Emergents Academy: A Dystopian Novel (Academy of the Apocalypse Book 1)

by K A Riley

  They come at our two competitors with the relentlessness of the spikes and fire that just consumed Arlo and took down Lucid.

  I can barely read the seven riddles, let alone solve them.

  Riddle #1:

  A girl was asked her age. She answered, “In two years, I will be twice as old as I was five years ago.” How old is she?

  * * *

  Riddle #2:

  A married couple has five daughters. Each daughter has one brother. What is the total number of people in their immediate family?

  * * *

  Riddle #3:

  What number comes next in the pattern?

  2, 3, 5, 9, 17, ______

  * * *

  Riddle #4:

  A man is fifty-four-years-old. His mother is eighty. How many years has it been since the mother was three times as old as her son?

  * * *

  Riddle #5:

  A bird is given nine seeds to eat for breakfast.

  A spider is given thirty-six flies to eat for lunch.

  An ant is given twenty-seven drops of nectar to eat for dinner.

  How many mice would be given for a mountain lion to eat for its midnight snack?

  * * *

  Riddle #6:

  A girl goes into battle and brings home eleven severed heads of her enemies as trophies. On her way back to her village, all but four of the severed heads get carried off and eaten by wild dogs. How many of the severed heads are left for the girl to show off to her family as spoils of war?”

  * * *

  Riddle #7:

  If two is company and three’s a crowd, what are four and five?

  As the last of the seven riddles fades, Chace hums to herself and taps in a number on the input panel in front of her. Mattea does the same. No shocks yet.

  Turning back over her shoulder to look at us, Mattea gives a wink of assurance as both girls continue to input numbers.

  Mattea is good. She’s got a quick mind and way more confidence than I do when it comes to stuff like this.

  Chace—mousy and usually hunched over her holo-pad—is somehow even better.

  As our two Cohorts cheer the two girls on, it’s Chace who punches in the final combination, calling out the answers to the riddles as she does:

  “For riddle number one, two times five is ten, plus the two years yet to come. So the answer is ‘twelve.’”

  She taps in “12,” and the number appears on the safe’s input panel and also in bright white light on the overhead holo-display for the rest of us to see.

  “For riddle number two, the married couple is two people. They have five daughters for a total of seven. Each daughter has one brother, who is the same brother to each daughter. So the answer is ‘eight.’”

  She taps in her answer as Mattea, working feverishly next to her does the same.

  “For riddle number three, each number is double the number that comes before it, minus one. So the answer is ‘thirty-three.’”

  Chace inputs her answer and moves on.

  “For riddle number four, there’s a thirty-six-year difference between mother and son. Thirty-six divided by three is thirteen. The answer is the man’s age of fifty-four minus thirteen. So the answer is ‘forty-one.’”

  Tapping in her response, Chace turns over her shoulder to offer up a happy nod of assurance to her Cohort.

  “For riddle number five, the pattern is four-and-a-half units per number of legs on the animal. So the answer is eighteen.”

  Chace’s fingers are flying, and I can tell Mattea is getting flustered.

  “For riddle number six, it doesn’t matter how many heads she severed. All but four of them get stolen. So, she has four.”

  Mattea nods, but it’s Chace who inputs the answer.

  “For riddle number seven, four and five are nine. So the answer is nine.”

  Chace does a little bounce, inputs her answer, and steps back to check her work.

  “So the final combination,” she announces, first to herself and then, louder for the rest of us to hear from our viewing circles, has to be…”

  Her voice drops off as she inputs the numbers: 12, 8, 33, 41, 18, 4, 9.

  After punching in the last of her numbers, the safe on the table in front of her clacks open, and Chace steps back from the display, her arms thrust into the air in triumph.

  While she’s beaming, Mattea slaps an angry palm to the top of her own safe and hangs her head.

  Libra says she can’t believe it, but the results speak for themselves.

  Chace bounces back to her cheering Cohort as the scores for our two teams update on the holo-screen.

