by Anna Vera
But nobody is there. The whole office is empty, except for its furniture and a few scattered papers, one of which sits on top of all the others, typed and written in English.
I freeze up in the way everybody does when presented with a morally repugnant—but tempting—opportunity. I glue my eyes to the adjacent blank wall. Don’t look. There is no need to look. It is not your business, Eos, I tell myself in a chant.
But if it were so private, why leave it out in the open?
I chew my lower a lip, fighting an internal war.
Oh, damn it to hell.
I’m skimming through it, at least.
Attention: ORA BRANCH 50
Mentors and Specimens of Branch 50 have been gifted the honor of executing mission PIO Morse. The success of this mission determines the fate of the Project itself, and is to be executed with absolute precision.
Four leagues from Branch 12 were selected to execute the task of capturing the PIO Morse target and failed in less than thirty seconds after landing on Earth. All leagues are suspected to have died, yet without physical proof, no conclusions can be drawn.
The first league deployed from Branch 50 will be that of the leading officer’s. Should this league fail, as the last four have, the league charged by the counsel’s second-in-command shall deploy as a replacement. If both leagues fail, PIO Morse will be passed on to another Branch.
Unauthorized movements of any kind will result in the prompt execution of the perpetrator at hand (without trial) and all involved. PIO Morse is not to be discussed with any persons outside of the mission unless approved by—
What the hell is—
“Eos Europa?”
“Yes, sir?” I snap to attention as Pavo walks in, his eyes as blaringly off-putting as his sister’s. “My apologies. I thought you were inside, so I let myself—”
“No matter.” Pavo refuses to sit. His eyes, depthless and oddly suffocating, ransack mine. I try twisting my expression into something akin to disengaged, but don’t fully succeed.
He snatches up the letter and without hesitating—without a single, suspicious glance at me—shreds it into fine, wispy pieces, swiping them off his desk and into a nearby trash can.
Finally he says, “To what do I owe this visit?”
Trying to keep my hand from trembling as I do so, I dig a fist into my pocket and extract my termination order. The slip is wrinkled, ink bleeding out like red cobwebs. I thrust it forward so he can take it, begging my impassiveness not to fissure.
Pavo accepts it and reads fast. “I’d thought . . .” He stops and glances vacantly at the wall opposite him, clutching the slip tight in his thin fingers. “I’d thought for certain you’d deploy.”
“Likewise, sir.”
“Onyx has failed you. Under what grounds?”
“I think it’s written on the slip, sir.”
“Right—of course.” Pavo pauses to read it. Then, after a few moments of silence, he huffs a sigh. “Your Psych Eval. Tragic.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The slip isn’t finished,” he says at last, indicating the blank space at the bottom—a jeering insult; salt sprinkled over an open, aching wound.
I swallow dryly. “Oops.”
Pavo extracts another red-inked pen, leaning forward so he can write on his desk, and to my absolute astonishment I see a spider crawl sheepishly out of his pocket.
“Sir,” I practically shout as it clings to his untucked shirt.
“What shall I write in this space, Eos?” he asks, unaware.
“I’d prefer groundskeeper, I guess.” I gulp in an inadequate effort at swallowing, my sole focus off my own turmoil and on the mystery that is that spider.
Spiders do not exist on the Ora. They exist on Earth.
Which means . . . Pavo has recently visited . . .
“Hm.” Pavo poorly feigns intrigue. “Why is that?”
“I enjoy being outdoors,” I say, and it isn’t a lie. Pavo writes the request in, filling up that gaping blank space, and folds the slip into a crisp, white envelope.
His eyes meet mine. They’re distant, as though suddenly he’s forgotten why we’re standing here. And practically on cue, I see the spider scamper over the surface of his desk.
There’s only one explanation for this . . .
I don’t know what possesses me. I walk past him, eyeing the arachnid sharply. Pavo pauses, watching—his face twisted with disconcertion—as I hover my fingertip ominously over the spider’s long-legged body.
And press down on it. Hard.
Why would Pavo go to Earth? For what reason?
And how did he manage without the CORE’s permission?
Pavo clears his throat, apparently disinterested in defending himself in an argument that’s indefensible. Spiders don’t live very long lives, and that alone indicates he’s visited Earth recently.
“Does the lead officer need the CORE’s permission to take a podcraft to Earth, Pavo?” I inquire mock-innocently, wiping the guts of the spider off on my pants. “Or does a man such as yourself have superiority over those basic limitations?”
Pavo wets his lips. “Superiority, of course.”
“You’ve gone to Earth recently.” Not a question.
“Why don’t you,” he goes on sternly, with an entirely colder disposition, “focus on what’s pertinent to you: groundskeeping.”
I stare daggers. Calling him out wasn’t supposed to set him against me, but to gauge if he’s ally-potential. If he’s got access to a podcraft without the CORE’s permission, and if he wanted me to deploy so badly . . .
No, Eos. Don’t go there. That’s crazy.
I croak out a halfhearted “thank you” and head for the exit of his office. I’ve nearly left when I hear him add, “You’ll begin your new duties tomorrow, Eos. At dawn.”
“Marathon?” I ask.
