by Stacey Mac
I see the train tracks, again, stretching parallel to the forest’s border. But further along them, almost invisible in the night, is the outline of something large, rectangular, and windowed.
My eyes widen. “A train?”
He nods, smiling at my wonder. I’ve never seen a train in real life.
“Come and see,” he says, “your sector gutted the inside – the seats and fabrics and window panes – but otherwise, it’s been left lonely all this time.”
We walk towards it slowly, me staring. “This was a...station, then?”
“Must’ve been,” he nods.
The giant machine is staggering in size. In my head, I picture people crowding its doorways, its body rumbling. All that energy.
Dean leads us to the end of the train’s carriage. There is a narrow, rickety ladder that leads to the roof, and we climb it, one after the other.
We sit on top of this better piece of history in silence. I think Dean is giving me time to marvel. This town wasn’t overly populated before we established here, and what little structures and materials that were found have been dismantled and recycled. Our sectors cannot manufacture raw materials the way the world used to. My father says we are rats: just scavengers taking what was left behind and trying to make use of it. We are nothing compared to our predecessors who innovated, created, revolutionised.
“It must have been nice,” I say quietly, “to be able to get on a train whenever you wanted to, and leave whenever you wanted to.”
“That depends,” Dean answers, rubbing his bare hands together again. “What if you didn’t want to go anywhere?”
I look up at the blank, starless sky. “You sound like the Resolute.”
“You really do hate it here, don’t you?”
“Tell me something,” I say quickly, “about Resolute.”
His scowl softens, and he tilts his head to the side. “What do you want to know?”
“My friend, Vincent, he said something today...about your training camps. It got me thinking about how different it must be from ours.”
“You already knew that,” he says. “But, yeah, it’s different.”
“How?” I press.
“Well we don’t have a compound. The initiates report to us in the morning and they go back to their homes in the afternoons.”
My eyes widen. “Really? What else?”
Dean shrugs. “Not hard to guess, we just try not to terrify our initiates into doing our bidding,” he says, shrugging, but as nonchalant as he tries to be, I can see a reverence. “Galores think control is gained with fear. If your units ain’t fulfilling their duties for the sector, they have ’em shot by fronters,” Dean pauses, his jaw tensing. “Fronters are supposed to protect the sector. What I’m saying is that Resolute priorities are different. Our leaders listen. They aren’t dictators.”
I frown. “What would you know about dictatorship in Galore?”
He falters. “Did that offend you?”
“No,” I say shaking my head, “it just sounds like you know more than I do about my own sector.”
For a moment, a look of unease crosses his expression, and then it is gone, replaced with arrogance. “It doesn’t take a genius to see how things are done here. That Commander of yours is a fucking tyrant.”
“He is,” I concede, “but again, how do you get that just from seeing him a couple of times in the compound? Have you ever spoken with him?”
“Let’s talk about something else. This conversation is depressing as hell.”
I get the impression that he is being evasive, but I don’t press him further. “Can I ask a different question, then?” I say instead.
He waits.
“What the hell were your initiates doing tonight when I got to your dorm?”
This makes him smile, and I relax. Things change when Dean smiles.
“Bull rush,” he says, his breath fogging into my face.
“Bull rush?”
“It’s a game of tag,” he says. “I’ll show you sometime.”
“No, thanks,” I say quickly.
He laughs. “Is it my turn to ask a question?”
“Sure.”
“Your family are grazers.”
I freeze momentarily. The mention of my parents has twisted my stomach with something akin to despair. “That isn’t a question.”
“Well, you’ve said a few things about your father, and I wondered who else you lived with.”
I try not to grimace. “Just my parents and I,” I tell him. My turn to evade. I agreed to a truce, not to share feelings. Why does he care to know me?
“Did you ever have any siblings?” Dean asks carefully.
“Nope.”
He raises his eyebrows. His reaction is to be expected. My family is somewhat of an anomaly - most families in our world are made up of gravestones, remorse, and left over children.
Dean frowns, thoughtful. “Your folks...how many campaigns...?”
He doesn’t need to find the right ending to this question, I know what he is asking. How many times have my parents been deployed and left me alone? How many times have they survived and come home again?
“My father has had his name drawn three times, my mother: only twice.”
He nods again. His eyes have become softer, sadder, the shadows beneath them darken. There is stubble along his jaw line, and it bristles as he grits his teeth. From the looks of this expression, he is right here with me, in the turmoil I frequently drown in. He has come to the same simple equation that I did days ago:
Two parents alive, and only five campaigns between them. Two names in the draw, too long since their names were last selected, and double the chance that one of my parents won’t be there when I get back home.
I swallow the lump in my throat. A wind has picked up, the beginnings of the first snow travelling on its gust. The flakes stick to my hair, my eyelashes. They catch on the laces of my boots, and Dean’s, and melt almost instantly.
“You must be worried about ’em,” he says.
In the corner of my eye, I see him look away from me, to the edge of the woods instead, where the wind is catching the branches of the tallest spruce trees.
