by Melissa West
All along I’ve been jealous of him, of how quickly he moved up the rankings. I’m the future commander, my spot has always been known, but he’s from Landings. Most of the top seeds have been children of Operatives, all from Prospect. Jackson had no previous training or help to get him to that spot. I admired him. And now I find out it was all a lie. He didn’t succeed on merit; he succeeded because he’s an Ancient.
“Hey, aren’t you listening to me? I was— Ohhhhh!” Gretchen follows my gaze. A wide smile stretches across her deep brown face.
I blink a few times and rub my right eye, faking an eyelash. “What?”
“Blast, Ari, when did you fall for Jackson?”
“Ugh! Like I would fall for an An—other.” My eyes fleet to hers, but she’s still smiling.
“Uh-huh, so why are you avoiding the question? Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She twiddles a transfer pen against her locker, the ping making it all that much harder for me to come up with a decent excuse.
“No. No, it isn’t like that. I was just thinking that today I’ll face him in F.T.” I need to learn to lie better.
“Face who?” I spin around to see Lawrence Cartier, the third in our little group, coming toward us. He sweeps me into a tight hug and smiles over at Gretchen. “So…?”
Gretchen and I exchange glances. “So what?” she asks.
“Who were you talking about?”
“Oh, Ari faces Jackson in F.T. today. We were just talking strategy.”
Law’s face sours. “I don’t get it. Why do the girls have to fight the guys? He’s three times your size. It isn’t—”
“It’s fine,” I say. “Size doesn’t matter—you know that. Besides, I’ve been the best so far.” Barely.
He bites back an argument, raking a hand through his shaggy brown hair. He has that hair girls would kill for, and it gets him almost as much attention as his large brown eyes and flawless olive skin. Girls notice him everywhere he goes. And maybe part of that is his future title, but I think it’s his easygoing attitude combined with his innocent face, though maybe that’s because I’ve known him forever. “Well, let’s hope you’re right,” he says. “I’d hate to have to break his jaw.”
I almost laugh. Even though Parliament trainees take mandatory combat classes, fighting was never Law’s strongest skill. Thankfully, Gretchen pats his shoulder in that condescending way she does and says, “Nice thought, Lawrence, but we both know you better leave the fighting to our girl.”
I smile uncomfortably. “We’ll see how I do. We should get in there before the bell rings.” I grab a few transfer pens and a notes tablet from my locker and follow Gretchen into the F.T. gym. Law waves to us as he heads to the library, a fitting place for Parliament trainees.
My next class is called Field Training or F.T. Once we hit high school, we were forced to decide our career paths, and all of us juniors are well into career training now, which means everyone who plans to become an Operative like Gretchen, Jackson, and me has to face off. Of course, not everyone will make it through true Op training. Dad likes to remind me of that fact when I’m struggling with one of our morning trainings.
The gym is two stories with the same bullet-absorbing silver walls of my training room at home, but this room can hold ten thousand people. It’s huge, which to me seems crazy considering as far as I know only our Pre-Operatives class—twenty-five boys and girls—ever use it. I glance to the center of the gym. Stationed in the middle of the floor is a large, thick mat. Aerial boxing.
“Uh-oh,” Gretchen says, nodding toward the mat. “You ready for this?”
“Of course,” I say, but inside my nerves wind tight. I draw a breath, forcing myself to calm down as Gretchen and I head toward the girls’ locker room to change into our training clothes. Like the ones I use at home, these are made of a formfitting, stretchy material, although these are black instead of gray. Girls can choose tank or regular sleeve tops to go with the pants. I reach for a tank and a pair of pants before heading to my training locker two rows away. I sit down on the steel bench in front of it and start to run through my moves in my head. I consider Jackson’s size and strength, the various techniques I’ve seen him use during practice rounds, all of this making me glad that we’re doing aerial boxing instead of floor combat. On the floor, it’d be next to impossible to outmatch him one-on-one without a weapon. Aerial boxing is different. It’s all about speed and balance. Those who can control their bodies win. Those who can’t face-plant on the mat. I’ve been in both positions, though I’ve never lost to a student.