“Indeed, that’s where you’ll start off.” Behind me, I hear the shuffling of paperwork. “You’re dismissed, Europa. I bid you an enjoyable future in your chosen occupation.”
Chosen, I think with an indignant sniff. More like sentencing.
i leave Pavo’s office feeling like I’ve been uncapped and spilled all over the floor.
I’d promised to meet Merope afterward. A huge part of me wants to tell her everything—the way Pavo glared distantly at the blank wall after hearing I wouldn’t deploy, and how weirdly bothered he’d seemed by that fact.
And that spider!
When, and why, would Pavo have recently visited Earth?
Despite wanting to tell Merope about all this, I figure it’s best kept to myself. For now, at least. She’ll be deploying in a month with the rest of my league; they’ve got bigger things to bother themselves with.
So this afternoon I skip past her pod. Mine is located farther down the hallway, almost at the very end, and thankfully I make it there entirely unnoticed.
My pod’s doors hiss in my wake. I go ahead and dial a code into the keypad that keeps it locked to all but the authorities, my desperation for privacy at an all-time high.
The room is small and dark, lit up in a wash of blue-green light cast off Earth, filtering in through my window. Alone for the first time since failing, I feel the deeper sides of myself shift and strain, threatening a collapse.
I keep it quelled.
So you failed. What does it matter? Prove yourself to be the best groundskeeper the Ora has ever had. You may never see one of the Muted face-to-face, let alone kill one, but the upside is that you’ll—
I hiss through gritted teeth. There is no upside.
Suddenly I’m all too aware of the linoleum floor, the sheets of metal quilting the walls. How easy it would be for me to rip them up, leaving this pod in smithereens.
Compose yourself, Eos.
And so I do.
Taking the sw
irling chaos inside, I roll it into a condensed ball of marbled emotions, and tamp it mercilessly into the deep, dark recesses of myself—like a secret drawer, where I’ll keep it all hidden away forever.
Though, that drawer does shudder slightly when I turn and see what’s lying on my bed. A folded uniform. Gray. A jumpsuit with a large pocket over its breast sporting an embroidered name that I wish so badly wasn’t mine.
Branch 50: Eos Europa
Groundskeeper
I exhale sharply, willing myself to refrain from picking it up and throwing it haphazardly across the room. Instead, I find the wherewithal to carry the uniform to my desk and leave it there, folded neatly for tomorrow morning—set to begin at the ungodly hour of 4:00 AM.
I sit on my bed—its old, coiled mattress springing as wildly as a trampoline beneath me—and glare at my uniform.
I drop my gaze to my upturned palms, begging for a skillset ability to suddenly emerge. My hands lie open, facing the ceiling like sunflower heads following the trajectory of the sun, and give in to a private beg. Do something. Please. Anything.
Nothing happens.
Do something, damn you!
I’d never assumed I’d be powerful. I’d only assumed that at the very least, I’d be competent.
That’s what my genetic coding was for, after all.
But I’m a glitch. A bug.
A lemon.
The next morning is so cold I can’t stop shivering.
The atmosphere feels thin. My gray uniform doesn’t do much to stop the chill. Why meeting at 4:00 AM on the weekend is necessary is beyond me—yet here I stand, shaking in the damp and miserable cold of Marathon.
I rake a hand through my silver hair—an unusual side-effect of my modified genetics—with waves as frizzy as a dandelion’s spores, and take in the Master Groundskeeper, a man who has proclaimed himself “Huckleberry.”
An earthly, native-born name if I’ve ever heard one.
“You’re going to work like a slave,” he says without a hint of good humor. “Get used to being dirty. Get used to mud crusted under your fingernails, and rocks in your boots, and days passing without a spoken word to anybody but the trees.”
I cringe. “Sounds delightful.”
He plows on. “The solitude is something you’re just going to have to adapt to—hours, days, years of regular isolation. This is a solitary job, and it can sometimes get lonely.”
Huckleberry’s eyes lift, adopting a shade of sympathy, but also joy, like the look people take on when they’re knee-deep in commiseration. “That’s why I recommend reading.”
“You do a lot of reading?”
Oh, of course he does.
Huckleberry.
“I do.” The Master Groundskeeper gives me a sly wink as he pulls out a lofty, sun-bleached volume titled A Collection of Shakespeare’s Works.
After an abrupt toss, he says, “This is a favorite of mine.”
“You’re giving it to me?”
“I’m letting you borrow it—for now,” he clarifies.
“Well, thanks.” I run a fingertip over the gilded, embossed letters of the tome and smile weakly.
We turn a corner shortly afterward, finding ourselves in a large plot of tilled soil. Heaps of plants—still entrenched in their temporary, plastic crates—wait to be repotted, their leaves green but slightly wilted.
So we’ll be planting today . . .
I sniff, my nose running against the cold. Overhead, a large fluorescent light fixture casts rays of a deathly white glow over all the arena, leaving it colorless.
And to know, I think bitterly, that my league is sound asleep in their pods right now, dreaming blissfully of their pending deployment.
Meanwhile, I’m here.
Here and looking distinctly like a prisoner who’s fulfilling a long sentence of community service orders, with a book serving as her sole replacement for daily human contact. Because that’s a real thing that’s really happening.
