Dove Arising (8 page)

Earth recon missions are unpopular but necessary assignments for high-ranking soldiers. From what I’ve read in the
Luna Daily
, Battery Bay and Pacifia have more problems between them now that we leave them alone—but we make a point of keeping an eye on them. My Earth Studies teacher once joked that the two cities are like teenage lovers: fickle, silly, bickering. They float atop the ocean, sometimes chasing each other and sometimes speeding in opposite directions. They’ve each tried to get as many other countries on their side as possible; now, most of the planet’s population belongs to one of the alliances.

Vinasa swallows some bread and looks as if she’s trying not to hiccup. “Don’t know if you can bet on that, Eri. Beetles have seen more Earth ships nearby these past few years, so the Militia’s sending more people to dispatch those ships and on actual recon missions.”

“Ugh, and the food on the ships is probably even worse than
this
. . . .” Eri hasn’t touched her meal; she glares at it, as if doing so will turn it into fresh sushi and fluffy coconut cake. “Think we can get our parents to send some real bread?”

Groans of assent arise from around the table. These girls surely grew up in middle-income families, eating the kind of food mine only bought for special occasions. White bread, still warm from the Culinary steam ovens, filled with fruit paste or lab-grown meat. Water infused with carbon dioxide and sweet stevia leaves that bubbles delightfully on the tongue.

I whisk my soup with the spoon, aiming to create a smooth, sloping vortex until I admit to myself that the chunky liquid will never cooperate.

Nash’s low voice wafts from beside me. “It’s not that bad, Eri. At least they care about our health.”

Defense is feeding us now so that we can do their bidding before either completing our service or dropping dead.
Great investment
, I think with a sardonic smirk. We might as well take advantage of their generosity.

“You know who’s going to place at top two and end up on recon?” Vinasa winks at Eri, whose face turns the color of a radish. “Wes Kappa.”

I wonder if she’s talking about Copper Head.

“Yeah, Eri, your
stalk-ee
ran like a comet today—I mean, if comets could run,” Nash adds. “I saw you staring at him like . . . well, the way you’ve stared at him since Level Ten Primary. . . . Top twenty in every subject! Pretty hair like the surface of Mars!”

Eri hunches over her food and shovels a spoonful of the soup into her mouth. Now’s a good time for her to eat it, when she’s so embarrassed she won’t notice the taste.

She swallows. “Fuzz off, Nash.”

About ten years ago, some colorful individuals derived the swearwords
fizz, fuzz,
and
fuse
from nuclear fission and fusion, violent processes from which the best lunar weapons draw their power. I’m unused to profanity, but given Militia’s coarse environment, hearing such phrases shouldn’t be a surprise.

“But it’s so much fun to tease you!” Vinasa erupts into laughter, clutching her middle. “Also, you do
nothing
about him, even though he’ll
never
make the first move.”

Nash snorts. “Vin, Wes is right there, with Orion. Quit with the giggles unless you want them to hear.”

Indeed, Copper Head sits at the end of a nearby table full of babbling trainees, facing the wall and watching the evening news on his handscreen. The fellow responsible for most of the mirth—Orion, I suppose—has peachy skin and wears his wheaten hair in a stubby ponytail at the nape of his neck. His face and shoulders are so strong, even the hairstyle doesn’t make him look effeminate. While he makes conversation with the unfortunate girl beside him, her spoon misses her mouth and stew spills down her front. I let out a snort of amusement.

Oblivious, Copper Head spears his bread with his fork and chomps it with his premolars, on the side of his mouth. Something on the news holds his attention, or he’s pretending it does. Because I’m in a similar social situation, I feel a sudden closeness with him, but I repress it. He deserves no empathy from me.

After dinner, Colonel Arcturus Theta, an older officer with a round, ruddy face and gray hair shaved close to his scalp, delivers a lecture on rules that focuses on our 23:00 curfew—“23:00, and not a second later!” We mustn’t wander about after curfew; boys and girls must be in their respective halves of the barracks after curfew; handscreens must be silenced after curfew. . . .

“People call him Arcturus the Assiduous.” In the row above me, Orion whispers loudly to Copper Head. “Because he flips grits every time people don’t follow his exact directions. And he’s super picky about squat technique.
Ass
iduous. Get the double meaning?”

On a better day, I might have laughed. It would feel wrong now, with my family scattered all over the base.

Arcturus’s eyes dart to our section of chairs. When he turns to a different part of the crowd, his droopy cheeks wobble.

Twenty minutes later, he finishes. We drag ourselves to the barracks, where cots for all trainees are stacked in columns—girls in one half of the room, boys in the other. I gulp, wondering how I’ll fall asleep with so many people around.

I dart to a quiet corner and claim a top bunk. I’ve always liked to see everything. Even though the lights are still on, and the cot is too bumpy for restorative rest, my eyelids begin to close as soon as I orient myself horizontally. With a stranger’s soft breathing in the cot next to me instead of my sister’s, I drown in the loneliness that’s been seeping into my blood all day. In a futile attempt to fight it off, I imagine Mom’s dark eyes watching me as I wander into the void.

7

THE NEXT DAY INVOLVES STRENGTH training, which works muscles I didn’t know I had to the point of misery. I had hoped that my time in the greenhouses would prepare me for this kind of exertion, but I was sadly mistaken. The Giant does the most push-ups, crunches, and squats, with Wes Kappa a close second.

Periodically, I glance at my handscreen clock and wonder about my family—at 16:00, in the middle of a pull-up, I think,
Did Anka get home?
At dinnertime, while in my usual seat against the wall:
Did Caeli remember to make food for two more people? And Mom . . . oh, I hope her fever’s subsiding.
 . . .

