by Tash McAdam
The operative on her right is so distracted by the brute force approach of her telekinetic attack that he fails to react fast enough, and she delivers a sloppy flying roundhouse kick, her foot slamming into the side of his knee, and sending him to the ground. Before she can knock him out, the other is on her from behind. Abial, her awareness tells her as their shields and bodies crash into each other. Serena pours everything she has back into her skin for protection, not allowing Abial to find a weak point, or slide through her barrier with any nasty, distracting surprises. Their powers push against each other as they grapple, each trying to force the other away. Struggling for a grip against the more powerful hands of her opponent, Serena takes a chance and jerks her head backward, her skull colliding at top speed with the bridge of Abial’s nose. There’s a satisfying crunching noise, and the girl’s grip slips.
She always forgets to anchor her shield around her face. Twisting sideways, Serena hammers at Abial’s shields with all her strength, aware of footsteps closing on her.
Breaking loose, she bends her knees and leaps up, using Abial’s head as a convenient boosting point, the blow sending the other girl to the ground. Unable to suppress a cocky smirk – aw yeah – Serena dashes away across the rooftop, scanning her surroundings. Rapidly figuring out her new position, she senses movement and twists sharply to the left, just in time to avoid another spray of bullets, which whistles past. Two of them clip her shield, sapping more of her strength as she absorbs the powerful blows. Nuke, snipers on the roof.
She leaps from roof to roof, barely pausing to balance, jinking left and right with preternatural speed and grace to avoid the continuing gunfire. By the time she approaches the edge of the building that guards the exit to the Arena, she’s running at full speed. Heartbeat pounding in her ears, she throws herself forward into a handstand and grabs the edge of the roof. Her momentum carries her legs out over the empty space below. As soon as her body is horizontal, she pushes out from the wall, uses telekinesis to guide her into a perfect gymnast’s landing, and sprints flat out for the end of the alley, the end of the test. Yes! Exultation flows through her, reviving her flagging muscles.
The bullets from the left take her completely by surprise, but her shield just about holds, and she dodges sideways, taking cover in a doorway and breathing through her mouth in an effort to be silent. She trickles her awareness out again, and discovers that she’s about fifteen meters from the exit, from the end of the course. Two operatives bracket it, of course, guns and shields held high. Bile rises in her throat. I can’t quit, not an option. I’d rather take the bullets and get carried out of here. If I get over the line, they might let me contest the ruling, whether I ‘died’ or not. Depends how many times they hit me.
“Nuke,” she swears under her breath, rapidly calculating her odds. Within minutes, the other operatives scattered through the course will be on her, called by the noisy weapons or their team’s psionic connection. She has to go immediately, or she’ll be facing eight strong, well-trained soldiers acting in unison. Well, seven, she corrects herself, remembering the unconscious guy who had the bad luck of running right into her super-powered fist. But she’s weaker now, tired, with her strength and Talent depleted. There’s no way she’ll make it if she doesn’t go immediately. And this time, she knows, she has to make it.
She takes a moment to centre herself and recheck her worn-down shields, then grits her teeth and prepares for the inevitable attack. Weapons bark as soon as she leaves the safety of the doorway, but she whips the bullets around her body, using physics to her advantage, and flings them back in the direction of the operatives. One is taken by surprise, a redirected bullet thudding into him as she powers forward at top speed. His loud yell splits the eerie quiet, and the attack from the right peters off.
The remaining operative has stepped in front of the door, though, and his left hand is outstretched, hurling telekinetic power at her and slowing her legs until it feels like she’s running through water, a torrent of pure energy pushing at her calves and feet. He’s trying to wrap his power around her, grip onto her, but she’s too quick. She fends away his attempts so he can’t gain purchase, almost as though she’s bending his mental fingers backward and sliding her legs through the gaps. But suddenly the gun in his hand jerks, its muzzle trained on her face – the hardest area to shield.
