Recruitment

by K A Riley

  The irony of that statement amuses me, given that Render and I more or less share one mind. Not that anyone else knows the extent of our rapport. To tell the truth, even I don’t fully know the extent of it. The connection is strong at times, weak at others. Sometimes I feel like I’ve become a bird psychic, but occasionally he just seems to disappear, and I’m left inside my own head with nowhere to go.

  Of course, after today, none of it will matter. I’m sure when I’m taken far from the Valta, we won’t feel each other’s presence anymore. For a time, he’ll think I’ve deserted him…and I’ll be left with a hole inside my chest that I won’t be able to tell anyone about, because there’s no way they’d ever understand. Even Card can’t possibly fathom how devastating it’s going to feel to lose Render. To him and to the rest of our Cohort, Render is just an amusing mascot, a wild animal I managed to tame for a time.

  They can’t possibly know that losing him will be like losing a limb.

  As the Seventeens trudge the rest of the way down the walkway ahead of me, I give my wrist a quick tap, and Render’s mysterious mind overlaps with my own.

  Despite what the Neos, the Juvens, and most of my fellow Seventeens think, his mind is more than just a tunnel-visioned quest for food or an empty void that shuts down as he soars effortlessly through the sky. Right now, he’s afraid. He may not understand why, but he knows I’m scared too, and he knows how much I’m going to miss him.

  At least I know he won’t starve. As dependent as he is on me, he’s always been a phenomenal hunter. After I’m gone, he’ll fly off to track down deer mice or pick at some carcass he’s found. But he also enjoys being hand-fed his morning grubs, so I reach into the plastic pocket inside my satchel and toss one to him. He snatches it out of the air with a lightning fast snap of his beak and a kraa of thanks. His claws dig into my shoulder, but I don’t care. I’m used to it. In fact, I’ve grown to like it. Just one more thing I’m going to miss.

  “This is where we need to go our separate ways, old friend,” I whisper, hoping none of the others can hear me trying not to cry as I say good-bye for the last time. A sympathetic look from any of them would be enough to make me break down, and that’s the last thing I want to do before coming face to face with the Recruiters.

  No sense prolonging the inevitable seems to have become the theme for the day. With a last stroke of my finger over his feathered head, I tell him to fly away one final time.

  Pushing off from my shoulder, Render launches himself into the air and soars in big circles, scoping the ground below for a proper breakfast as I walk down the sidewalk and give him a quiet whisper of goodbye, tears welling in my eyes.

  I can’t help but imagine what my dad would think if he could see me now, crying over a bird. Actually, it would probably make him happy to know there was something in my life I’d miss. Something that was actually worth crying over.

  The walk down to the square is short. Too short. I wish we had a proper hike ahead of us, a chance to enjoy these last moments a little longer. Even so, as usual, Amaranthine is straggling behind, and I hold back to make sure she keeps up. I try to tell myself that I’m just looking out for her, making sure she doesn’t try to bolt. She’d only get tracked down and killed.

  But the truth is, I’m not really all that interested in her safety. Despite her weird quietness and roughed up appearance, she’s an oddly tough girl who’s always been just fine on her own. I’m the one who’s being a coward, using her as an excuse to hang back. To have just one more minute before I enter the square and say goodbye to the Valta forever.

  “We’d better not fall too far behind,” I advise her with what I hope is a friendly smile. “The Recruiters don’t have a sense of humor about slowpokes.” I put out my hand as if to help her along.

  Amaranthine glares at me through her tangle of dark, partially-dreadlocked hair.

  I drop my hand, lose my cheery smile, and stare as she shoulders past me, leaving me to take her place as the straggler bringing up the rear.

  As has become tradition, the Juvens and Neos are already gathered together in the square, ready to salute us and see us off. The crowd parts for us as we walk to the center of the large open space and watch as the cloud of dust in the distance whirls away to reveal the Recruiters’ small military convoy.

  When the three vehicles grumble up as one, Karmine explains that the big cargo truck is for us. “The other two are escorts,” he says out of the side of his mouth. “For show. I can’t imagine they think a handful of teenagers living on their own in a burned-out nothing of a town is going to present any kind of threat.”

