s disgruntlement coiling uncomfortably around his ribs. Then the pang of pity from Court.

  It caused Mykal to slam the door on his way out.

  The link granted me a deeper perspective of their feelings. So I realized then that Court can steal all the essentials to survive. He could thieve a loaf of bread, cheese, and even the meat.

  But what makes Mykal happy cannot be stolen.

  Boom.

  “Mayday,” I breathe.

  “Franny.” Court sinks onto the cot, the open space beside my head. I stare up, lying on my back as he stares down. I thought he’d chastise me for using a Fast-Tracker curse, but he doesn’t scold.

  His shoulders bow toward me, leaning down so close our noses almost kiss, and he whispers, “A hundred and thirteen.”

  My lips part. He’s letting me pretend with him, even if it could cause me to “slip up” and fail? Even though it also grants me security. And comfort. “Are you sure?”

  Court nods. “Just with me.”

  “And Mykal?”

  “And Mykal.”

  So I whisper, “A hundred and thirteen.” Don’t be afraid. I trace the flaking gold-foiled title on the blue hardback. A Tale of Two Pirates. My pulse slows. “Later, it’s my turn.”

  He stiffens. “Your turn for what?”

  I begin to smile.

  TEN

  Court

  After her reading lessons, Franny leads me outside. A lilac tint shadows the snow, overcast at two o’noon. I seize a blazing torch beside the creaking door and swiftly peruse the deserted area, only rickety brick buildings lining snow-blanketed curbs.

  No watchful eyes.

  No one who’d take interest in us.

  The outskirts of Bartholo contain far more noise indoors. People prefer to leave the cold, not enter it. We may be the only bodies along this very stretch of road.

  “This way.” Franny gestures me forward while tucking her chin and lips beneat
h her fur collar.

  My black wool coat braces against the wind. I easily maintain her brisk pace, unaware of our destination, but I trust Franny to the same unspoken degree that she’s trusted me. This link isn’t easy to maneuver, but in the past month with her, I’ve found footing. I no longer fear she’ll leave us if I voice an opinion contrary to hers.

  Our boots sink into the snow, her stockings beneath pleated slacks providing warmth. She reaches up to her chest and grabs at the underwire of her bra. Her angered breath smokes in the air.

  “Stop fidgeting,” I snap. I don’t like nagging her or Mykal, but as the days end and the nights begin, as our time slips through our fingers, we lose the ability to make mistakes. A month from now, I don’t want to look back on this day and regret not doing more. Not saying something. Not helping in my own aggravating way.

  “Says the boy who doesn’t have to wear one of these things,” she spits back and then abruptly stops. I halt and watch her combat the undergarment, shifting it up and down, right and left.

  I wait, trying my hand at patience. It’s not easy.

  “Fykkin—”

  “Franny,” I say, my voice rising.

  Her eyes pin to mine. “This contraption is ridiculous. Ungodly. Who would want to cage their breasts?” She reaches to her back where the clasp is located.

  “What are you doing? You can’t take it off,” I say hurriedly, looking around. The street is emptied, but that’s not what concerns me. Franny has been excelling at studying—picking up words and equations much faster than Mykal. But it’s her impulsive behavior that causes me to panic about our future.

  “Why not?” She struggles with the hooks, grunting in effort. “It’s an undergarment. No one will know if I’m wearing one or not.”

  “Influentials will. It’s for … support.”

  Her fingers pause over the clasp before she drops her hand and her eyes. “You can tell?”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. An unabashed, common Fast-Tracker would be fine in any other circumstance, but where we’re going people would pause at her question. “You can tell?” They would stick their noses up at her bluntness.

  Part of me wants to stand by her side and spit at those people, the other part—the stronger part—needs her to be someone she’s not.

  “They look more…” I cringe, stopping myself. “They look supported. And I know it won’t make a difference, but I can feel how uncomfortable it is, and I agree … it’s ridiculous.”

  She lifts her head slightly, hair hanging over her eyes. “You’re wrong,” she tells me.

  “What?” I frown, confused.

  “It does make a difference.” She tilts her chin up in the air. “If I have to wear this thing, then I’m glad you’re uncomfortable too.”

  Of course. “We agree on something then.” I reach into my coat, my gold-plated watch warm from being in my pocket. As silly as Mykal sees my attire, I hate wearing the dress suits and formal coats. Every extra button suffocates and binds me. I only do it when it’s necessary to fit in.

  Today, outside of city-center, it’s not as dire.

  Franny situates her bra and then picks up her pace. We head for the street and pass a skeletal shrub in an ankle-deep snowy trek.

  She endures the raw air as well as a Fast-Tracker would, more resilient than some Influentials. I should be pleased by her strengths, by Mykal’s, but for some gods-forsaken reason, I choose to fixate on their failings.

  When I possibly have even more.

  “As soon as my lesson starts,” Franny says with a measured breath, “you’re to put that away for good.” She nods to the watch, brown eyes ablaze, but the foils in her hair dull her authority.

  The gold casing lies in my gloved hand. Uneasy, I clasp my fingers around the watch, hiding it from view.

  Her brows curl, as animated as her eyes. “All the way away,” she instructs, trudging one step ahead of me as though to say, I’m your teacher.

  She is, but I still have no idea what she plans on teaching me. As I reach her side again, I don’t tuck my watch in my pocket.

  Franny shakes her head once and then stares straight ahead. “Aren’t there papers in schooling telling you how awful you’ve been?”