She gathers the last dregs of her waning power and pushes it downward and back, powering it out of her feet as she leaps. It sends her hurtling wildly into the air; she’s at the end of her tether, with very little control left. But the soldier doesn’t have time to react and pull his power back from the ground-level stream he sent at her legs. If he hadn’t committed so fully, it’s possible he could have caught her, or at least padded himself. As it is, he can’t. She crashes into him, body weight and momentum powering another Slam, and he smashes to the ground with her on top of him.
She hastily detangles herself, sensing the approach of more soldiers, but the clumsy landing has hurt her ankle, and she runs awkwardly for the exit. Her Talent is totally drained; there’s not enough left to move a feather. That last jump scraped the barrel dry. But right there, the exit is right there; all she has to do is make it four more meters. That’s all that stands between her and going to find her brother.
She can’t even keep her head up, though, and stumbles, careening off a wall. She must be close. So close. Then a sunburst of pain explodes in the small of her back and she’s catapulted forward, catching herself heavily on her hands, face slamming into the gritty concrete ground. She lies there, exhausted, feeling her heart break in her chest, unable to believe she failed again. Inches away. Not good enough, again. Sobs catch in her throat, tearing like glass shards. They won’t let her try another time. That’s it. No one to go after Damon, no one who knows him like she does. They’ll never find him without her. A soft cry escapes as she presses her forehead against the hard ground, unable to get up.
Then footsteps approach. She knows she should try to drag herself upright, at least retain some semblance of dignity. I can’t. I don’t care anymore. She can see two military-booted feet uncomfortably close to her head, and rolls a little, gasping at the fresh stab of pain that lances into her back.
“Well, if you stay down there you’ll have to wait longer to collect your insignia.” Kion grins down at her, and opens his meaty palm, revealing a shiny silver pin.
“Buh …?” She blinks at him, confused, and he smirks, hauling her to her feet as easily as if she were a wet kitten. She manages not to cry out in pain.
“You pass. You’re through.” He can’t hide his pleasure at his own words, blue eyes sparkling as he steadies her and pins the ARC operative’s badge onto her collar – a silver curve that widens at one end, like the trail of a shooting star.
An undignified squeak slips out, and she swallows. “But I got shot! I’m dead!” She tries to bat the hand away, convinced he’s missed her final failure, unwilling to take the pin that represents her life’s work, only to have it taken away when he sees the footage replayed. He must not have seen it somehow.
But he rolls his eyes at her, stilling her hands with his telekinesis while he finishes attaching the badge. “Tech marks you as through the gate when the shot was fired. Bad shoot. Operative Anderson wasn’t fast enough. Game over. You win.” His demeanour remains professional, but she can read him too, and his eyes are dancing with happiness.
Abial ... That last shot had been from Abial, but it hadn’t counted. Bad shoot. She’d passed. Her knees almost give out, the spreading ache from her lower back beating in time with the blood whooshing in her ears.
“I passed? I passed!” She sounds slaphappy even to her own ears, and so doesn’t complain when a bearded ginger soldier – Marty, she thinks he’s called – slings her arm round his shoulder and drags her off to the medical bay, stabilizing her torso with a telekinetic brace.
*
She doesn’t even bitch about having to lie on her stomach for an hou
r while they check her spine and run the ray over her. Rubber bullets aren’t supposed to break bones, but they hurt like blazes, and she willingly submits to the doctor’s orders.
When her father comes to see her, pride and fear are warring in his sleepy hazel eyes. As the leader of ARC, he needs every soldier he can get. As a parent, though, she knows he just wants to protect her, not put her in danger by sending her out into the world above. He rubs his thumb gently over her ARC insignia, and she can’t hide her elation, even in the face of his fear. He congratulates her anyway, although his voice is sad. He has to be thinking about the possibility of losing a second child. But she knows he will respect her success and the rules of ARC.
