by Sage Sask
THE CIRCLE
TAKEN
sage s.a.s.k.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2019 by Sejal Badani
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by SBSK Entertainment
ISBN-13: 9781733579384 (ebook)
ISBN-13: 9781733579391 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 9781733579339 (hardcover)
Cover design by My Custom Book Cover, Robin E. Vuchnich
Printed in the United States of America
First edition
To the Team at the Table:
To the start of a lifelong partnership.
Thank you.
THE CIRCLE
Head of the Readers: Serafina
Alexia
Sawyer
Shane
Gavin
Phoenix
Melanie
Jackson
Victoria
Adele
Liana
Mark
Oliver
Ian
Head of the Agents: Harrison
Cassia
Derrick
Jackie
Hudson
Samira
Cameron
Evelyn
David
Levi
Ella
Zoe
Henry
Ryan
The Council:
Michael
Rochelle
Kenji
Catarina
Leif
Celeste
Tatum
Veda
We live in the dark
The light shines for the chosen
The rest of us left frozen
Not in the snow or heat
but with empty minds and severed feet
No choices no hope
Dreams for those who are foolish
Who believe in a life before Judas
They speak of smiles and laughter
All we have is war and disaster
In the days after this
Imagine myself a writer
Putting words on paper
But ashes in place of the skyscrapers
Homes of drifting crates
A tsunami of heartbreak
Lives buried beneath the sand
People in line like soldiers
Handouts of food then a nod of thanks
Dreams for those who are foolish
Who still believe in a life before Judas
- Alexia
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
The hard fist comes at the girl from the left. She throws her arm up — the fist slams against the bone above her wrist. Pain radiates from her arm to every part of her body. She takes a deep breath through her torn lip, preparing to respond, when the boy pivots and slams his fist into her stomach. She doubles over, gasping for breath.
“Breathe through your nose,” the instructor orders the girl. His cold voice lacks sympathy. He motions for the boy to hold up both his fists in preparation. “Again.”
There is a roomful of them. They range in age from six to sixteen — friends and siblings raised together. Paired with someone of the same age, they fight one another. Every day, hour after hour, they train like soldiers to test their strength.
“Ready,” the girl insists. Losing is not an option. It was a lesson learned long before she could remember. “Again.”
Sure the boy will go for her face; she raises her good hand and wraps her fingers into a fist. The gold ring her mother gave her years ago digs into her skin. The boy swivels on his heel. His foot strikes, and the girl flies forward. White spots dance in front of her before a black curtain of unconsciousness starts to shield her.
“You are too weak.” The instructor shakes his head in disappointment. “You will never survive.”
His words serve as a bucket of cold water. The girl forces open her eyelids. The instructor towers over her; his thick feet spread evenly. At over six feet, he is a giant to her eleven-year-old self. Around them, the rest continue their battles.
The girl struggles to stand, desperate to prove him wrong. Barely finding her feet, she walks past him and toward the waiting boy. Taller than her by a few inches he is also stronger. He eyes her, curious. The girl nods once, as if in defeat, then pivots and slams her foot into the boy’s abdomen. He staggers back. The girl takes advantage and slices him across the leg with another blow. He falls to the ground. He grips his leg in pain. Sweat pours down his face.
“It’s broken,” the boy whispers.
The girl winces at his agony. She moves to help him up when the instructor stands between them. He glances down at the boy, and then back at the girl.
“Finish him,” the instructor orders.
The girl steps back, sure she has misheard. “What?”
“The loser should never be left standing.” He points to the boy. “He is weak. You have the advantage.”
On instinct, the girl shakes her head. “I cannot.”
“Cannot or will not?” the instructor demands. Around them, the room falls silent, entranced by their exchange. “You think he would give you the same courtesy? You are a fool if you think he would spare you.”
They are all watching her. The instructor’s disappointment and disgust cut through her. Maybe, she fears, he is right that she is too weak.
“He is my friend,” she whispers, trying to explain. “It is not right.”
“There is no right or wrong in war,” the instructor seethes. “Only winners and losers. And you have shown your hand.”
“No. She has shown her heart.” The woman who enters is dressed in all white.
“Mama,” the girl says. She starts to explain, but her mother raises her hand for silence.
“Sei forte, mia cara, si?” her mother asks in perfect Italian.
The girl stares at her mother before assuring her she is strong. “Si, Madre, sono forte,” she replies.
The girl’s mother offers her a broad smile before turning a cool gaze toward the man. “Enough for today.” The man starts to argue, but on the woman’s look, he nods. She takes a clean cloth from her pocket and gently dabs at the blood on the girl’s lip. “You will resume tomorrow.”