When we exit the locker room, Coach Sanders, our seven-foot, balding instructor, is standing beside the aerial mat, legs braced and hands on his hips like we wasted his time dawdling in the locker rooms and he is irritated. Coach is an ex-Operative, as tough as they come, and with an impatience level that rivals Dad’s. He’s known to yell first, ask questions later. I pick up the pace and jog to the mat.
“You know your order,” Coach says. “File into line with your opponent.”
I scan the crowd to find Jackson sitting on the ground. As the two top seeds, we’ll fight until the Engineers feel one of us is superior to the other. He spots me and winks. Fury lights up inside me, and I almost rush over and demand he answer my questions. How dare he act like he deserves to be here, like I don’t know exactly what he is? He leaps up and struts over to me. “Ready to eat mat, Alexander?”
What’s up with guys only using people’s last names? I laugh and stretch my arms over my head, then stretch from side to side, resigning to keep up the charade. “Hmph, we’ll see.”
Jackson leans down to put himself at my eye level, a sly grin on his face. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you win.”
“Alexander and Locke,” Coach yells before I can respond. “You’re up.”
I glare at Jackson before walking off. Gretchen grabs my arm as I go and whispers, “He’s tough. Fake a knockout if you have to.”
I shoot her an annoyed look. I may be small, but I’m strong. “I’ve got this, Gretch,” I say and then head to the weapons station for gloves.
I take my time finding the right gloves. Too big or too small and I’ll be screwed. Finally, I slide into a pair and flex my hands. When I turn back, Jackson is on the mat, jumping around like he does this in his sleep. A tinge of worry seeps into my mind, but then he winks at me again. Ugh! I won’t lose this fight. Blasted, arrogant Ancient. I’m going to lay him out flat.
I run forward and leap into the air, cutting flip after flip until I land in front of him. Coach laughs. “Good luck, Locke.” And he presses the buzzer.
Everyone and everything is silent. My gaze holds on Jackson. I try not to notice the way his blond strands shadow his eyes or the way his body flexes as he prepares to strike. These aren’t things to notice in an opponent—especially not now. I feel my breathing escalate, hear it release in short bursts. I attempt to close down my mind, but I’m wrecked with thoughts and worries.
He’s a smart fighter. I can tell by the way his eyes never leave mine; he knows our eyes shift before our bodies do. And he’s fit, but not just his upper body, like most guys. He knows the importance of our legs, how their strength determines our speed. That’s when I realize he’s not just an Ancient, he’s a well-trained Ancient, and he’s chosen to pretend to be from Landings instead of Prospect, which means he’s not just a trained fighter. He’s smart enough to blend in. Blend. Every possible scenario of what he is and what that means rips through my mind and I’m left with only one word—danger.
Suddenly, anger over the fact that he’s been fighting for months now, all the while pretending to be human yet knowing he has the advantage as an Ancient, pits my stomach. I rush forward and jab just as Jackson spins away from the contact. He wraps his arms around my waist, tosses me to the mat, and pulls back his arm to punch. I leap up and his fist finds the mat. I flip backward and bounce around. I can’t be on the defensive. I can’t lose control. I pull my arms tight, adjust my focus, and f
orce all fear from my mind.
I am the next commander.
I whip around, surprising Jackson with a kick in the gut. He stumbles back with a breathless laugh. “Oh, really?” he says. Then he’s in my face. “Sorry, Alexander.” And he punches me in the jaw.
My head snaps back, and my mouth fills with a metallic taste. I lick away the blood from my bottom lip and try to shake off the throbbing pain. Anger bubbles from my chest, and I lunge for him, kicking and swinging, unsure of anything but the force of my movements. I want to beat him. I’m going to beat him. I pull away and he stumbles again, shock written across his face. I fight the urge to spit at him and instead push him farther backward.
“Bring it,” I scream, and then narrowing my eyes and lowering my voice, I whisper, “I’m not afraid of you.”
The arrogance drips from his face, replaced by something more real. “You should be.” And he flips forward. But my dad taught me well—I know the flip will alter the cushion around his brain just enough so when I slam my fist into his face, it will do more than cause blood; it will lay him out.