  “Well,” Ignacio says, consoling Mattea, “at least you didn’t get shocked.”

  “Unfortunately,” Sara points out, “we kind of needed that win.”

  It’s true. The final tally appears on the holo-display above Wisp’s head.

  Over the course of the first five stations, Cohort B outscored us by six points.

  …which means I have to fight Granden.

  Blindfolded.

  27

  Station Six - Tap Out

  Instead of congregating in the pink holding circles, this time, our two Cohorts gather around the recessed fighting pit way down at the far end of the high-ceilinged arena.

  “This is the Battle Bowl,” Wisp announces, pointing down into the shallow, obstacle-filled ring.

  Set three steps down from the room’s main floor, the bottom of the large round space is lined with gravel and small chunks of brick. Rising up like cacti in a desert, five wooden posts, each about six feet high and each with a starfish array of steel spikes splaying out, are planted randomly in the middle of the ring.

  Just for fun, there are also three sofa-sized concrete blocks in the pit, coiled loops of razor wire around the perimeter, and the low walls are lined with shards of glass and more of those lovely steel spikes.

  And if that wasn’t enough, the floor is tilted on a weird angle, and I think it’s moving.

  Forget about fighting. I could die just stepping down into this thing!

  “This will simulate the dangerous conditions you’ll face out in the world,” Wisp announces. “Where you’ll have to fight your environment as well as your opponent.”

  If only I had Brohn’s impenetrable skin. Or even Arlo’s healing ability.

  Shut it, Branwynne. No sense whinging on about what you don’t have. Focus on what you do have: a very low chance of survival and a very high chance of getting your head beaten to a pasty dough.

  With the stations we’ve already completed literally behind us, I’m feeling more than a little trapped.

  Of course, I’m the one who doled out the assignments for my Cohort, so I also sort of trapped myself.

  Why didn’t I pick Sara for this challenge? I would’ve loved to see Granden sling her around by her snarky little face. Or Libra. Although I don’t think even a broken jaw could stop her jabbering. Or Ignacio. He really needs to have some of the hot air let out of that swollen head of his.

  As for Mattea and Arlo…well, I don’t really have a problem with them, so I guess I’m glad I didn’t give them this particular assignment.

  Either way, I’ve got to start being more careful about making decisions on behalf of an entire group.

  Focus, Branwynne. You’re in it now, and that’s a lesson for another time.

  A flurry of motion from behind us causes all of us to jump and spin around.

  I laugh as Haida Gwaii flaps and then glides down the length of the obstacle course, leaving a cloud of dust and tiny white feathers in her wake as she settles on my extended forearm.

  “I think she wants to help you,” Libra giggles.

  “Or else stop you from going down into that pit and getting beaten to a pulp,” Ignacio jokes.

  I stare for a second into Haida’s blue eyes. The truth is, a lot of times, including now, I have no idea what she wants. Sometimes we communicate pretty well. But most of the time, she’s still
a mystery to me.

  As I run my first two fingers over the white feathers of her smooth, round head, I reach out to her with my mind like Kress taught me:

  What is it? Are you here to help?

  I feel her trying to connect with me from her side of our bond, but then things fizzle, and we’re just a girl and a raven again.

  She unfurls her wings, and flaps off to land on Trax’s shoulder.

  When did you two get so chummy?

  “Come on!” Granden urges through a steely, taunting grin. “Time to show you what a good old fashioned Typic can do in a very unfair fight.”

  With Wisp nudging me forward, I step down the three stairs and into the deadly, slanted Battle Bowl where Granden is waiting, his fingers curled into loose fists at his sides.

  Walking up behind me, Wisp holds up a strip of thick black fabric and tells me it’s time.

  Gulping, I say one last telempathic goodbye to Haida Gwaii…just in case.

  It was nice knowing you.

  ~ It was nice being known.

