by K A Riley
Trax and his Cohort break into a buffet of happy grins and gather around him.
Decked out in his military cargo pants and camouflage t-shirt, Granden looms over the kids in Cohort B like a drill sergeant.
Wisp directs each Cohort to gather at the start of the course. She makes a grand, sweeping gesture in the direction of the five stations, making a special point of drawing our attention to the sixth and final station—the Tap-out pit, recessed into the floor, like the dot above a lowercase “i”—barely visible way down at the end.
“Since this is a relay race,” Wisp explains, “the first step is the identification of talent and the allocation of your Cohort’s personnel. You have two minutes to decide who will attempt which station.”
We gather ourselves into a huddle while Cohort B does the same.
“Not fair,” Sara complains from her spot across from me. “Granden’s older and has a ton of experience.”
Libra’s lower lip juts out, and she presses her fists to her hips. “Wisp is going to make one of us fight blindfolded! I think she’s made it pretty clear that ‘fair’ isn’t high up on her list of priorities.”
Grinning, I rub my hands together, eager to jump into the challenges, fair or not. “No sense training us to fight fair in here when we’ll face all kinds of unfair odds out there, right?”
I may not be competitive, but I do enjoy a good punch up.
I’ve got the different possibilities for my preferred stations rolling around in my head when Arlo asks, “So…who’s going to tackle which station?”
I’m waiting for someone to step up, take the lead, and dole out the responsibilities. When no one says anything, I realize they’re all waiting for me to take charge. Even Ignacio, usually brimming with willy-waving, alpha masculinity, is staring at me, helpless and wide-eyed.
Is this part of the game? Figure out who’s going to lead and who’s going to follow? Come on, guys. We’ve been at this for months now. I’m a soldier, not a captain.
“Fine,” I sigh. “Here’s the order I think we should go in from Station One to Five: Ignacio’s our best sniper. Libra crushed us all in Mechanics. Sara, you’ve got the best marks in all the balance and coordination drills. Arlo, you’ve got decent reflexes—when you use them. Mattea’s got the best skills for puzzles and problem-solving. That leaves me to take the final fight.”
Ignacio gives Sara a light elbow to the arm. “Hey. What do you say we sabotage this thing?”
“Sabotage?”
“Sure. We’ll tank a couple of the stations, let Cohort B beat us in the challenges, and make Branwynne here have to jump into the pit blindfolded.”
Sara laughs, and she and Ignacio exchange a happy high-five.
“Knock it off,” Libra says. “We’re not going to lose on purpose.”
“We’re not going to lose at all,” Mattea adds through a clamp-jawed scowl.
Ignacio slaps a fist into his open palm. “Mattea’s right. Trax is pretty good, but all Chace can do is draw pictures and write stories. Lucid and Reverie are lost in their own little dream world. And Roxane’s a psychopathic waste of skin. That means all we really have to worry about is Granden. And he can’t participate in every event. So this should be a nice smooth ride.”
Sara gives us all a slow nod of agreement followed by an exaggerated sigh. “Still…it’d be kind of fun to watch Branwynne do her best imitation of a human punching bag.”
I don’t respond. I also don’t take my eyes from Sara’s as I slide my long black hair into a ponytail.
Too bad I can’t face you in the pit. Now that would be fun.
22
Station One - Sniper
Since the course runs in a long line, our two groups shuffle forward in the aisle and take up positions—one Cohort per viewing pad—in the two circles of pink light.
“This will be your viewing gallery,” Wisp explains. “From here, you can watch your teammates in action and cheer them on.”
A giddy buzz runs through our two Cohorts.
“Sooooo…?” Wisp asks with her best carnival barker grandeur, “who will be your champions for the first challenge?”
Trax gives Reverie a nudge with his elbow. She steps forward, shoulders back, head held high, and announces that she’ll be the representative from Cohort B.
“And from your Cohort?” Wisp asks, her little brown eyes locked onto mine.