  “Report cards,” I say. We walk carefully onto the iced street, salt only spread on city-center roads.

  “And what do teachers write on report cards?” she asks.

  I eye her, but she purposefully observes the street. Even without the Fast-Tracker hair, the piercings, the clothes—she’s proud. I carry her sentiment like its my own, so foreign and unusual.

  If I’d ever been proud of myself, I buried the feeling. Long, long ago.

  “They give letter grades.”

  She contemplates this. “Then if you don’t listen to me, you may receive your very first P.”

  My brows rise. “P?”

  “For poor.”

  I roll my eyes. “That letter isn’t used in academia, and you can feel elated by calling me poor, but you certainly wouldn’t be the first to award me a bad grade in school.” I used to back-talk if I thought the teachers were wrong.

  They didn’t appreciate my tongue.

  Franny suddenly falters, just slightly, at the knowledge of me attending school. Fast-Trackers aren’t allowed to go, but we’re not barred from learning on our own time. She might’ve assumed I taught myself all that I know.

  Which would be a lie.

  I went to school. To university. I’m educated beyond recognition, beyond perception.

  My gait is nothing short of rigid. I wait for her to pry, and I’d struggle to explain a life I’ve hidden and tried desperately to forget. My muscles constrict, my skin colder than the glassy ice beneath my boots.

  Don’t ask. Please don’t ask.

  And she asks, “What is the proper letter then?”

  I swing my head to Franny, surprised. It pains her to not question me; I feel every morsel building between us like a jagged mountainside. But I’m thankful. I would rather crash against stone—I would rather crash against her than regurgitate my past. And I hear Mykal in my head, pleading with me to let her in, to not treat her like a stranger. My stories aren’t wild tales like Mykal’s, beautiful on the tongue. I can’t so easily speak them.

  So I accept the mountain between us.

  Quietly, I say, “The worst letter grade is an F.”

  “You’re close to an F,” she says before marching ahead. “Keep up!”

  I inhale strongly and lengthen my stride to match hers. Halfway down the road, our eyes meet constantly, but we stay silent. Then she abruptly stops beside a lavender car, the Altian insignia painted on the door.

  Franny spreads out an arm, showcasing the abandoned Purple Coach. She plans to teach me to drive.

  “No,” I say instantly, fist tightening around my watch. “If someone—”

  “Sees us?” She simmers, already prepared to combat me. Am I that predictable? “What if someone saw you stealing hair dye in the city? Or bills? Driving is a useful skill. I’m not trying to start a stew with you over it.”

  I cringe. “Don’t say that.”

  “What?”

  “Stew. Use fight or quarrel. Stew is something you eat.”

  Franny fumes, lips tightened. “Now’s my turn, Court. Please.” She’s right. Driving can be useful and I have no knowledge of cars. Not even the slightest.

  I nod tensely and then I drop my head to peer through the car window, my dark brown hair sweeping my forehead and neck. The gray seats are ripped and a rodent built a nest on the back windshield’s dashboard.

  “Before you enter the car, you have to inspect its current state.” Franny bends to the tires and angles toward me. She tugs on the spiked chains, secured. “If these come loose, you’ll spin out.”

  I listen more intently, especially as she wanders around the vehicle and pops the hood. I realize I’m clueless about machinery and the new terms even surprise me. I ask a few questions and find myself poc
keting my watch.

  Torch in my hand, the flames illuminate the car’s mechanisms.

  Franny gestures to a metal cylinder, eyes lit bright. “The power steering enables the car to turn sharply.” Her finger drifts as she lists off, “Pump, fluid, belt, hoses, and steering gear, which includes the rack and pinion.”

  I watch her more than I do the car and she notices.

  “What are you doing?” Franny slams the hood closed and then forcefully tugs open the car door. I think she’s prepared for me to piss all over her profession.

  I grip the frame of the car. “Remembering how smart common Fast-Trackers are.”

  She tries to hide a smile, one beginning to form. Then it vanishes entirely. “What—you thought I was dumb? Really?”

  Yes. “You thought I was a god,” I say with an edge.

  Franny rips my hand off the door. “You’re driving—and I only thought you were a protector of the gods because I thought I died, not because you look like one.”

  I roll my eyes again. “Fine.”

  “Fine,” she mimics me since I told her not to say all right if she can help it. I digest the first portion of her rant.

  “Wait. I can’t drive.”

  Franny already opens the passenger door.

  “Franny!” I hiss.

  She slips inside, leaving me no choice but to follow suit. I stake the torch in the snow and climb into the driver’s seat.

  Anxiety mounts, the wheel right in front of my chest. Pedals beneath my feet, the odd gearshift in the middle—I have no idea what to do. Franny stretches over my body and shuts my door, locking the cold weather outside.

  “Ignition.” She rattles a heavy string of master keys; I missed her motion toward the ignition. “Key. Each model car has a different one, so we use…” She clicks open the empty glove compartment, a code scrawled on red tape. “45B3.”

  My hands hover over the wheel, afraid to touch everything. “We should switch seats.”

  “You’ll never learn if you don’t experience it yourself.” She unhooks the correct key that corresponds to the code. I expect her to lean forward and fit it in, but she passes the key to me.

  “No.”

  “Yes,” she refutes. “Stop being so stubborn. You won’t wreck. If anything happens, I’ll grab the wheel and take over.” Then she prattles on so quickly about shifting gears, the gas and brake pedals, the rearview and side mirrors, directions tumbling in and out of my brain.