“Mama.” Disappointed at her weakness, the girl starts to apologize, but her mother shushes her.
“You’ll get better tomorrow and every day after that until it is time.”
“Voy a ganar esta pelea.” The girl switches to Spanish. She promises to win the fight.
Her mother insisted she master five languages in total. The girl practiced for hours every week until she was fluent.
“How many are sick today?” the girl asks when her mother falls silent.
“Three.” The worry dances across her mother’s face. All around them, their people are ill or dying from the serum. “We gave them the antidote, but there is little left…” She shakes her head and offers her daughter a smile. “We must focus on you. Soon the time will come.”
Her words are more powerful than any punch in training. “What if I don’t want to go? To leave my family?
”
The girl wraps her arm around her waist and drops her head. It is the same question she has asked before, but each time, she silently hopes for a different answer.
“We don’t have a choice.” Coldness replaces the warmth, and her mother’s eyes narrow in warning. “You are the only hope. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mother,” the girl answers, a well-trained warrior. She will follow directions. Always.
The woman grips her daughter’s hand and squeezes. The pain starts at the girl’s spine and travels like a speeding train toward the base of her skull. She imagines a white light to shield her from the pain as her mother taught her to do. The vision begins like a movie in a darkened theater. The girl closes her eyes and carefully watches it.
The ocean water is cold. Deep within its recesses, the girl struggles to breathe. Her mothers’ hands push her above the surface. She starts to swim when there’s a searing pain in her abdomen. Through the clear blue waters, she sees a throbbing red scar etched into her skin. She turns to ask how she got it, but her mother pushes away.
The waves lap over the girl’s head. In the distance, she sees the shore, but it seems impossible to reach. With a deep breath, she pushes forward. Her arms swing side to side as her feet kick the water in perfect rhythm.
The sun beats down on her as her feet finally touch the sand. She falls onto the beach, exhausted. She lays her hand on the scar. The broken skin burns. She searches the ocean’s horizon, but there is no sign of her mother. Other than the gold ring encircling her finger, she has nothing left from her life before. Tears course down her cheeks.
The girl yanks her hand out of her mother’s. Immediately the vision starts to fade, along with the pain.
“What did you see?” her mother demands.
The girl tries to catch her breath. She searches for an answer about the vision, but nothing makes sense. “I’m in the water.” She expects to see shock and surprise on her mother’s face, but finds neither. “I’m lost.” She fights the tears that threaten. “Why am I lost?” she begs.
“Because it is the only way.”
ONE
I pound the pavement, feet in perfect rhythm. With every step, I yearn to outrun the hazy memories, but they hug my heels. Sweat glues my half-ripped shirt to my body. After searching for a belt, I have settled for a string to wrap around my waist in the hope of keeping the oversized shorts from falling. With a quick flick of my fingers, I push chocolate-brown wisps of hair off my face and back over my ponytail.
As I run, my eyes automatically examine the face of every woman I pass. Searching and hoping are my ritual. At night, after everyone in the orphanage is asleep, I lie atop the mattress on the floor and daydream of finding my mother. Discovering her will mean that I will finally learn who I am.
A woman catches my stare. Her hair is the same color as mine, and her height matches mine. The excitement starts in my belly as my eyes widen. My pace automatically slows. The gold ring on my second toe suddenly feels heavier. I moved it there years ago after my fingers outgrew its size.
“Do you know me?” I whisper, glancing cautiously at the safety patrol officer nearby.
She continues to stare at me, her face shifting into awareness. I reach out to touch her bare hand with mine. With one touch, I am sure I will have my answer. She glances at my approaching hand and steps back.
“You need to leave this area,” she murmurs. “Now.”
“What?” I stop moving toward her, sure I have misheard.
“Get out of here,” she orders me quietly. “It’s not safe for you.” She glances furtively at an approaching safety patrol officer. “Excuse me.” She hurries away before I can make contact. I stare after her, anxious and wondering.
“What happened?” The safety patrol officer silently slides his hand over his gun as he watches the woman scurry away.
“Nothing,” I murmur quickly, trying and failing to make sense of our interaction. My mother would know me, not run away. “I thought I recognized her.”
His gaze searches mine. I stand completely still, ordering myself to breathe. Concluding, he jerks his head. “Keep moving. Curfew in an hour.”
I run past him. Uncertain about the woman’s command, I nonetheless turn into the old downtown of the city. I quicken my pace past an abandoned building. Deserted, it stands next to a heap of burnt rubble. Where a rooftop once was is now a gaping hole. The door, hanging off its hinges, creaks with a gust of wind. A half-starved rat scurries across the empty shelves.
