by CJ Daly
do somethin’ sides talk, fancy cadet?”
A weary kind of sigh escaped Pete. He shook his head as though he were
a parent at the end of his rope. After dealing with an unruly child. Who’d
gotten too big for his britches. “I told you—I don’t want to fight.”
A round of jeers and boos emanated from the bloodthirsty crowd, followed
by encouragement from a posse of girls who most likely didn’t want to see
their eye-candy smashed to pieces. Where are the teachers? Probably cluelessly
wondering where half their first-hour clas s is.
Pete waited for the crowd to settle before continuing. “But if you throw
the first punch . . . you leave me no choice.” He shrugged, sounding so smug
I almost wanted to punch him. Again.
Instead, I stepped forward to pull him back. “Pete . . . no!”
• 260 •
Pete must’ve been poised to be attacked, because he reflexively jerked me back so that I sort of crashed back into my car. It didn’t hurt a lick, but I guess that was the catalyst needed to get this little rumble started. The next thing
I knew, Miguel was on the ground and Ron and a beefed-up buddy were all
over Pete. I started to scream but when I opened my mouth, only a croak came
out. I wanted to run for help, but horror paralyzed my feet. The amped up
fighters and crowd were a blur. Everything happened so fast.
Ron came at Pete. Pete tripped Ron. Ron stumbled forward. Pete used the
momentum and a hard shove to the back—Ron crashed to my feet, a slayed
dragon. Then, lightning-quick, Pete ducked under bulky arms trying to choke
him. He used a twisting motion on one of those arms, and the howling jerk
dropped his beef real quick. Pete followed up with a jab-jab to his midsection
and a deliberate kidney kick. . . and that guy went down (looking like he
might not ever get back up). Pete ended up facing me.
My mouth, like everyone else’s, caved open. Our eyes locked. I don’t
know what he saw there, but he closed his eyes, looking pained. This little
time-out cost him; it allowed Miguel his play. It was a dirty one: He came up
from behind and sucker-punched Pete— Bam! —right on the side of his face.
The sick sound of flesh pounding flesh was my undoing. I finally screamed
as only hysterical females can. Pete retaliated with a sharp retracted elbow to
Miguel’s gut and a fist-whip to his face. And after a kick-trip-push, Miguel
face planted into the pavement . . . for the second time.
Miguel’s girlfriend screamed the same way I just did. Now two more
burly ballers stepped forward. A screaming wave hit the female spectators—
panic and overwrought nerves needing an outlet. Pete crouched in defensive
position. Ready. Burly guys didn’t look so sure, each waiting for the other to
go first. Finally, the frantic girls persuaded a couple of senior guys to pull back the remaining contenders still pretending to be brave enough to face Cadet
Davenport. It wasn’t a hard sell.
Then several more things happened at once: (I only caught peripheral
flashes of each because my eyes were on the golden gladiator, who looked
defeated even though he’d just won.) “Dude, did you see that guy?” a voice cut through the buzz as the not-so-innocent bystanders melted away the same time
two coaches came running from gym hollering. Only the central characters
remained. Miguel groaned and spat out a wad of blood. His girlfriend hustled
over to help him up, but he brushed her off to stand on his own—unsteadily.
Lastly, Ron scrambled back to his feet, looking bewildered. He said in a voice-
no-one-but-him believed, “Dude, this ain’t over!”
All of this and more I couldn’t process was happening, yet I couldn’t seem
• 261 •
to tear my eyes away from Pete’s face—and the swelling going on over his other eye now. I was half a second from going to him when Ashley-Leigh beat me to the punch. (Pardon the pun.)
“Pete!” She threw herself into him, hysterically crying like her steady
boyfriend had just emerged live from a bad car crash. He staggered sideways
before righting himself. Violet talons cradled his head. “Are you alright? . . .
I can’t believe those assholes jumped you like that!”
Our eyes met one more time before his crowd of admirers completely
swarmed him, blocking my view. I ducked back into the dispersing crowd and
did what I always do—tried to blend in. And avoid the avalanche of attention
threatening to smother me as I scurried to the gym bathroom. I hid out in a
stall until the hoopla died down enough for me to escape for the day.
I had saved up enough sick days in my lifetime . . . it was time to finally
call one in.
• 262 •
25
GOING BACK TO CALI
Finding myself back in the sumptuous confines of Academy Headquarters
should have been a relief after living in a luxury drought. I did have
a new appreciation for the fragrant greenery and manicured lawns.
The eye-popping arrangements of flowers, discreet koi ponds, and babbling
waterfalls all titillated the senses.
The dry, flat plains of Eastern New Mexico were among the most barren
and dismal places I’d ever seen. Not that I’d spent a lot of time in the middle
of nowhere amongst the economically challenged. I’d been living a privileged,
closed-off life for so long I felt like a blind man whose sight had been restored.