Jackson lands in front of me just as my fist connects with his temple. His balance wavers, his head bobs, and then as though in slow motion, his body falls to the mat.
For a second, I’m too surprised to move. We aren’t supposed to use knockout moves in class, and I’m unsure whether to celebrate or apologize to Coach. But then Gretchen storms the mat, wrapping me in a tight hug.
Several of the other students clap and congratulate me. I allow a small giggle to release before glancing at Coach. He seems to be deciding whether to yell at me or congratulate me himself when Jackson stirs. He leans up on his elbows, and I stare down in amazement, a small welt the only sign that he was hit. He should be down for at least half a minute, not five seconds.
Blasted Ancient.
Coach looks as annoyed as me. “Well, if you can walk, get off the mat,” he says to Jackson. “O’Neil and Martin, you’re up.”
I consider helping Jackson to his feet but decide better of it, bounce off the mat, and pass my gloves over to Gretchen—she has my same hand size. “Good luck,” I say to her. “You’ll do great.”
She smiles nervously, heading to her spot on the mat. Like Law, fighting isn’t Gretchen’s thing. She’s the genius of our group, always the one with the highest test scores. Her having to fight almost feels wrong, but fighting is expected of us. We are training to become Operatives, after all.
Jackson walks up beside me, interrupting my worried thoughts. “Nice work,” he says. “Surprisingly.”
I sputter, prepared to really let him have it, when he motions to the mat. Lexis Martin, Gretchen’s opponent, bends her knees and flexes her hands. She looks like she’s preparing to snap Gretchen in two, and maybe she is. Everyone knows Lexis is a psycho. Built like a guy, total muscle, and with at least a foot on Gretchen. I try not to worry. Gretchen has had some advanced training like me, but not on the same level and not against someone like Lexis.
Gretchen jumps around on the mat, and Lexis follows. I shift my eyes from Gretchen to Lexis and back. Timing is everything, and one of them has to start. My palms itch from fear and nerves. Lexis lunges forward, sweeps Gretchen back, and decks her in the face.
Blood trickles from Gretchen’s nose.
I take an unthinkable step forward when Jackson grabs my arm. I glare at him, but he’s right. I can’t intervene. Stepping in isn’t considered brave on my part; it’s considered selfish, reckless, even. Besides, Gretchen can handle this. She’s—
Another blow and another. Her body falls back. Her head drops to the side. I suck in a sharp breath, my arms shaking from the tension. I lunge forward, then back, and forward again. Jackson’s hand is still on my arm. Gretchen throws up her hands, signaling she’s done. Coach calls the fight. The winner is supposed to step off the mat.
Instead, Lexis slams her fist into Gretchen again, and Gretchen collapses to the mat, gasping for breath. That’s enough for me.
I wrench my arm free of Jackson’s grasp and charge forward, diving into Lexis. She rolls over and I jump up, preparing to kick her in the face, when someone lifts me from behind. “Hey!” I scream and lash against the person encaging me.
Jackson sits me on the mat like I’m a child in a tantrum. He doesn’t say anything, no one does. I know what I’ve done. Operatives are all about pride, and I’ve just risked Gretchen’s.
Coach doesn’t yell at me. Instead, he walks over to Gretchen, who is gushing blood. “She’ll need the medic,” he says to no one in particular.
“I’ll go,” I offer, even though he could buzz Dr. Tavis from here. Coach nods, and I head toward the medic station just outside the main gym doors. I don’t notice that Jackson followed me until I reach for my keycard and feel his hand brush past mine. My skin tingles with awareness. He slides his card at the door and waits for me to go inside.
We walk down the short hall in silence, the air dense with our unspoken thoughts. It’s the perfect opportunity for me to question him, but with Gretchen hurt I can’t interrogate him the way I’d like. Something tells me he knows that. Finally, we reach the medic’s counter at the end of the hall, relief flowing through me at the break in tension.
“We need healing gel, please,” I say to Dr. Tavis, who is seated behind the small counter.
He furrows his gray eyebrows. “Another F.T. injury?” he asks, clearly getting tired of treating us all the time.