Ignacio practically leaps forward, snatching the sniper rifle from the silver stand in front of the station and twirling it baton-style as his chest swells with macho confidence.
Next to him, Reverie picks up her own sniper rifle and inspects it, bouncing it in her hands and squinting down its scope.
The rest of us stand in a clump in our pink circles, our eyes focused on the long shooting range running perpendicular to the aisle.
We’ve done all kinds of target practice, but none with ballistic weapons so far. Although we’ve all been anxious to try out the Academy’s arsenal of firearms, Kella’s Marksmanship and Sniper Training class doesn’t come up for another term.
So we’re all a little jealous.
The far end of the range is a churning cluster of bouncing and darting wheels, blinking skeets, and colorful, rotating cube targets ranging in size from tiny to practically microscopic. All of them hover within a special magnetic field that keeps them suspended in midair like a raven riding an updraft.
We know the scoring system from past classes, but Wisp reminds us anyway. When she’s done, she calls for the two snipers to begin. In unison, Ignacio and Reverie raise their rifles and begin firing at the distant, dashing targets.
As Reverie fires, the sound of her targets being hit down range pings back to us in little, rapid-fire explosions.
“That’s another hit,” Reverie exclaims. “And another. And another.” She blasts away with deft precision, calling out her successful strikes as she goes. She narrates her shots like a sports announcer commenting on a game she was watching in slow motion. “One skeet. Two skeets. That’s another cube down. Large wheel. Medium. Small. See how they fall!” She giggles behind her hand and calls back over her shoulder to her Cohort, “This is way too easy!”
I never knew Reverie was quite so talkative. Or competitive. Or cheeky.
Meanwhile, in the stall next to her, Ignacio is struggling. He’s missing badly, and he keeps scowling over at Reverie and then up at her score as it ticks higher and higher on the shimmering holo-display.
I never knew Ignacio to be so flustered. Or off target. Or sweaty.
The projected holo-counter above their heads records their final points: Fifty for Ignacio. One hundred-twenty-five for Reverie.
Wisp calls an end to the sniper-rifle challenge and directs Ignacio and Reverie to the two crossbows sitting on the tables next to them.
“It’s not over yet,” she says, her attention focused mostly on Ignacio. “Let’s see if you’ve learned anything from Brohn.”
Setting down their sniper rifles, Ignacio and Reverie take the new weapons and prepare for the second stage of the competition while the rest of us cheer them on.
Down range, a cluster of round wooden targets—each about the size of a tea-cup saucer—descends from a series of open ports in the ceiling.
Floating on mag-currents, the disks bob and shimmy in the air.
After the first round with the sniper rifles, Reverie’s way ahead on points. To hear her tell it, the competition’s already over.
“Let’s face it, Igs,” she taunts with a side-eyed glance over her crossbow, “you gave it your best shot. Nothing wrong with losing.”
“It’s not over yet,” he growls back. “And don’t call me ‘Igs.’”
Reverie plants her palm on her chest. “Oh. I’m sorry, Iggy.”
I half-expect him to lean over and hammer her in the temple with the butt of his crossbow. Instead, he squints back down his sight and fires off his first volley of shots.
His bolts whistle one by one down the
range and thunk into several of the wooden targets. The holo-counter hovering above the range flashes his new score.
“Beat that,” he crows.
“Okay.”
Reverie doesn’t squint down the sight of her crossbow. In fact, she holds it sort of casually at her side with one hand while she gives Ignacio an annoyed stare. I figure she’s preparing herself before she fires. But then she whips her weapon up and blasts away, almost before she’s even turned away from Ignacio.
In a flash, she reloads the crossbow, over and over, firing quickly and casually as she goes.
Above the range, the holo-counter ticks off her score: seventy-five points better than Ignacio’s.
We’re all standing there open-mouthed. Well, my Cohort is, anyway. Reverie’s Cohort turns to us as one, as if they were a four-headed unit with Granden standing cross-armed and pleased behind them.
