by Tash McAdam
Two years ago, when Damon was taken in the same raid that nearly killed Abial, everything changed. Now, instead of needing to qualify just so they’d be allowed outside unsupervised, rather than being forced to remain underground for their own safety, they wanted to be part of the bigger picture. They wanted vengeance for their pain. They wanted to join the ranks of the ARC operatives who fought. And so, working together, they’d learned more and faster than anyone had before them.
But all that’s finished. It was finished when Abial volunteered to go against Serena during her test. And now Serena feels like an idiot for not suspecting something. For thinking Abial was just competing, like they always did. Backstabber.
Suddenly she wonders why the other girl did it. Could the need to hold on to her status as the youngest Arena success be the only reason? Had it led Abial to betray Serena in the most personal and cruel fashion possible? Or could there be something more?
The thought-memory of her baby brother’s crumpled body jumps back into her mind. It’s too much to bear, and Serena digs her fingers into her bruised thigh. The pain blots out the fake image Abial slipped through her defences, and she sighs, adjusting herself on the bed. She wants to remember Damon as he was: playful, silly, and kind. He always knew when she needed a hug, and when she wanted to be left alone. He never made her feel like she had to put on a front, even though he was just a kid. Now, when Serena has one of her frequent nightmares, there’s no small, squirming body climbing into bed to give her a cuddle before she even wakes. No little hand to hold hers and tell her it’s all going to be okay, in that utterly self-possessed way he’d had ever since he started talking. One of the benefits of being a Psionic is the truly intimate emotional links you can form with people; especially talented Readers like her brother. He knew her inside out. He would understand, even now. He’d understand why she needs to fight.
She is strong, but small; small enough that the idea of her being a soldier would be ludicrous to anyone not in the know, which is most of the world. But here at ARC, physical size is irrelevant. The power you wield and the control you have over it are all that count. Mastery of your Talent takes years of hard practice, but she works harder than anyone. Up at dawn, physical training in the gym, tactical training, and school on top of that. She’s barely breathed for years. As the daughter of the man who now leads ARC – the freedom-fighting group, those who are sick of being hunted down by the Institute for the threat they pose to the power-hungry government – a lot of eyes are on her. But it isn’t this that makes her so desperate to succeed.
Damon will be seven now, if he’s still alive. She hasn’t seen him in two years. An ARC team caught sight of him just over a year ago, but was overwhelmed by the Institute soldiers guarding him, and had to retreat. She wishes she’d never watched the vid from the operative’s helmets. Her newer nightmares are of the moment her brother’s eyes landed on the stocky figure of their father as he held the soldiers back with his psionic powers, struggling to reach his young son. Instead of showing recognition or hope, Damon’s soft, childish face had remained blank and unanimated. Empty. The brown eyes that had always lit up when his daddy entered the room looked right through him, like he was a stranger.
The memory chills her to the bone, and she moves the icepack away as though it is the cause of her pebbling flesh.
That’s what the Institute does to kids, to people like her … people with powers. They take young telepaths away and wipe them out so the organization can use their gifts as tools. The Institute abducts whoever is found; anyone Talented and unlucky enough to be born inside a major City is usually captured at birth. Even in the rambling and dilapidated townships, you’re lucky to avoid their hunters for long. A few of the slum dwellings are made from old shipping containers, and the metal can help hide psionic signal. Some escape, that way. But the larger your psionic Talent, the stronger you are, and the more difficult it is to control. Readers find it easier to remain unnoticed, because their power is passive, but Projectors, especially those strong enough to have telekinesis rather than a more subtle skill like mind control ... that’s harder to hide. And once you get on their radar, they’ll stop at nothing to track you down. ARC tries to fight, to take back the stolen and rehabilitate them, help them learn tricks to protect themselves and keep themselves safe. After that, they can do what they want. Leave, if that’s what they desire, or stay and join the fight.
The fight Serena chose to join. She has Talent, and it’s too dangerous for her to be out there alone until she’s able to cloak herself. For now, ARC keeps her safe. The education teaches her how to protect herself, and the defences give her a shield against the soldiers of the Institute. But she’s training to be an ARC soldier for one reason, and one reason only: The better prepared she is, the more likely she’ll be able to get to Damon.
And that’s the only thing that matters now. After all, it is her fault he was stolen.
Closing her eyes, she tries to shut out the memories, and the overwhelming feeling that she’s let her baby brother down, again.
*
She stays on the bed for an hour or so before the unrelenting pain drives her through the annoyingly sympathetic company of ARC headquarters to the Medical Bay. By the time the third active operative, his insignia shining on mismatched civilian clothing, has slapped her supportively on the shoulder, she is holding back the urge to deck someone.
Trying not to show how much her leg is hurting, she hobbles miserably into the Med Bay for treatment. It’s a slow day, and they soon have her relaxing under a ray to break the bruising down. After watching the buzzing green line move up and down her skin for a while, she closes her eyes and, bored, meditates, carefully gathering her power and shaping it, filling herself with the crackling energy that belongs to her. Meditation is part of the everyday routine for a Psionic. Controlling their power – harnessing it and bending it to their will – is something they’ve all learned in training. Much of her education has been in this sort of tamping down, which helps her to keep her power ready to use when she needs it, but not involuntarily. After her scene at the Arena, she feels like she definitely needs to get a better handle on the link between her power and her emotional state.