I shrug. I’m always worried. Everyone is always worried for their counterparts. It is the debt we pay for our unlikely existence. Most people are proud of their father’s, mother’s, sister’s, or brother’s contribution to our freedom.
“I’ll have to lose them eventually, right?” I mean to hurl the words away, to show him how little I care.
He grimaces. “They’ve survived before. They can take care of themselves. They can survive again.”
I watch delicate particles catch onto the metal roof of the train, and slide away to the edges, now just water droplets. “You and I both know that’s not how it works.”
He says nothing, and I am grateful. Another person might badger me until I’m happy again. Dean allows me to fear quietly. It helps. I can compartmentalise it. There is nothing I can do, will ever be able to do, to stop their fate, anyone’s fate.
We all will fight, and we all will die.
The only alternative is to be the lucky one who survives it all, to live out the rest of your natural life alone. My cowardice is such that I don’t know which one I’d prefer.
After a while, Dean’s hand reaches over, and he brushes a strand of my hair behind my ear. His fingers linger there, hovering carefully over a fresh bruise.
I turn my head towards his hand and see him watching me, and something Vincent said earlier stirs in my mind: I don’t think he wants to be friends.
I watch him too, sitting on the roof of an abandoned train, in a forgotten civilisation, on the edge of the woods. And I wonder how long I can keep ignoring his decency.
I stop thinking about sad things, and my head falls automatically into his waiting palm. “Thank you for bringing me here,” I tell him.
He grins. “Anytime.”
And the longer we sit there, the colder the
wind gets. The more I shiver, the closer Dean comes to warm me, and after a while, my body is leaning into his, and his arm is around me, and I wonder if maybe after all that has transpired between us, perhaps I don’t want to be friends either.
Chapter Eleven
The back doors of the Arena swing open like the wings of a beast and two members of Council emerge; the same two who greeted us with the latest piece of terrible news. They wear looks of indifference, they have come to say what they must and leave swiftly.
The entire assembly tenses in response to the Council’s arrival. I feel it, like a living infection, spreading quickly among us.
The councillor comes forward to address us. He pulls at the collar of his long coat, and his lips twitch uncomfortably.
And I know what he will say.
Trey calls us to ease, and the strain peaks.
“Good morning,” the man says. “Names were drawn yesterday evening for the campaign we are now calling: Mission Retrieve. The those deployed will be tasked with the retrieval of the men and woman killed recently by Scarce soldiers. Command would like to remind all citizens of Galore that the recent attack on our soldiers was unprovoked. It is necessary that a troop of substantial numbers be deployed to reclaim the bodies of our brothers and sisters, and to avenge their unnecessary deaths. As a result, five hundred names were drawn – ”.
There is a collective gasp. Five hundred. Five hundred? So many Galore citizens leaving.
So likely that two of its numbers will belong to me.
The council member clears his throat. “And fifty of our brother militia: Resolute, will be assisting. Those initiates who are directly related to the soldiers of Mission Retrieve will be notified individually of their relative’s involvement. The campaign is now in effect. Deployment is scheduled for tomorrow at six hundred hours.” He nods sternly towards the trainers, and turns on his heel. He and his companion leave again quickly, and the swelling tension in the Arena finally crashes.
The assembly begins to fracture without permission, and though no one talks, hands flutter, heads turn towards one another. We raise our eyebrows, shift uncertainly, frown. The assembly – Galores and Resolutes alike – are baffled. Almost a quarter of our militia will be deployed to war with Scarce once more. If our side loses, we sacrifice a devastating portion of our population; medics, grazers, fronters.
This isn’t right.
“The next initiate I see move, sleeps in the snow for a week!”
Trey’s shouting brings me back to the present, and I stiffen. We all resume our positions.
The Resolutes are muttering in low voices, crossing to speak to one another. It is clear from our trainers’ expressions that they would like nothing more than to flog every one of them for deliberately ignoring their calls for silence. There is nothing they can do, though, these initiates are not their’s to enslave.
Predictably, Trey walks forward and pulls a minor from his line. Predictable because after all the disturbance, he must make an example of someone. This boy’s face is still round with childish fullness, and freckles mark every inch of his skin.
Trey orders him to quote which rule he has broken, and tells him that he has been fair. “I hope your trainers taught you how to survive by now,” Trey sneers, “because it is cold enough outside to lose a few toes.”
He shoves the boy back towards the assembly. He’ll sleep outside tonight.
We are dismissed.
*
Tilly finds me in the corridor before lunch. She skips to my side and tugs on my arm. “Hey! Guess what? I got the highest rank for tying knots!”
“That’s fantastic,” I tell her, but my voice sounds far away. By now, four seniors have been handed their letters. Several fronters sent by the command unit walk the halls of the compound, searching for the right recipient.
I have no interest in entering the cafeteria.
I stop and turn to look down at Tilly. “Why don’t we go back to the dorms and play a game to celebrate?”
“Really?” Tilly asks, her eyes widening. “What about lunch?”
“I’ve got us covered,” I tell her with a wink. “Come on.”