“What can we say?” Lucid grins, tilting his head toward his sister, who has her crossbow raised and resting on her shoulder. “Wisp says she could be the next Kella.”
“Well,” Granden drawls through a cool grin, “I don’t know about that. On the other hand, if you’re playing second fiddle to Kella, you play a pretty good fiddle.”
Wisp says she’s impressed with both scores, which is clearly a lie, and announces Reverie as the winner.
Ignacio sulks back to our Cohort, his face a jigsaw puzzle of surprise, anger, and embarrassment.
“Sorry. I had no idea she could shoot like that.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell him with a firm pat to his shoulder. “I had no idea anyone could shoot like that.”
As the rest of our Cohort offers condolences and support to Ignacio, Cohort B keeps cheering for their champion until Wisp announces that it’s time for the next station.
Hustling along, she leads us to the next pink circles where our Cohorts congregate while Wisp announces the beginning of the second challenge.
23
Station Two - Generator
“Please have your champions for Station Two step forward.”
Libra and Trax step out of the pink circles and walk up to the silver work bench where Wisp explains the challenge.
“You each have an inactive magnetic pulse-converter in front of you. Using nothing but the tools and materials on the bench, your job is to register an energy signature powerful enough to activate the propulsion energy generator on this monitor.”
A tall gauge—sort of a holographic thermometer with unlit, gray bands rising from the bottom to the top—sits at each end of the workbench.
“This will measure your generated energy. The higher the band you can light up, the higher your score.”
I laugh when Libra cracks her knuckles, steps forward, and says, “Easy-peasy.”
That’s my line!
Trax snaps his fingers, flicks her a “get out of here” thumb, and tells her she doesn’t stand a chance.
You’re the one who doesn’t stand a chance, I think, smiling to myself about how nice it is to see that he’s got a cute, sweet side and a studly, saucy side.
I’m definitely glad I gave this assignment to Libra. The workbench is a hodgepodge of useless stuff—from raddish-sized stones and a tangle of dried tree roots to an old wine-bottle opener and what looks to be part of a rusted hubcap. And that’s just for starters.
There’s an entire assortment of random junk—cracked bolts, glass shards, chips of some sort of glossy black ore, bent silverware, clumps of yellow dirt, thread-thin coils of rubber casing, splintered animal bones, and two headless plastic dolls—crammed up into mini jagged-topped mountain ranges.
Basically, Libra and Trax will have to use a pile of discarded scraps in order to activate one of the most sophisticated pieces of digital technology we have in the Academy. The thought of it alone is enough to send my brain into a nosedive.
The sight of it is enough to send my nosediving brain crashing to the floor in a splattery mess of gray-matter goo. (I don’t handle disorganization well.)
Libra may not be my favorite person in the world, but I’ve seen her do a similar assignment in War’s class before. It wasn’t as complex, and War gave her plenty of guidance, but it was still a task no one else in our Cohort was able to complete.
There’s no way she’ll lose this race.
Wisp calls out, “Go!”
Trax dives into his pile of supplies, and next to him, Libra’s fingers, in a burst of seamless motion, fly over her own workbench.
As if she’s done this a million times before, she strips casings off of a dozen wires, ratchets toggle bolts, reconfigures the slender chambers of a manifold, and solders leads to a cluster of tiny, burned out circuit boards.
She plucks from the pile of junk like it’s a neatly organized medicine cabinet.
Discarding some pieces but inspecting some of the others under an angled holo-light attached to the workbench, Libra weighs her options like a pastry chef measuring out ingredients for a Victoria sponge cake.
Finally, with a flick of her wrist, she wraps a thin copper wire around a finger-sized plug of iron to create a small electromagnet.
Flipping over the clunky transistor array next to her, she slaps together a Frankenstein monster of a machine. With micro-tools in hand, she dances around the thing in a blurry ballet of motion, a big smile spread across her face the entire time.
When she’s finished sealing the ends of a field coupling, she slaps her palm to a magnetic grav-pad and thrusts her hands into the air.