She breathes in and out as regularly as clockwork, working at it, until the friendly nurse approaches to tell her she can go.
Her leg feels much better, and she has cheered up enough to join her bunkmates at their table in the mess hall, taking their gentle teasing as good-naturedly as she can when she gets there. ARC recruits are warriors in training, and expected to hold their tempers and suck it up.
Of course, keeping her hot temper under wraps is something Serena has always struggled with. And thinking about what happened – what led to her injury – is probably only going to make things worse. Instead of revisiting her failure over and over, she deliberately decides to focus on the future. She has a month to get ready. Next month, she’ll get it right. Next month, her shield will be flawless; attacks will slide over it like water over glass. Next month, she’ll become an operative.
Her light blue gaze scans the room, and fastens on the avatar of her defeat. Abial is sitting with Ria and Daine, two respected operatives. Usually she would have been on the end of this table with the rest of her year mates. Either she’s deliberately trying to separate herself from the ‘kids,’ or she’s rubbing her elevated status in Serena’s face.
Or, maybe, Serena mentally concedes, Abial is too ashamed to try to join them.
It’s probably a good thing, since Serena can’t guarantee that Abial doesn’t have a swift punch to the face waiting in her near future. It’s always a safe bet to aim blows above the neck, as Abial has sucked at shielding her face ever since they were kids, first learning to build an invisible wall around their bodies. Normally, it would be out of bounds to use information like that. But since Abial already broke one of the unspoken rules of psionic combat by using knowledge of Serena’s shielding frequencies against her, Serena feels
she’d be justified. What Abial did was a violation of her trust. A kind of emotional assault, made worse by the fact that it was done to hurt. To cause her to fail.
She stares at Abial until the other girl meets her gaze, half wishing for something she can understand – an apology, an explanation. Anything to justify how her closest friend could turn on her like that, and block her only path to her brother. But Abial just twitches an eyebrow, a placid expression on her broad, tanned face.
Serena stifles a growl and narrows her eyes. She mouths ‘next time,’ and grins when Abial blinks and looks away.
Jue nudges her gently in the side with an elbow. “You could fix global warming with a stare that cold. We’ll just put you outside to look at the sun! Oh presto, problem solved!”
Shannon snickers and Serena forces herself to relax a little, digging into her bland food with sudden gusto.
THE DAY OF her retest crawls toward her, the hours stretching out unbearably. Serena spends the entire month watching the calendar and training, almost glad of the punishment duties and extra classes that keep her so occupied she doesn’t have too much time to dwell. In fact, it seems like she barely sleeps. She’s taken to eating in her room or the gym; just grabbing a foodpack so she doesn’t waste time socializing. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that this helps her in her quest to avoid any interaction with her former best friend, who fortunately appears to agree entirely with that plan. Apart from when it comes to training with Kion, who runs specialist classes once a week, they barely catch sight of each other.
Finally, finally, the day dawns. Her nerves are singing as she pulls on her tight-fitting shock suit for her retest. The thin gel pads that harden with impact lie flat and snug against her lightly muscled frame. It feels good, like a second skin, and surely that’s a good sign. Third time lucky. Isn’t that a saying from somewhere?
The mission setup will be just like the last: A team of eight qualified operatives are in charge of the Arena’s defences. Serena’s challenge: To make it through the ‘city.’ Strength, secrecy, and a combination of the two are all acceptable methods. If she can hide her psionic presence, she might be able to avoid the opposition until the very end. If not, it will come down to a telekinetic and physical fight. She just has to get through, by any means necessary. One of the oldest operatives, Jamal, passed his test by taking a bunch of MREs in with him and holing up. Eventually the hunting team got too hungry to keep looking, and the rules state that once you’re out of the Arena, you can’t re-enter. When the operatives left to get food, they were out, and Jamal just walked over the finish line in plain sight.
They changed the system, after that. Now there’s a time limit, which means she’ll have only thirty minutes to make it across. Thirty minutes to get past whatever hunters are out there, through the streets, and to the other side of the Arena.
She bounces on her toes gently, embracing the familiar rush of adrenaline fizzing in her blood. This time, she’s fighting smart. Avoid them ... then they can’t hurt you. Hide and run; no heroics, just out the other side before time runs out. If they don’t find you, no one can do what Abial did to you.
Suddenly the noise announcing the start of the test blares, and the light over the entrance goes green. Serena slips into the darkness. The defending operatives – those hunting her – will be entering from the other side at the same time. She sends out tentative mental feelers, trying to ascertain their positions, while keeping her shields prepared for anything. It’s a delicate balance, and difficult to learn; keeping the invisible layer of protection solid enough to absorb a direct blow, but fluid and ready to whirl bullets away from their intended path. After checking her defences, she looks up and spots a camera in front of her, and a slow grin spreads over her face – a wolf’s grin, teeth flashing in the gloom.