I wondered how tough things were for people when they couldn’t even bother
to fix a broken-down fence or replace a petered-out AC unit in the heat of
summer.
Like Ranger, I should’ve been eager to leave the tedious, small town
whose epicenter vacillated between a super-store and the high school football
stadium. I distinctly remembered feeling so irritated at him for messing with
my mission by scaring off Kate that I’d been ready to go toe-to-toe with a
superior.
But I wasn’t mad now.
This alarmed me even more. I glanced at the clock ticking down the
time above the security door. The Connelly-Mission Meeting would begin in
about two minutes, two seconds, if we were to begin on time. Which I’d bet
the Connelly ranch we would. The Academy was a precision timepiece—the
mysterious whirs and ticks of the machine moving in perfect synchronicity,
despite any vibrating disturbances from the outside world.
The feeling I’d been fighting for the last couple of weeks was one I
wasn’t accustomed to here—warmth, that’s what it was. I wasn’t able to
• 263 •
fully articulate what it was until I’d registered its absence. I thought of Kate, Civilian Connelly, as I would refer to her in the meeting. Her luscious face
came to mind, as it so often did now. A smile tempted my lips when I thought
of the fascinating blush of color that always seemed to be coming or going
whenever she was around me. Then chastised myself for the hundredth time
in two weeks—I couldn’t afford to get attached. It wouldn’t be healthy for
her; it wouldn’t be healthy for me.
I should just try harder to give the damn Academy what they wanted. It’s
not like the boy wasn’t an eager recruit. I grimaced when I thought of Kate’s
lashing words. Andrew was too young to know what he
was getting himself
into . . . and The Academy liked to keep it that way.
I contemplated further on our last terrible encounter, replaying the action
sequence as it was reflected on her lively face: the stubborn set of her jaw as
she waited for me, defiance shooting from her eyes as she confronted me with
her suspicions, the crimson flush creeping up her neckline and settling on her
face as I verbally assaulted her. Finally, I felt a sick twist in my gut, as I recalled her wet, miserable eyes and crumpled face drained of color.
Causing an innocent girl to cry was bad enough, but seeing the defeat
etched into her fresh face was something I couldn’t live with. I hoped I’d only
bridled her and not broken her spirit. I’d never be able to live with myself if
I did. She was strong, but The Academy was stronger. Bitter coated the back
of my throat.
The ring of high heels striking marble shattered the silence of the waiting
room. I looked up to see the welcoming face of The Academy, wearing a serene
smile that didn’t animate her face. Another image of Kate flashed in my mind,
and a hollow coldness stole across my body at her lack of presence in my life.
Better get used to it. I rose to greet Weston’s puppet with a smile.
“Cadet Davenport, they’re ready to see you now,” she announced.
“Right on time,” I said in way of greeting.
She eyed my swollen eye, speculating, though she didn’t comment.
“Occupational hazard,” I supplied then gestured for her to proceed. “After
you, Miss Rackliffe.” My flirtatious tone fell flat, lacking the spark needed
to come off the right way.
She smiled at me nonetheless. “Glad to see you dressed appropriately
today.”
I glanced down at my blues, made a face. “Well I guess if I’m gonna play
the game, I better look the part.”
She nodded as if that made perfect sense then led me through the same
unmarked door, and down the same narrow corridor I’d walked three weeks
• 264 •
ago. The same claustrophobic feeling hit me as before, but this time, I didn’t fight it by slouching or stalling. Game face on, I marched right after her.
Another flash: the trio of Connelly kids. A lot was at stake here; I’d have
to play it just right.
Blair did the honors for me, rapping lightly on the door then waiting a
beat before poking her head in to announce my presence. I recognized the
deep-throated growl of Weston along with the sure bassy tone of Commander
Davies, Head of Missions. The General stopped talking in his congenial
manner. “Send him in.”
“Good luck,” she mouthed.
A facsimile of a smile appeared and disappeared from my mouth the
second she turned to go. Drawing a deep breath, I prayed to a God I wasn’t
sure I believed in and pushed through the hearty door. Four pairs of eyes
watched my progression in. I stopped just shy of the rectangular table.
“Cadet Davenport reporting for duty, sir.” I snapped a salute.
General Weston squinted at me through a haze of curling smoke. After
stubbing out his stogey in an ashtray, that doubled as an art piece, he slowly
rose to offer his hand. “Welcome back, Cadet Davenport.”
I shook his hand firmly. “Thank you, sir. It’s good to be back.” I returned
to attention.
“At ease, son,” Weston lightly corrected and then: “Is it?”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Is it really good to be back? I was under the impression, from our last
meeting, that you were having second thoughts about a career in Missions.”
Before I could respond, Weston continued: “It’s amazing what a little real-
world experience can do to make one appreciate just how extraordinarily
blessed our life here at The Academy is. This life is a gift—a privileged
one—that ought not to be taken for granted. Am I right, Cadet Davenport?”