Pushing faster, I take the first turn and enter what looks like a completely different city. The buildings, built after the war, glisten with bombproof material. I maneuver through small parked cars laden with dust. With limited fuel available, it is rare to see cars on the road.
I pass a balding man walking his dog. Like everyone else’s, his glance strays to my green patch. His expression hardens, but I refuse to react.
My green patch arrived the day after my sixteenth birthday. It was hand delivered by a messenger who waited for me to open the package and then finger swipe a tablet that assured the powers that be that I had received mine. Along with the patch was the date of my test.
Four times a year, the government sets up centers in each town to test newly minted sixteen-year-olds for their disposition to harm others. With the results, the government decides whether you live or die. Tomorrow I learn my fate. Until then, I am guilty until proven innocent.
I pass a bakery where the smell of fresh bread wafts through the door. On cue, my mouth waters and my stomach growls from incessant hunger. I slow down, unable to stop staring at the baskets of fresh bread on the white linen tablecloths.
Only when I spot another safety patrol officer do I move faster. They patrol twenty-four hours a day. I have seen even small infractions lead to an arrest or public berating. I drop my head as I move past him. I take the first turn into an alley. Only when I am sure he is no longer in my vicinity, do I release my held breath.
Bright lights greet me. Sitting atop the metal posts, they glare at me in the darkened alley. Nestled inside the bulbs are hidden cameras that watch my movements like a wandering eye.
I flinch against the glare as I maneuver between stacks of water-stained crates littering the narrow passage. A stray Siamese cat halts its search of torn garbage bags and eyes me warily. Barely sparing the animal a glance, I head towards the broken chain-link fence swaying in the wind.
“You want some?”
Surprised, I nearly trip over myself. I stare at a young man crouched beneath the awning. His dirty-blond hair spills over his chiseled face. His shoes are more expensive than any pair I have ever seen. A green patch flutters against his expensive clothes.
“What?” I ask.
He lifts a bottle and takes a swallow. “Help ease the pain of tomorrow.”
“No, thanks.” Afraid of being caught, I take two steps back. I steal a quick glance around to make sure there are no witnesses.
He runs his eyes over me. His gaze lingers over the tear in my clothes, but he barely blinks at the green patch.
“You live in the orphanage?” he asks.
Unsure who he is, I stay quiet.
He shrugs, seemingly unbothered by my silence. From his backpack, he pulls out a bag of dark chocolate and pops one in his mouth. “You ready for tomorrow?”
Famished, I stare at the bag. Though it has been years since I have had a piece, I can still taste the chocolate as it melted on my tongue. With barely enough money to afford food, luxuries like chocolate are unheard of in the orphanage.
“Here.” He pulls out another full bag and tosses it to me. I catch it with one hand.
“Why?” I grip the bag, fighting the urge to rip into it. Wary of the unexpected gift, I stare at him.
He smiles as if I have told the best joke. “Have a drawer full at home.” He glances at hi
s bottle. “Chances are I may not be around anyway.”
“You sure you’re going to fail?” I ask, wondering how he knows.
“Are you sure you’re not?”
The question settles over me like a blanket of death. Tomorrow the government may learn my secret. If they do, they will kill me. My chest suddenly heavy, I fight for the breath I was holding only moments before. If I die, it will be without ever having found my true identity. From the day they found me on the beach years ago, I have been searching. But with no memory of who I am or where I came from, I have remained lost.
“Right.” My mouth dry, I hold up the bag of chocolate. “Thank you for this.”
I slip the bag into my pocket for safekeeping. Without a goodbye, I resume my run. Curious, I glance back once to catch him staring at me. Unsure what to say, I turn away and start to disappear into the night when a loud blast shakes the ground.
The boy jumps up, and we both run to the edge of the alley. The bakery I just ran by is on fire, obliterated by an explosion. Everyone runs, screaming from the blast. I scan the area, searching, but the woman who warned me to leave is nowhere in sight.
“The Resistance,” the boy says, disgusted. “It has to be them.”
“How do you know?” They are the government’s worst enemy — a large network of people who evade capture at every turn.
He shakes his head in disgust. “Because they want to kill everyone.”
Then why did a woman I have never met before just save my life?
TWO
The brown-brick orphanage looms large in the distance. The converted schoolhouse is the only home I can remember. After the Atomic War, it housed hundreds of kids who had lost their parents. Sometimes, at night, when the building is quiet, I can hear the ghosts of the lost children crying. Now there are only forty of us. My roommate, Jenna, and I are the two oldest.