Without warning, she leaps directly up in the air. It’s a two-story jump, which means she has to push her power out through the soles of her feet, to send her high enough. She lands as quietly and lightly as a leaf on the low surface of the roof, booted feet barely making a whisper against the smooth glass.
For realism, the Arena is laid out in an imitation of the City streets. After all, that’s where operatives are most likely to be in danger; it makes sense for them to be tested in that layout as well. There are several towering buildings, although here in the reproduction you can’t get to the top of those because they disappear into the ceiling after four stories. Some of the buildings, like the one Serena currently crouches on, are lower, wider, and sprawling. Her attention moves to the streets and her gaze sharpens. She can make out movement a few streets away, and hear scuffing noises to her right, as well as in front of her.
Her opponents are on the roof. And they’re armed.
Opponents, that’s all they are. The enemy. Not Dom, who taught her to tie her shoes because her father was too busy. Not Laurie, who knows all the best folk songs. Just masked foes, trying to keep her from Damon. Just like the real thing.
Hunkering into the shadow at the edge of the building, she closes her eyes and slips deeply into the centre of her power, imagining the internal light of her Talent filling every cell. Her consciousness has to align completely with her physical body so that she can be both undetectable and ready to act – a perfect Zen state of awareness that she’s spent years learning to achieve. She slides into it, her skin tingling with energy that will protect or attack, as she commands it. This is it, this time. No going back. They won’t let her out on the streets unless she succeeds in this, so succeed she must. And this is her last chance.
If she doesn’t get past the test on her third try, she’ll get pushed into intelligence services or worse. I definitely don’t have the head to be a teacher. She snorts, just thinking about trying to get a bunch of kids to listen to her without resorting to dangling them upside down, then sobers. I’m gonna make it. Certainty trickles through her bones, driving away the mild irritant of the armour digging into her hips, and the coldness of the roof seeping into the balls of her feet. It’s designed that way because cold saps psionic ability. Cold steel is the worst, leeching the energy right out of you faster than you can think. Making the Arena so cold lowers her chances of completing the course. Better move fast, before it weakens me too much.
In order to avoid standing out from her surroundings, she makes her mental shield as thin and unnoticeable as possible. She tunes it to the frequency of the air and stays perfectly still. Her defences are weaker like this, but she’s less likely to be found. Those hunting for her have their own psionic abilities and will use any advantage they can, any sign of her. And even a tiny flaw in the skin of her protection could signal her location – a beacon of power to lead them to their prey. The longer she can stay hidden, the better chance she has of making it.
Which means she has to be careful.
As subtly as possible, she spreads her awareness out, pinpointing the locations of the movement she noticed. The operatives’ shields are good, but motion displaces air, creates environmental ripples. Tracking those ripples down like the threads of a spider in a web, she nods once to herself, and forms a mental map of her surroundings, complete with moving blips to represent the people who are going to try really hard to shoot her. No longer the freedom fighters she longs to join, they are now standing in as Institute soldiers. Here, they’re just as dangerous to her as the soldiers will be out in the real city, on a mission. People die in the Arena if they’re not ready. Better that than being taken because you were sent out into danger unprepared. Still, dead is dead. But not me, not today. Alright, suckers, bring it on!
Her movement is explosive. Bursting across the roof faster than a normal human can run, using well-practiced telekinesis to power her feet, she leaps out into the air. She lands sure-footed on the next roof over, just before a mental attack grasps after her, huge, invisible fingers trying to catch hold of her moving figure and pin her down. A basic attack. Unsurprised, she fends the operative off, slipping through the reaching thought f
orms without missing a step. Dropping like a stone into the alley below, she bounces into a run up the wall and packs her hands and forearms with telekinetic power, ready to attack with one of her favourite moves. She invented the technique when she was twelve, and around ARC it’s called the Serena Slam – a strike where she wraps her bones and sinew in Talent, bracing them and increasing their strength. When he rounds the corner, only inches from her, she smashes her fist into his face. Perfect timing. The operative’s shields deflect the force of the blow, or she’d have torn his jaw clean off, but the muted power is still enough to cause his eyes to roll up in his head. He slumps to his knees and sideways into a messy heap. One down.
Sudden gunfire cracks through the air, making her flinch, and she realizes there are already other operatives headed toward her. The first guy must have sent out a telepathic shout. Her cover blown, she dashes through the shadows, tearing round the corner to take cover as the bullets tatter the air behind her, several spun away by her shield, which she pushes outward. Skin-tight armour is useless against projectiles, as it can’t absorb that much energy directly, but she now has a protective globe surrounding her, and charges forward, thoughts of stealth mostly forgotten.
She almost runs into two more black-clad figures as they close on her from the gloom, raising their hands for a telekinetic attack. Screaming defiance, she mirrors them, searching mentally for the best route away. They’ll drag her out of the air if she leaps, so instead she calls her power in, letting it fill her, and then unleashes it in a powerful wave, surging forward in its wake. It rushes ahead of her like a tsunami – a moving wall of energy, meant to sweep them out of her way.