I played along like a Boy Scout looking to sell to a big donor. “You sure
are, sir.”
“Looks like you brought back a little souvenir.” Weston indicated my eye.
I gave him a sheepish smile. “Yes, sir.”
Weston and his A-Team at the table chuckled at my expense, providing
me the opportunity to glance over the usual suspects. Ranger was there with
his dark presence and omnipresent smirk, Commander Davies with his open
file and closed face, and a strained-looking Reese. She caught my eye and gave
an encouraging smile. A lot was written on that face in the split second before
she resumed her professional mask.
This was a trickier situation than I thought—she still had feelings for me.
• 265 •
Weston clapped me on the back. “Come. Sit down. This is an informal meeting as you may have surmised.” He gestured to the seat fillers, and they
all visibly relaxed on cue.
Playing parts. We were all playing parts for the puppeteer. Don’t they ever
get tired of acting? Maybe they were all so accustomed to doing what they were told to do, it became a way of life until their free will was completely stripped
from them like discarded doll clothes . Robotic Barbies. I thought again of Kate and her fiery resolve. She never simply fell in line when it went against her
principals. My mind crashed back to reality and the repercussions I would
face if I failed to get them what they wanted.
Scraping back the empty chair, I sat to the right of Weston across from
Commander Davies. The slim, neat, brown-haired man weighed down by
a lot of chest candy nodded at me, and I followed suit. Then I rewarded
Reese with her long-awaited-for smile and felt a dollop of tenderness for my
former girlfriend. If girlfriend was what she was. Cadets didn’t date in the formal sense of the word. No hearts and flowers. Ours was more an intimate
relationship between two consenting cadets wedged between endless rounds
of tactical and tech-training, class instruction, and athletic endeavors.
These rendezvous were openly encouraged, as inbreeding was your only
option here. Purity was paramount. The Academy had spent decades and
billions of dollars assembling the best gene pool humankind had to offer.
We were all biologically enhanced lab rats whose ancestors had been bred
for specific genetic traits. Desirable traits like high IQ and tall genes. Then
bred again and again until all undesirable traits like male-pattern baldness
and degenerative diseases were virtually eradicated. We were the property of
the organization that created us. Our lives—even our love lives—were not
our own.
Sexual intercourse with a civilian was, in our world, tantamount to
hiring a hooker. Although it was a well-known fact, Academy cadets enjoyed
dipping their beaks into the murky waters of the civilian pond on occasion
(during those weekend passes). You’d just better be extremely careful. We
were screened for illness and disease every month like clockwork. So the
younger and more “pure” a civilian girl, the more desirable she was amongst
male cadets—for entertainment purposes only. No sort of long-standing
relationship or mating would be permitted.
There were a thousand-and-one Academy jokes about how easy it was to
get a civilian girl in the sack. They were as common as blonde jok
es around
these parts. According to Ranger, it was as easy as “shooting fish in a barrel.”
I glanced over at his smug mug with an open look of distaste.
• 266 •
Ranger winked at me across the table. “So . . . she was a wild one, was she?”
I tried not to notice the discomfit that sprang to Reese’s face, and to
tune Ranger out. But that was easier said than done when his smirk was
spreading like a stain across his filthy mouth. It was the same one he wore
two weeks ago when he was imparting last words of wisdom. They were real
gems: “Have fun but use condom sense,” he’d said before tossing something
at my head and slamming out the door. I reflexively caught the small item of
insignificant weight then immediately flung it into the trash. How juvenile
and lame—how Ranger.
I recalled how hard he’d fought to be the operative on this mission. How
I wished at the time they would’ve just let him. I was still surprised he hadn’t
been able to persuade Weston. He had more field experience and was also
scientifically tested to be a good match. A sick feeling wormed in my gut at
the thought of Ranger trying to shoot for Kate like she was another fish. That,
coupled with the way he was regaling Reese with inaccurate tales about Kate’s
“psychotic behavior,” had me clamping my jaw shut to keep in the thoughts
that were trying to form into words.
Had to play it cool, not show a weak spot for her. But I felt twin spots of
heat flare along my cheekbones, despite my best efforts at reining it in. Reese
noticed and something passed across her lovely Nordic features before she
caught herself. I concentrated on slowing down my breathing like I’d been
trained to do since starting the program at the tender age of two.
Like a menacing maestro, Weston raised a hand for silence. Ranger about-
faced, and Reese zipped her lips so quick you’d think a gun had gone off.
“Cadet Davenport, I’ve obviously been briefed on the preliminary results
of The Connelly Mission, and must say—I’m disappointed. I thought you’d
have this one all sewed up by now.” Weston gave me one of his looks aimed at
withering self-confidence. “Unless you’re hiding the signed documents under
your uniform as I speak . . .” He paused long enough to allow me to dutifully