“Yes, but nothing serious. Just a flesh wound.” Dr. Tavis nods, pulls out a tiny jar, and stuffs it in a clear coolant bag. The bag is so cold it burns against my skin, but I refuse to flinch. I grasp it and walk back out the door, Jackson following.
I’m about to turn around and ask the most important question on my mind—Why are you here?—when he says, “You were right to intervene.”
I stop. “What?”
There is no one else in the hall. No one to wonder why we’re talking. No one to see this moment of weakness in Jackson, a boy who defines himself by being mysterious and aloof. I spin around to face him, my words tumbling out before I can stop them. “No. There’s no honor in what I did. No—”
“Pride?” He gives me a mock grin. “You define what makes you proud, not someone else, and definitely not rules that would have you watch your friend get beaten. There’s no pride in that. You were right to step in. I would have.”
I’m taken aback, feeling more and more awkward that we’re having this conversation instead of the one we need to be having. I look into his eyes. They’re a strange mix of blue and green, like God couldn’t decide what color to make them. “You’re one to talk about honor.”
He closes the distance so we’re inches apart and whispers, “Tonight I’ll explain. Just please, for now, trust me.”
I study his face, which shows no signs of our fight, though I can feel my bottom lip swelling. I’m trained to trust no one, definitely not an Ancient. Yet I don’t have a choice. I need answers…at least that’s what I tell myself. “Just one question, then.”
He waits.
“Why didn’t you report me?”
He pauses, allowing his eyes to connect with mine, a slight smile on his face. “Who says I didn’t?” I suck in a sharp breath and he laughs before turning to walk away.
I want to scream for him to explain, but more and more students are filtering into the hall. I have no choice. I have to wait until tonight.
When I get back to the gym, everyone’s rushed off to next period except Gretchen, who is sitting up. Apparently Coach canceled the rest of the fights for the day. She gives me a weak grin, and I hand over the healing gel. “Want me to help?” I ask.
“Nah.” She forces herself to stand up. “I’ll see you in history.”
I pack up her things and then grab my tablet and transfer pens. I’m about to leave when Coach shouts my name from across the gym. My stomach sinks. Here comes the bawling out I’d expected earlier.
I follow him into his small of
fice and sit in one of the two metal chairs in front of his desk. I glance at the composite wood walls, the five framed pictures hanging haphazardly around the room, and then drop my gaze to my hands, intertwined in my lap. I wonder if he called my dad. Maybe I’m being sent home. But surely what Lexis did was worse than my knockout, which didn’t even really knock Jackson out.
“Do you know why I asked you here, Ari?” Coach finally asks.
I shake my head. “No, sir. I’m sorry about the knockout. I didn’t…” I stop myself. I don’t want to say I didn’t mean to, because I did, and I’m not one to lie—well, not usually.
He laughs. “I’m surprised your father didn’t tell you. I recommended you for early training.”
“Early Op training?” I ask, sitting up taller in my chair. I thought only Dad could recommend early training, but he would never want to show favoritism by recommending his own daughter. He has never liked that being commander is my birthright. He’d rather I kill myself trying to advance, earn it the way he did. “Thank you, sir,” I say. I fight to keep the excitement from my voice, and then doubt slips into my mind. Did he recommend me just because of Dad? Because of who I am instead of what I’ve done?
“Sir, the recommendation. I’m not sure I should accept.”
Coach gives me a puzzled look. “Alexander, you’re the best I’ve got. The best I’ve seen in years. You deserve this.” He holds my gaze. “Don’t doubt that.”
I can tell by his expression that he’s genuine. “So what does that mean, exactly? What do I do?” I ask, smiling.
He leans back in his chair, a giant grin on his face. “Well, you still have to complete testing, but you will participate in some early lessons with other Pre-Ops. I know you see a lot of this stuff already, but I think it would be beneficial for you to experience being an Operative from someone other than…”
“My dad.”
His face turns serious. “Yes. You’ll receive details later today. Congratulations.”
I leave his office in a complete state of euphoria. Early Op training! And I did it without Dad’s help. Sure, I’m the future commander, but I don’t want to just go through the program. I want to be the best. I want to prove to Dad that I could do it whether I was guaranteed a spot or not. I don’t want to give the other Operatives a reason to doubt me.