One of those rules is that as a qualified operative, she’s eligible for putting together proposals, as well as being given assignments. When she’s medically cleared, he’ll assign her first mission. It could be anything, from stealing a shipment of supplies to feed the families at ARC, to kidnapping and interrogating an Institute soldier. Or, it could be what she longs for: The chance to go after one of the children the Institute routinely uses to gather intelligence and quash rebellious thoughts. To go after Damon.
The thought of pulling her brother from the clutches of the government agency that tortures him lull her to sleep.
*
It takes four days for Medical to clear her for duty. Bruising on the spine can cause complications, so it’s treated cautiously. The parade of well-wishers has kept her supplied with snacks and treats, though, and her dorm buddies made her a sign that says ‘Youngest Operative Ever (Eat Rad, Abial),’ and hung it above her bed. She sees it when she’s finally released to pack up her room, and it cracks her up.
It surprises her how nostalgic she feels as she piles the last of her meagre belongings into boxes. The initial burst of excitement and pride has faded somewhat, leaving a solid sense of determination and calm in its wake. Realistically, she knows that the chances of being sent on the high-risk mission she wants are low. But even if they deny her request to go after her brother, she will do her best for ARC, and prove to them that she can be trusted with anything. One day, her chance will come, and she’ll be ready.
Finally, boxes at her feet, she sits on the bare mattress and looks around the stark room. There’s never been much in the way of personal belongings in the room – too difficult to get a hold of – but it looks strange without her chaotic corner of clothes and weapons manuals. She rubs her thumb against her brand new operative pin and sighs, getting to her feet. The very last thing she does before she picks up her stuff and leaves her old bunk is digitally submit the proposal she’s been working on for two years to Ops. The proposal that would send her after Damon, with a small, hand-chosen team.
The team is one smaller than it had been a month ago, Abial’s name deleted from the request list.
*
It’s been two weeks since she moved into the Barracks, and she’s been doing nothing but training and checking her datapad every day for an assignment. Working with the qualified operatives, including the opportunity to be on the other side of the Arena, keeps her somewhat occupied, but she’s chafing at the bit, wondering why nothing has come through for her. Her new roommate has been out the entire time she’s bunked there, which means she has altogether too much time to herself. Against her wishes, she misses Abial and the companionship they shared. But she still goes out of her way to be anywhere Abial isn’t, only speaking to her as much as is necessary, when it can’t be avoided. She’s lonely, and sad, and getting more irritable by the day.
When the order finally comes, her comm beeps loudly, jerking her out of a deep slumber. She opens the file, and her heart simultaneously drops with disappointment and hammers with adrenaline. There isn’t much information, but there’s enough for her to know that this assignment can’t be anything to do with Damon. He was taken here, in Fourth City, and this order tells her to prepare to travel. But anything that hurts the Institute could help him, or at least weaken the hold of the evil organization, so she reads the information twice to commit it to memory before she gets ready to head to the Ops department. Right, so ... Now it’s really real, and it’s on me.
Her hands are shaking, but not with fear, as she pulls on her civilian kit. Body armour would never make it through the scanners, which use millimetre wave technology to hunt for suspicious objects, including weapons. She’s going to Second City, which means taking the Intercity tube. So her team is on its own. No reliable backup. ARC might have resources in Second City, but they’re limited compared to those of the Institute, who are housed in every one of the eight major settlements. ARC only really has any presence here, in Fourth City. And Second City is hundreds of kilometres away, on the other side of the desert.
If they’re going to Second City, they won’t have anywhere to run should they get noticed.
A shiver runs down her spine, and she wonders why she’s being sent on a dangerous out-of-city assignment for her very first. Then she realizes: Clean identities aren’t that hard to come by – there are always forgers working on faking Citizen cards. Any basic clean ID will get you through the wall that separates the townships from the wealthy. They won’t, however, fool the facial recognition software that guards the most secure facilities.