  It’s not just that we’ve seen similar caravans on this date every year. Karmine knows these things from his books. Not many books survived the raids over the years, but among the ones that did is a three-volume set of hardcovers called Combat Regs and the Protocols of War. Karmine has practically memorized them, and he’s fond of tossing out random bits of military trivia. In the past, he’s regaled us with everything from the importance of objective to the best techniques for effective guerilla warfare to how best to conduct a strategic flanking operation. It can get pretty annoying, but I have to admit, the Juvens and Neos have really taken a liking to him over the years. He’s the go-to person whenever anyone wants to learn about all things military, and, from what I’ve seen, he’s a really good teacher.

  Brohn gives a gracious nod of thanks to Karmine for the info, and we all take a step back as the trucks grind to a stop, kicking up a cloud of thin brown dust that causes a lot of us to cough and cover our mouths and eyes.

  A soldier with the name “Kellerson” embroidered in yellow thread on the left pocket of his combat military jacket hops down from the open back of the larger transport truck. He’s almost as tall as Brohn, but thinner, with bugged-out eyes and a snaggle tooth that makes him look like some kind of mutated wild boar. He scans us all and starts jotting something down on an old-style wooden clipboard.

  A second soldier, this one with the name “Chucker” printed on his beige and spinach-green button-up shirt, drops down from the truck behind Kellerson. This guy is nearly as thick around as Terk, but he’s shorter, which gives him a kind of squarish appearance, like he’s a cement block someone decided to deck out in military fatigues. His sleeves are cuffed above his elbows, and his exposed forearms are as big around as one of my legs.

  The ground seems to rumble as he jumps down from the truck and clomps toward us.

  A knot forms in my throat, and a trickle of sweat snakes its way down my spine. I’m not going to last long if our military training involves sparring against full grown men three times my size.

  Facing us, but staring into the sky as if he’s reciting reluctantly from a memorized statement, Chucker announces, “Per the pleasure and discretion of President Krug, the Cohort of the Seventeens of the Class of 2042 has been invited to aid in the noble effort against the Eastern Order, which has violated the sanctity of our borders and seeks to destroy our way of life and our very existence. With your aid, and by the grace of God and with the gratitude of President Krug as your companions in battle, our nation shall not perish from this earth but will forever prevail, and our military might shall reign time immemorial.”

  Chucker continues to stand ram-rod straight and turns his gaze to us. His voice is as husky and intimidating as his body. “Your loyalty to your nation and your undying allegiance to your president are appreciated and will not go unrewarded.”

  It’s the same speech they give every year. Sometimes I’ve found it funny. Other times, it’s seemed inspirational. Occasionally it’s sounded like nothing more than a desperate call to arms.

  It used to at least hold the potential to give me tingles of patriotism.

  Now it just gives me tingles of dread.

  A half-dozen Recruiters jump out of one of the smaller escort trucks to march into the crowd of Juvens and Neos, passing over each set of features with a clunky facial-recog scanner that looks like it’s bee
n recently assembled out of spare parts. It’s nothing like the old, smooth tech we used to have, but still, it looks like Card was right about the Execs starting to get things back on line. Every year, their scanners get a little more sophisticated.

  That fact gives me hope, but it also makes me a little jealous. Who knows how much we could have accomplished over the last few years in the Valta with some better tech at our disposal?

  Satisfied that there are no unregistered Seventeens hiding out with the younger Cohorts, the six men are joined by six more. They all trudge into town to start their door-to-door sweep for anyone hiding out or for any signs of resistance or evidence that someone might be planning to leave the Valta without authorization.

  In the meantime, Kellerson double-checks his clipboard and nods his approval to Chucker, who proceeds to order the eight Seventeens to line up single-file in front of him. We shuffle into as straight a line as we can manage, with Brohn in front and Amaranthine, as usual, in the back.