Later in the week, we spend hours reviewing form and martial arts techniques. My sore muscles bewail every punch and parry. The double roundhouse kicks are the worst, requiring a quick pivot in midair to hit the left and right flanks of an opponent. Most satisfying is the axe kick, which aims to crush a bone or two beneath the heel. I earn myself dirty stares when my foot flies up past my collarbone. Years of crawling and twisting in the cramped greenhouses have kept me flexible.

When Yinha orders us to pair off so she can critique us two by two, I lurk near Nash, Eri, and Vinasa, who argue over which two will form a pair and who will face someone new. Eri shuffles off into a crowd of trainees, and I follow—she seems like a safe opponent.

Before I summon the courage to approach her, the Giant swaggers over to Wes Kappa and grabs his arm. Trainees scoot backward as they face off.

“Would you like to partner up?” Wes asks his rival in a civil tone.

“Stop being sassy, Kappa.” The Giant pulls Wes into his body and traps him in a headlock. “I’ve waited so long for this . . . now I’m giving you a preview.”

The Giant uses the strength in his back and arms to throw Wes down. As Wes hits the floor, he rolls on his back to absorb the impact. I remember how the Giant rammed him on the track last week—Wes seems like his perennial victim.

Without Umbriel by my side to fend off bullies all through Primary, I might’ve endured the same treatment I’m witnessing now. My best friend wouldn’t stand by if he were present.

While the other trainees watch in fear—Eri looks as if she’s about to cry—I run forward, my hand extended to help Wes up. He might’ve taken Mom, but he doesn’t deserve to be tormented as the Beaters tormented her.

He takes my hand, his grip gentle, and his legs—stronger than they look—do ninety percent of the work in getting him to his feet. He appears uninjured. We each avoid the other’s eyes, but I read utter surprise on his face. Maybe he wasn’t expecting the Giant to hurt him outright. Maybe he wasn’t expecting anyone to step in afterward. Especially me.

The Giant’s hooded eyes focus on
me
. “You Kappa’s little minion or something? I’ll spar with
you
—I’m a little sore. We’ll take it easy.”

Oh no
. How could I have been so stupid? I’ve earned the enmity of the brawniest trainee, who’s clearly not the harmless landmass he seemed in Canopus’s office.

My knees quiver, but I fight to keep the fear off my face.

“Jupiter, let her be.” Wes hovers around me and the Giant, trying unsuccessfully to edge between us.

The Giant—Jupiter—ignores Wes and extends his mammoth hand to introduce himself. When I offer mine, he squeezes my fingers until my knuckles grate against each other. This trainee doesn’t broadcast his stats to everyone’s handscreen by speaking his name aloud. He has no reservations, however, about examining my information. As he reads, he arranges his lips into a square shape around his teeth.

“Damn, you’re only fifteen?” But he sees something else, and his caricature of a smile falls away. “But this IQ . . .”

Looking warily from me to Wes Kappa, Jupiter cracks the knuckles of his right hand against his hip. I lean away from him, filled with dread. Does he consider me even more of a threat now that he knows my IQ?

I check my handscreen: Jupiter Alpha is the Giant’s full name.

As I wiggle my fingers to check for damage, a warm hand finds my shoulder. The feeling is so familiar that I expect to see Umbriel in the flesh when I turn around. To my disappointment, I behold only the coppery hair and tranquil features of Wes, who I assume wants a go at Jupiter himself.

Wes focuses metallic eyes on me for a heartbeat before looking away and removing his hand. “Stay low, all right?”

I archive his advice in my mind. Keeping close to the ground against a larger opponent makes perfect sense.

“All set?” roars Yinha. “Cool. Everyone hit the viewing platform.”

A stampede ensues as the trainees move off in pairs.

“Good. That was a lot quicker than yesterday. Today we’re sparring until one person falls and stays down for more than three seconds. Who’s first?”

“Us!” hollers Jupiter.

“Hmm . . .” Yinha’s face hardens with concern. So she’s not completely callous; pitting the youngest trainee against the biggest one seems to bother her. “Fine—I won’t stop you. I like to see volunteers.”

The seats that Jupiter and I occupy rise up from the rest of the viewing platform, carry us through the air, and lower us into the middle of the empty training-dome floor. When we stand up, the chairs retreat to their original positions.

“Go!” Yinha yells.

Jupiter stampedes toward me, leading with his prism-shaped head. With his bigger mass and higher top speed, he can achieve a greater momentum than me any time of day—and knock me over like a bowling pin in that useless Earthbound game.

Stay low
, I repeat to myself, crouching and pivoting on the balls of my feet to face right. Before Jupiter barrels into me, I execute a forward roll and regain my footing immediately.

Jupiter zooms past, slowing with great effort.

“Can’t run forever!” He comes after me again, with heavier feet this time, and stops in front of me, aiming a massive fist at my face. I raise my crossed forearms to block it. The impact jars my bones. He throws more punches at different sections of my upper body and scores a hit on my sternum. Ouch.

Instead of continuing to block his fists, which would only reward me with extra bruises on my forearms, I step back, slowly at first. Jupiter leans farther and farther forward—if I sufficiently shift his center of gravity, he’ll fall.

“Get on the offensive, Stripes!” a boy yells from the stands.

I aim a fist at Jupiter’s stomach. He turns my forearm aside; the collision jars my wrist and elbow. I deliver a vicious kick to his left shinbone, eliciting a yelp of pain, and backpedal away. A collective squeal arises from the female half of the trainees.