This mission needs someone who’s never been caught on camera before, so that they can get through the intense electronic security measures the government has installed on the tube. If that’s the reason, her partner is likely to be another new operative, who hasn’t yet been compromised. A recently graduated operative. An operative like Abial. Nuke.
HER ASSESSMENT OF the situation proves accurate. When she pushes open the door to Ops, Abial is already leaning over a large comp table, scanning the reams of fast-moving text that clearly comprise their mission briefing. Stupid speed-reader. That’ll take me ages to read. Serena’s father is rapidly adding information to the display from his datapad, swiping new images and text files onto the table. He glances over, his curly, greying hair shadowing his permanently sad eyes. He looks exhausted, hollow cheeked, and wan. It’s barely dawn, now, and he’s probably been up all night, putting together the information they’ll need, letting them get as much rest as possible
“Agent Jacobs.” The wry tone gives him away; he has decided to treat her like any other operative. Whether this is for her benefit or his doesn’t matter.
“Sir.” She’s pleased that her voice is steady and strong, giving away none of her disquiet, and marches over to the huge tabletop screen to join in the briefing. They’re being sent to Second City because a large group of Institute soldiers has just left Fourth City on the tube, geared for military action. A group of Watch soldiers – ungifted military justice enforcers – appears to be preparing to join them. The intelligence they’ve gathered leads the ARC techs to believe that it’s a manhunt; someone the Institute wants very badly is on the loose in Second City. It seems that the soldiers from Fourth City are going out to provide support for the local Institute and City Watch.
And anyone that the Institute wants that badly could also be useful to ARC – another rebel fighting to destroy the Institute’s chokehold on the struggling population. So ARC is sending in operatives of its own to find out what’s going on. And either back this person up or take them out, depending on what they find. To keep them from the Institute, either way.
Familiarizing herself with the layout of the City, memorizing the maps and going through the information available, doesn’t fill Serena with confidence. There’s not enough of it – not enough information, not enough knowledge. Not only are they going to be out there by themselves, against the full power of the local Institute plus extra squads, but worse, nobody really knows why. It’s all just guesswork from intercepted communication. If the Institute thinks it’s worth putting in this much effort, ARC has to believe that too … at least that’s the message she’s getting.
She keeps her uneasiness from her face, knowing that she has to accept the
mission in her role as operative. If her father had greeted her in any other way, she would have questioned him, but he’s made it clear that here and now she’s an operative and he is her leader. Her superior, sending her on an unsupported, dangerous mission with a girl she doesn’t trust.
Urgh. She resists the urge to roll her eyes at him like Young Shannon would do.
Abial, meanwhile, is studiously avoiding Serena’s eyes as she sorts through equipment. Serena glances down at the table, taking in the lack of weapons, and grimaces. Getting through the Wall with weapons isn’t too hard. A bribe here, an avoided scanner there ... But getting onto the tube with anything dangerous would be suicide. The tubes are the best-guarded places in the world, because the governors live in fear of travel between the cities being cut off, and making the trip any way except the tube means leagues of slums, dead land, and inhospitable ground. It’s slow as well as dangerous, and exposed. Kion was born in the dead lands, and is one of the only people Serena knows who travels to other cities that way – gone for months at a time and coming back weathered and thin. He doesn’t talk about it much, but from the scraps she’s heard, it doesn’t sound like a good journey to make, even for a born nomad like him.
She can’t really blame the governors for not wanting to make a trip like that, and building the tube in the first place. It’s fast and relatively easy, and good for most travel. For ARC, of course, it adds a whole mess of complications to a mission.
So, no weapons, but they can lift some when they arrive if they think they need to. Their tech will get through okay, as long as it looks like something civs would be carrying. She picks up one of the phony IdentCards and snickers. ‘Gabrielle Williams’ is seventeen and a prospective university student. The photo they’ve used of Serena is unflattering, to say the least. She looks like a serial killer.