  Kellerson is just starting to tell us about the long trip we have ahead of us when Wisp bursts from the shuffling crowd of Juvens and runs full speed toward her brother. She latches onto his waist with a vice-like grip, tears running in little streams down her puffy red cheeks. Brohn kneels down in front of her. He’s just brushing the stray blond hair away from her face and telling her not to worry when Chucker thunders over and grabs her by the back of her jacket. He yanks her away from Brohn in one sweeping motion and holds her dangling a few inches off the ground as she kicks and screams. When he flings her back toward the advancing crowd of Juvens, she slides to a stop in the dirt at their feet.

  Brohn takes a step toward Chucker, his fists balled up, suddenly as big as boulders. Kella and Karmine each grab him by an arm to hold him back.

  “Smart move,” Chucker grunts at them. “No sense letting your buddy get ended just when he’s getting ready to begin.”

  Brohn bites his lip as he watches some of the older Juvens help his sister to her feet, comforting her as best they can. Wisp tucks her face into Cici’s shoulder, as Cici wraps her arms around her and spits on the ground in Chucker’s direction. He’s already turned back to her, which is good. There’s no telling how he might react to such a disrespectful move. Cici is pretty tough, but this guy looks like he eats her weight every day for breakfast.

  Brohn’s jaw is locked tight, and I can tell he’s fighting back tears, which isn’t exactly unusual on November 1st. I’ve seen new Seventeens break down and cry. I’ve seen others whoop it up and practically dance their way onto the transport trucks. Three years ago, there were twins—Dani and Michella—who were so eager to fight, they kept bouncing around, asking the Recruiters when they’d get a chance to use guns. The Recruiters rolled their eyes and told the twins to just get in the damn truck.

  Everyone reacts according to their fears. Two years ago, a boy named Arven swore he wasn’t a Seventeen. “I was born in ‘25,” he kept screaming as he backed slowly away from the Recruiters. “Check the records!”

  But no one checked anything. Instead, the driver of the transport truck bashed Arven’s head in with the butt of his rifle, and two other soldiers tossed his limp body into the back of the truck like he was nothing more than a giant sack of birdseed.

  The best we can hope for today is to avoid a repeat of that drama.

  Seeing that Wisp is okay, Brohn takes a deep breath and steadies himself. Karmine and Kella are energized and strangely enthusiastic. Cardyn is nervous but trying to resign himself to his fate. Terk is a bundle of nerves. Rain is quietly assessing the situation. Amaranthine is her usual oddly stoic and mysterious self.

  I already miss Render.

  Brohn already misses Wisp.

  We all miss who we were and wonder what we’re about to become.

  Brohn takes a last look over at Wisp and raises his hand in a half-wave. From under Cici’s protective arm, Wisp sobs and raises her hand back. Then she buries her face back into Cici’s shoulder, unable to watch as her brother gets led away.

  As we step forward toward the truck, I’m a lot closer to crying myself than I am to celebrating, but I know perfectly well that neither will prepare me for where we’re going or for what’s about to happen. Neither will keep me safe or get me any closer to finding out what happened to my father and my brother.

  Shielding myself from view behind Terk’s wide body, I tap the black implant pattern on my forearm and try to concentrate. The dust, the Recruiters, and the green and beige camouflage of the truck are replaced by a sudden flash of white and an expansive field of blue that I immediately recognize as the sky.

  I’m in Render’s head, and he’s in mine…for one last goodbye.

  I don’t know if it’s my nervousness, or if I’m feeling Render’s own fear feeding back to me through our implants. What I’m sure of is that another important connection in my life is breaking, and it hurts. I can feel how much he wants to follow us, to come with me. But now, more than ever, I know it’s impossible.

  These men have no problem tossing a little girl around. They’d shoot a raven dead just for sport.

  I’m now trying and failing to hold back the tears that I’ve held back since last night.

  I’m sorry, Render. This is the way it has to be. You’ll be safe here.

  I try to console him, even as I fail to console myself. I’m about to lose the last member of my family, and the thought of it feels like a massive weight hanging around my neck.