The highest band on the tall gauge at her end of the workbench flashes blue, and Wisp declares Libra the winner.
Trax, his own gauge showing a very weak yellow band toward the bottom, hangs his head and sulks back to his Cohort while Libra—her face and eyes lit up—charges at us, launching herself into my arms.
Thankfully, Ignacio peels her off of me and joins Mattea, Arlo, and even Sara in a rowdy, bouncing fit of hugs, back slaps, and hearty squeals of congratulations.
From his circle, Trax catches my eye and gives me a polite nod and a thumbs up. He tilts his head toward Libra and mouths the words, “Nice job” before turning back to apologize to his Cohort for his defeat and to receive their words of consolation.
In our pink circle, gushing and with the words tumbling out of her mouth in an unstoppable avalanche, Libra tells us about how she was able to re-route a micro-current and harness molecular energy from the decay she found in some of the synthetic materials she was able to patch together. She goes on and on like that for what feels like an hour, but I don’t understand half of it.
Machines are Libra’s thing. She’s tuned in to them like I’m tuned into Haida. She gets systems the way I get telempathy—the psychic bond Haida and I share—and she enjoys the challenge of fixing stuff as much as I enjoy the thrill of combat.
And she does it all with pure pleasure and genuine modesty.
Wait a bloody minute. Am I actually impressed by Libra—the annoying girl who talks non-stop and smiles her bubble-headed way through this nightmarish cock-up of a world?
No. I’m just happy for my team’s success and for the chance to beat Cohort B and have bragging rights when Kress and her Conspiracy return.
Yeah. That’s got to be it.
With her hands cupped to either side of her mouth, Wisp calls out to remind us that the competition isn’t over yet.
24
Station Three - Juggle
Wisp draws our attention to the next station, which consists of two side-by-side labyrinths of elevated wooden beams running along the tops of a series of thin silver posts.
The beams range in height from a few inches off the floor to at least ten feet high. They zigzag, double back, and wind around to form what look like two giant, steeply-angled mutant pretzels.
There are two indicator lights—one green, one red—at the beginning of each track.
“For this challenge,” Wisp announces, “all you need to do is navigate this agility course. As you can see,
it will require great concentration and coordination on the part of our two participants. When I give the signal, first, hit the green button. That starts your timer. Run along the beams. Return to the starting point and hit the red button. That sets your finishing time. Whoever completes the course and hits the red button first, wins.”
Sara rubs her palms together and nods. “Sounds straightforward enough.”
“It’s not,” Wisp assures her. “You’ll be given a three-second penalty for every fall.”
“No problem,” Sara grins. “I don’t plan on falling.”
Wisp taps the input-panel on the thin podium between the two starter buttons.
“One other thing…” she says as sections of some of the beams start rotating, while retractable, silver six-inch blades start popping out of others, “…the beams that will assist you are also obstacles.”
“Let me guess,” Ignacio says with a snide grunt, his eyes locked onto the menacing silver blades snapping open all over the course. “This is a metaphor for life outside the Academy.”
Wisp points at him, laughs, and says, “Exactly!”
“Only, metaphors usually don’t end in minced skin and trips to the Infirmary,” I say, but not loud enough for Wisp to hear.
In front of us, Wisp turns to Roxane, who has stepped forward as the Station Three champion for Cohort B. “Do you understand the challenge?”
Foggy-eyed, Roxane doesn’t so much as smile, nod, or indicate she’s heard her at all, but Wisp grins pleasantly and says, “Marvie.”
Then, she pulls three chrome-colored balls out of each of the side pockets of her oversized military jacket. “Oh, and you have to do it while juggling these.”
Sara does a double-take that makes us laugh and says, “Wait! What?”
“Juggle,” Wisp says, the hint of an amused giggle behind her otherwise serious expression. “You do know how to juggle, right?”
Sara squints her eyes and bites her lip. Roxane stares.