I take her hand and lead her quickly through the crowd to eventually reach the stairwell. She climbs the stairs two at a time, and I smile. I used to do the same thing as a kid.
When we reach the second floor, I tell her to be quiet – we aren’t technically supposed to be here, though no one will come to check. So long as we are back in our respective sessions on time, no one will notice our absence.
I lead us back to the senior dorms, and when we finally slump down on my cot, I retrieve the playing cards from underneath my pillow and pass them to Tilly. “Do you remember how to shuffle?”
Tilly nods eagerly and takes the cards.
I cross the vast room to the lockers in the back, and open mine. On the top shelf and towards the back, there is a torn shirt that I don’t wear anymore, and underneath it is a small steel box the size of my hand. This little box belonged to my mother. The top slides back, and inside is the meagre food stash I save for times like this – times when I want to go home.
I carry the box back to my cot and take out the contents from within; walnuts and dried apple.
We nibble away at the snacks and play a few games while Tilly gushes about her achievements so far in her survival course. She seems actually quite capable in this area. Like most grazers, working on the land gives her an edge for surviving outdoors. Whilst I’m doubtful she’ll be able to do much to defend herself in a fight, she can probably climb the fuck out of a tree. There’s also shelter constructions, foraging, and first aid skills. All necessary skills if you’re good at dodging bullets.
“What about the other kids, Tilly?” I ask her, spreading my cards between my fingers. “Is anyone giving you a hard time?”
“Oh, no, not anymore,” she says. For some reason she blushes.
“Good. You make sure you tell one of us if those novices bother you again.”
“I don’t think anyone will bother me. All the minors know that my friends are seniors. I think they are sort of...scared of me,” she giggles in an incredulous way. “Or at least, they are scared of you.”
She flips down her cards suddenly. “Gin!”
I stare, dumbfounded at her hand. I narrow my eyes, “Beginners luck.”
She blushes again. “Do you want to play another game?”
I sigh. “I’d like to, but it’s time to go. We can play again soon. Perhaps one night after dinner.”
“Oh, do you think that you will be excused from the gym soon?” She asks excitedly.
I smack my forehead. Of course, I won’t be available after dinner. “Oh, right. I almost forgot.”
Her face falls, but she smiles sheepishly. “I don’t think that trainer will want to excuse you.”
“Why do you say that?” Her expression almost makes me laugh.
She looks away, embarrassed. “He thinks you are pretty. That’s why he is always looking at you.”
I stare at her. “He looks at me?”
“Mm, hm,” she nods in accent. “All the time on assembly. He is very handsome-looking.” Her eyes become distant, then, and this time I don’t hold the laughter in.
I tousle her hair and turn her around. “Stop fantasising about trainers and get to your session.”
“I am not!” she says petulantly, and I laugh again.
My concerns forgotten for now, I walk with Tilly back towards the stairwell, and decide that perhaps it was good luck after all, that I met her.
*
When the afternoon passes and I receive no notices, I relax a considerable amount. The fronters-turned-messengers still saunter around the centre, and by now Delilah and Adriel have both received letters stating that members of their family will be leaving Galore at dawn tomorrow. They are not alone. An astounding amount of initiates seem to have been interrupted today, as the fronters busted into training rooms calling a name at ran
dom. Each time this has happened my heart has leapt into my throat, and Trey has become more and more impatient.
I let Vincent go ahead of me once we have been dismissed; he wants to catch up to Mia and Delilah. I linger behind, sore and too tired to hurry anywhere. I retie my tangled hair, and collect my jacket from the floor. When I stand upright once more, the Arena has emptied itself of everyone but Flint, who is going around and shutting down the lights one by one.
When my steps echo around the room, Flint looks up and spies me. He raises one arm and gestures for me to come to him.
Flint is taller and skinnier than the average trainer, though his hair cut and expression are the same. He reminds me of an insect, spindly but deadly. I have seen what he can do to someone twice his mass. Having said that, Flint is perhaps one of the only Galore trainers who does not routinely beat an initiate to prove a point.
When I reach him, I stand at attention, and he gives an impatient gesture. “Relax, I just wanted to let you know that I’ve noticed an improvement in your fighting skills. You are stronger this year than I’ve seen you before.”
I’m thankful that I am not supposed to respond to him, because I wouldn’t know what to say.
“Whatever you are doing,” he continues, “keep it up. We might make a valuable soldier out of you yet.”
But he will be disappointed.
He turns without dismissing me and leaves the Arena, leaves me pondering. I’m not better. I am angrier, more desperate. Maybe that’s the trick.
I follow Flint’s path from the Arena and find that the corridor, too, is mostly empty, aside from the line up from the cafeteria which is flowing out the entrance. I decide that I still don’t feel like eating with everyone else, and I head past the queue and towards the stairwell. Tilly and I ate all of my snacks today, and besides rations for breakfast this morning, I’ve eaten nothing else, but solitude seems more appealing right now then food and company does.
My plan hits a barrier when voices on the stairwell make their way down to me, my foot on the first step. The murmurs sound argumentative. They hiss lowly, the way conversations do when they are not meant to be overheard.