This will be my life.
This will be my life until I die.
Huckleberry says, “I’m going to teach you the best ways to raise crops on a spaceship of this size and caliber. Though it’s still cold outside, now is the best time for planting.” He glances at me appraisingly. “You’ll learn why.”
I reply via deadpan stare, thinking, Oh, I’m sure I will.
The Ora’s every branch is assigned a time zone, ours being all territories from Arizona to Montana. It’s mid-winter there right now, and though I know I’ll learn why later, I can’t imagine how raising crops now is advantageous.
Huckleberry grunts, dropping to his knees before a crate of large-leafed plants. I watch as he digs his bare hands into a heap of mud and begins forming little holes.
After a stilted pause, he glowers up at me.
I sigh. “Are you going to make me—”
“Yes, I am,” he grumbles.
“Right. Okay then,” I concede, setting my things neatly out of harm’s way then kneeling beside him. A blooming chill seeps through to my kneecaps, indicating the soil’s wetness.
I chew a lip and say, “Now what?”
“Here.” Huckleberry thrusts a plant into my hands before I’m able to adequately argue about it. He doesn’t speak again, letting me learn through observing his techniques and copying them as he goes.
Eventually we fall into a rhythm of planting.
We start talking a little too.
I notice a plant with a cluster of dead roots and snip them away without Huckleberry’s guidance, and his face lights up in a way that a parent’s might after their kid’s first steps.
“There ya go,” he says brightly, his face a map of webbed and broken capillaries; eyes wreathed in wrinkles after a lifetime of working in the sun.
And perhaps, ages ago, smiling occasionally.
“See? Not that bad,” he says.
“Well it’s not rocket science,” I say modestly.
“It’s harder than it looks, but you’re doing quite well. I think you’ve got yourself a green thumb.”
“We’ll talk again tomorrow, if they’re still ali—” The words die on my tongue. Across the way is my league, all four of them standing in the fast-paced wake of Onyx.
As usual, Merope’s the first to notice, her skillset granting her a heads-up. The others follow her gaze shortly after and see me here, digging bare-handed in the mud.
I feel my face burn.
I thought they’d be sleeping. Stupid. They’re scheduled to deploy in a month! Of course they’re going to spend as much time as possible training and preparing.
Preparing for PIO Morse, probably. What I’d give to be a part of such an important Purpose.
To top it all off, I think I’ve just insulted Huckleberry.
“It’s a hard job,” he mumbles, his voice thick with gravel as he follows my line of vision, “but somebody has to do it. Right?”
I yank another flower out of its pot. “Right.”
An unmet gaze gnaws at my periphery. I tell myself it’s okay to look up—just once more, and that’s it.
Onyx is looking right at me, face as blank as an unpainted canvass, lips taut. I don’t look away, waiting for her to be the one to break eye contact—and when she does, I’m grateful for it.
Our temporary exchange was like that of two strangers.
Then she leaves, taking my league with her.
Aside from that, I didn’t receive a single signal to indicate anybody had even noticed—or remembered, or cared—about me. Even Merope kept her eyes averted, and she’s supposed to be my best friend. Are they really so ashamed of me they’d be willing to forget about my existence altogether?
I feel like I’ve been slapped.
Maybe I really am a nonentity now. Maybe Huckleberry is right and it’s ti
me I got used to being lonely and ignored. That’s what happens to people like me, right? To the people who do the behind-the-scenes work?
I pick up a watering can. “Let’s plant these,” I mutter.
He stops me, placing a weathered, dry hand on my forearm in a lumbering and heartfelt gesture. “It’s not that bad.”
“What’s not that bad?”
Huckleberry’s eyes find mine again. “Being me.”
My chest constricts.
God, I’m such a self-righteous, self-absorbed, self-everything ass!
“I’m sorry,” I say, resting a hand on his. He heaves a sigh, lifting his pale-blue eyes skyward, toward Earth and the moon and the stars.
“I failed my exam twenty-seven years ago,” he divulges. I keep my hand on his. I do the math and realize that’d make him around forty-seven—which doesn’t make sense. Every specimen knows the Project began breeding specimens like us no earlier than thirty years ago . . .
I let it pass, noticing Huckleberry’s grave demeanor.
“It was all I ever wanted,” he goes on. “To fight as a soldier placed on the front line—just like you.”
“How do you know I want that so badly?” I whisper.
“Those.” Huckleberry’s eyes point to my arms, spotted with cuts and bruises leftover from sparring. “I work the arena more than anybody else; I’d see you out here every day, trying to get people to practice with you.”
For some incredible reason, I feel my throat tighten.
“Those specimens you just saw . . . They your league?”
“Yes,” I say.
Huckleberry fixes me with a sad stare. “They will all die,” he says chillingly, speaking with such utter certainty I’m left gaping and speechless. “They will die, and we will always be left behind, wondering if we could’ve helped them.”
Then he drops his gaze to a tuft of thistles, and with bare hands, he begins ripping them up from the roots. And while he takes his anger out on the weeds, I take it out on my palms—my nails digging deep, hands forming fists.