  The eight Seventeens of the Class of 2042 climb one at a time up the rear fender and into the transport truck. Kellerson and Chucker leap up behind us. Chucker pulls up the lift-gate, drops a thick canvas curtain down over the rear doors, and we begin the long ride out of town, leaving Render, Wisp, the school, our memories, and everything else behind.

  5

  The man called Chucker seats himself on the rear bench with a huge black gun across his lap. It’s a terrifying beast of a rifle, clunky and decked out with scopes, stocks, and some kind of long sliding bolt. I know it’s just one gun, but it looks like someone broke into an armory somewhere and glued four or five guns together to create one enormous weapon.

  Chucker scowls at us as we duck our heads and shuffle around to take our places on the green steel benches on either side of the truck’s interior. When we’re all as settled as we’re going to get, the stuffy, windowless vehicle kicks into gear and begins to grind its way out of the Valta, on its way to an undisclosed location.

  Which is probably why my anxiety is through the roof.

  I can’t stop thinking about Render, wondering if he’s feeling the severing of our bond as acutely as I am. I can’t help but think of the new Sixteens, of how much weight has just been thrust onto their shoulders.

  All I want right now is comfort, but there’s nothing here that can give it to me. Brohn has retreated into a quiet rage. Card looks even more nervous than I feel.

  The only thing left to do is breathe and hope.

  Up until now, we’ve always known how close the Valta was to the ongoing war. It’s never been pleasant, but at least we knew how to deal with the constancy of that dread. Now, a fear of the unknown has begun drifting through the inside of the truck like a tangible fog.

  This is literally the scariest moment of my life. And Chucker and his stink-eye aren’t helping.

  “Don’t mind my grumpy buddy here,” Kellerson says with a thin smile. He’s sitting on the rear bench next to Chucker, his legs spread in a relaxed pose that totally contradicts the stiff young bodies all around him. “Recruitment duty isn’t one of his favorites.” He gives his partner a playful shove that reminds me of my rapport with Card. “You’d rather be out killing the Eastern Order’s guys, wouldn’t ya, Chucky-boy?”

  Chucker glares at Kellerson and then turns his squinty laser-eyes back on us in the dusky light of the truck, grimacing like he’s doing everything in his power not to shoot us all dead.

  Kellerson shrugs his shoulders and turns toward Brohn to call
out over the roar of the rumbling engine. “So, eight of you this year, huh?”

  “Eight of us. Yes sir,” Brohn says evenly. He interlocks his fingers, his elbows on his knees, and stares at a spot on the floor. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s thinking about Wisp, and I can tell that he’s struggling to maintain some small morsel of self-control.

  What I don’t know is if his love for his sister is going to motivate him to excel as a Recruit. Right now, I get the feeling that it could just as easily break his spirit, or at the very least, inspire him to leap across the short distance between him and Chucker and try to kill the man who roughed up his younger sibling.

  But for now, Brohn, unblinking and a bit scary, just clenches his jaw, keeping his head and eyes down like an irritated bull who’s about to turn homicidal.

  “I’m no ‘sir,’ Seventeen,” Kellerson says with a flash of his snaggle-toothed smile. “Corporal Kellerson’ll do just fine. Or just ‘Kellerson.’ Not much need for ranks where we’re going. We’re all in the same leaky boat.”

  Karmine leans forward from his bench and extends his hand toward Kellerson. “Karmine,” he says. “Good to know you, Corporal.”

  Kellerson rejects the hand shake and instead folds his arms and leans back against the truck’s steel wall. “No sense getting to know you, Seventeen. In a couple months, you’ll be a drone, out there killing off the Order so the Execs can keep building their vertical cities. If you live through the training, that is!” With that, he laughs and turns toward Chucker for some kind of confirmation of his cleverness. But the other man just stares straight ahead, apparently still resisting the urge to slaughter us all.

  “What do you mean, live through the training?” Terk asks, his tree-trunk arms around his thick legs as if to bundle up his big frame to make more room in the truck for the rest of us. “It doesn’t do the Execs any good if we get hurt, does it? I mean, they’re not out to kill us, right?” He looks over to Brohn for support, but Brohn doesn’t look up.