  With a mental chuckle, I start to ask her when she got so cheeky, but our connection fades out again as Wisp starts to slip the blindfold on me.

  “You’ll…um…go easy on her, right?” Libra calls down from where she’s standing between Ignacio and Arlo.

  The last thing I see before Wisp finishes securing the blindfold over my eyes is Granden swinging around in the pit and looking up to face Libra. He gives her a big thumbs up and says, “Nope.”

  And then the world goes black.

  From Ignacio’s shoulder, Haida gargle-clacks what I hope is her encouragement as Wisp ties a tight knot into the blindfold, pats my shoulder, and wishes me luck.

  I’ve lived in some pretty raw conditions. And I have a lot of experience finding my way around in the dark.

  So that part doesn’t bother me.

  Besides, Kress says my senses are evolving. She always says being an Emergent isn’t like having a super power. She says it’s more like having a third arm or an extra eye…something that can be a handicap instead of an advantage if you don’t learn how to use it right.

  Funny, she didn’t say anything about being blindfolded and forced to fight a grown man in an angled and spike-filled pit of death.

  I do a quick review of my mental map of the pit. In my mind, I mark off where Granden is and where the obstacles are. I shift my weight over my feet as the floor tilts one way and then the other. Finally, I orient myself and note how much space I have to work with in every direction.

  And then Haida Gwaii’s fragmented voice nudges itself quietly into my head.

  ~ More than eyes.

  Haida?

  ~ More than eyes.

  More what than eyes?

  ~ Vision helps. Sight hurts.

  I appreciate the advice, Haida. But can you just tell me how to not get killed in here?

  ~ No.

  Great. Thanks.

  Whens he doesn’t respond, I ask her, Wait. What do you mean? Can you help me here or not?

  But anything Haida might be trying to say to me after that disappears in a fading pulse that ripples through my head and dissolves somewhere down the back of my neck.

  So, with that bit of completely useless conversation rattling around in my head, Wisp calls out, “Hajime!”—the Japanese word for “Begin!”

  Any hope any of us had of Granden taking it easy on me flies out the window faster than the air leaves my lungs as he drives his thick-knuckled fist into my ribcage.

  I slam back into one of the spiked obstacles, and one of its thin iron skewers pierces the side of my calf.

  I let out an involuntary cry of pain and leap away…

  …right into what feels like Granden’s flying elbow.

  I see a flash of light, my head slams to the ground, and my brain does a roller-coaster drop into darkness.

  In all her stories about what school was like in her time, I don’t remember Mayla telling us about teachers beating the snot out of their students.

  And yet, for me, it seems like it’s becoming a way of life.

  Or death?

  No. I’m not giving up. Haida’s right. I’ve got more going for me than just a pair of eyes.

  I scamper back, my hand finding the surface of one of the concrete blocks. I vault over it and plant myself behind it, making sure to keep the thick barrier between me and Granden.

  I hear his boots scuffle against the pit’s gravelly surface. He’s trying to stay quiet, trying to stalk me.

  His strategy is clear: He’ll advance carefully and circle around.

  Above us, the two Cohorts cheer and shout.

  Cries of “Get her!” and “Look out!” mix in with a muddled chorus of random hoots and hollers.

  A scrunch of gravel comes from my right. But there’s a displacement of air from my left.

  Uh oh!

  The crinkle of fabric alerts me to the hammer-fist swinging toward my head.

  I lean away but not quite fast enough, and the blow catches me on the collar bone.

  I feel myself starting to black out. Granden may not be trying to kill me, but he’s not exactly pulling his punches, either. And he’s definitely not feeling sorry for me for my little disadvantage of being completely sightless.

  In my fuzzy and rapidly fading mind, I remember Kress’s lessons about how to stay focused in the face of fear.

  In that second, I sense Haida giving me her fragmented, cryptic wisdom about vision. I hear Sara giggling a few feet above me over the sight of me staggering around, getting done up, and potentially having my teeth kicked in by Granden. I hear Cohort B cheering Granden on, and I hear my own Cohort shouting at me to get up.

  Come on, Branwynne—get it together! That’s too many bloody voices!

  I take a breath and recenter myself, but it’s too late. Granden isn’t as light on his feet as Kress is. Not even close. But he’s muffled his steps just enough to make me think he’s taking up a flanking position when really, he’s slipped around behind me.

  I feel the air from his leg sweep before I feel the impact of his shin smashing into the back of my knee.

  My leg buckles.

  Some opponents would gloat right now. But I know Granden well enough to know he’ll try to press his advantage. He’s not going to let a little thing like me being a hundred and twenty pound, blindfolded teenage girl stop him from teaching me a very painful lesson.

  Re-centering myself, I take my own advantage of being down on one knee and launch into an evasive shoulder-roll before springing back up into a crouch, my head tilted just enough for a phase variance in ambient sound waves to reach my ears.

  Now that I’m able to judge the distance between us, I let Granden stalk me in a slow, boot shuffling circle around the ring.

  For a second, the clamor of the two Cohorts slips into my head, but I concentrate and block it all out—even Haida’s gurgle-croaks of encouragement.

  Now that I’ve filtered out all the extraneous noise, all the sounds in the pit—Granden’s breathing, his footsteps, the rustle of material from his cargo pants…even the rasp of his hair against his collar—all get weirdly crystal clear.

  He lunges again with a quick jab. I dodge but not quite fast enough. His punch doesn’t fully connect, but it’s enough to feel like his knuckles just pounded a row of dents into my upper arm.

  I spin away, lashing out with a back-fist as I do. He ducks, but I smile. His lungs tightened while his heart just shifted into high gear.

  I can read you. You’re surprised. So close to being afraid. Let me help you get there.

  Like all birds, ravens have an exceptional sense of direction and a keen sense of where they are in space.

  Their specialized trigeminal nerve enables them to create a type of olfactory map. Coupled with their ability to align themselves with the Earth’s magnetic poles, they have what could be considered a sixth—and even a seventh sense.

  For humans, Kress once called the ability “proprio
ception.”

  As she explained it to me, “It’s a kinesthetic, automatic neuro-response that enables balance and, in your case, enhances flexibility, reflexes, and spatial awareness.”

  “Yeah,” I asked. “But will it help me kick somebody’s arse?”

  Kress assured me it would.

  Taking her at her word, I channel that ability now. Plus a few more.

  Granden dodges.

  Or, at least he thinks he does.

  My jab was just a set-up, a way to get him to look for an attack in one place when, really, it’s coming from somewhere else.

  Just a little trick I picked up from Rain when she introduced me to Game Theory a couple of years back.

  By the time Granden figures out where I am, he’s got my sharp elbow cracking into his lower back.

  But that’s not the real attack, either. It’s just a second set-up for the flurry of Krav Maga strikes I unleash.

  And it’s not out of desperation. And it’s not anger.

  This is slow-motion and clinical. I’m in total control, not of him or of the fight but of myself.

  The collage of the five senses of a Typic—binocular vision, sound, touch, smell, taste—paints a detailed mental map in my head.

  But that’s just the beginning of what’s whipping through my brain.

  Other senses—infrared, echolocation, neural mediating reflexes, magnetic wave identification—flow around me and turn the 3D images into an almost overwhelming mass of detail.

  It’s not just me in the pit anymore. I don’t know how, but Haida’s here, too, fluttering around inside my head and turning me from an isolated individual into a connected, dual unit.

  It’s two against one, and Granden doesn’t stand a chance.

  I see currents in the air, magnetic pulses in the objects around us, temperature fluctuations in and around Granden’s body, and I see every move he makes before he makes it.

  As we circle each other, both of us wary of the sharp shards and stinging barbs in the arena, I hear and can easily differentiate every voice of the two Cohorts howling above us. Not only that. I can smell their sweat.