The others seemed happy with this life. No ambition. No running, either. Most of them couldn’t run for the bus, let alone keep up with me on a lap of the park. And I’d creep home at night, and hope that Dad was out, or already drunk enough not to care where I’d been. I’d had 16 years of practice, avoiding his shouting and his fists, but every night was a gamble. He could still hurt me if he wanted to.
I paid the rent, and kept us in the house. Who he thought was paying it, I don’t know. Maybe he assumed he’d paid it himself.
And then the bombings got worse, and the government advertised for new soldiers. Good pay, proper training, and a chance at a real career. Plus they didn’t care what exams you’d passed – they just wanted volunteers to fight their war. On my 18th birthday, I quit my job and signed up.
Ken nearly cried. He’d got used to me turning up and doing everything he asked me to do, every working day for two years. He kept saying that he wouldn’t be able to find another helper like me, and asking what he was supposed to do now. I told him about the dropouts and their takeaways, and sent him to the park bench to find someone new. I don’t know who got my job, but good luck to them.
I made the mistake of telling Dad I was leaving. I’ve never seen him so angry, and so afraid. We shouted and screamed at each other – 18 years of resentment and failure makes for a good fight. When he threatened me with a kitchen knife, I locked myself in my room and methodically packed my bag. I could hear him shouting and raging downstairs, but I knew how to stay calm, and concentrate on making sure I could carry everything I would need.
When I came downstairs to leave, he’d dropped the knife. He was sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his hands, weeping like a small child.
He begged me not go. He called me his ‘little girl’. He said sorry, more times that I could count.
It wasn’t enough. I walked out, caught the bus, and never looked back.
Assault
We have a recruit with a mother complex.
One of the posh kids thinks she’s here to look after everyone else. Wipe their noses, tie their shoelaces, cheer them through the assault course as if they’re in kindergarten.
We need to train these newbies into a proper fighting force. The Recruit Training Service exists to turn kids into soldiers who can take their guns into high streets and shopping centres and hospitals and schools, and command respect. This is my shot at a real promotion, and I’m stuck with Mr Sleepy and Mummy Ellman.
Give me strength.
Jackson’s not happy either. We’re putting the recruits through the assault course together, and most them can’t climb the wall, can’t run, and can’t figure out what they’re supposed to do next. They’re all flailing arms and legs and no sense of balance.
Jackson’s putting the fear into them every time they fall, or give up on an obstacle. I’m making sure they get to the end, and making sure they know that we’re watching.
The third team sets off, and I see that Jackson is sending me a gift. Mr Sleepy and Mummy Ellman are running together, alongside two more hopeless recruits. I jog back from the finish line to watch their progress.
This is the worst team yet. Sleepy and Ellman manage to get past the cargo net and the water, and get each other onto the wall, but then they turn round and help the other two up. They don’t seem to understand that this is a timed exercise. That their performance matters.
Jackson shouts at them to hurry up, and Ellman’s off, getting herself across the rope line, jumping straight onto the zip wire, and crawling under the barbed wire. She’s actually not bad, and not too slow, but her team is struggling behind her.
Jackson tracks her through the obstacles, jogging alongside the course, so he’s on hand when she realises she’s left her friends behind. She’s about to run through the last obstacle when she turns instead, and starts shouting encouragement. She even starts moving back towards her team, shouting at them that they can do it, that they just need to keep going.
She doesn’t seem to hear Jackson’s whistle as he charges over to where she’s standing. She’s still walking back towards the others, still shouting at them. Her shock when she’s suddenly face to face with Jackson is comical. She jumps, and her whole body stiffens.
“Turn around, recruit!” He bellows in his best parade-ground voice. “Turn around and get yourself to the end of the course! There’s no time for teamwork here. You are responsible for your own safety. Turn around and clear the course. Now, recruit!”
That should be enough. That should give her a clue that her behaviour is not appropriate. She should turn around and run towards me, and towards the finish. But she doesn’t. She plants her feet, squarely in front of Jackson, and yells at her friends over his shoulder. I can’t help putting my head in my hands for a second. I know Jackson too well to think that he’s going to put up with this.
His reaction is quick. He aims a swift kick at her shin, catches her just below her knee, and down she goes into the mud. She looks up at him, indignant, while he screams at her to get up.
This is it. This is where we need to take the fight out of her. Go on. Give him a reason to hurt you, Ellman.
But she stands up, turns round, and jogs through the last obstacle towards me, favouring her leg where Jackson’s kick landed. She reaches the line, and turns back to watch the rest of the team planting their faces in the mud under the barbed wire. I expect her to shout, to encourage them again, but she’s silent. She’s shivering, and she wraps her arms around herself as she waits for them to finish. Her clothes are soaked from the water obstacle, and she’s covered in mud. She looks pathetic, just standing there.
Does she get it? Is that all it took? It can’t be that easy. She stands a chance of being good at this, if we can pull her away from this need to mother everyone else. I need to reinforce Jackson’s lesson, let her know that her friends aren’t worth the effort.
I walk up behind her and keep my voice low. She jumps as she feels my breath on her neck.
“Save your effort for where it matters, recruit. Leave the losers to lose.”
She doesn’t react, and waits there, shivering, until the others have crossed the line.
*****
“I don’t want to hear this, Ketty. You know that.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“We need these recruits to be independent. Autonomous. Concerned about the TV cameras and the civilians they’re on show for. I do not need to hear about good recruits throwing their skills away to help the ones who won’t even try.”
Commander Bracken sits back from the desk in his private office. I’m standing at ease in the middle of the small room, listening to a lecture I’ve heard a hundred times before. I’ve just delivered my report on the new arrivals, as requested, but the commander doesn’t like my conclusions.
“It’s your job to sort this out. I’m relying on you to get these kids trained and ready for front-line work. I don’t want to hear about kids who aren’t up to standard. Get them there. I don’t want to hear about kids who would rather be nurses, or nannies to the others. Make them understand. I don’t want teams, Ketty. I don’t want Kumbaya round the camp fire, and hugs, and BFFs. We’re not making happy memories here. I need individuals who can go on patrol with anyone, look out for anyone, and behave professionally for the cameras.”
I’ve heard all this before, but I’ve also learned that it pays to keep the commander in the loop, even if he thinks he doesn’t want to know what goes on here. It pays to make sure he knows how hard this job is. It pays to make him see how hard we’re working.
I try to remind him every week that training clueless recruits is tough, and challenging – and that I’m up to the job. It was bad enough when the trainees wanted to be here, but the new kids are so much harder to motivate.
“Prove that you can get me trained, interchangeable robots, and I’ll move you up the chain of command. Get these kids in shape, and I’ll recommend you for promotion. Fail, and I’ll happily leave you h
ere to run assault courses and shout at incompetent recruits forever.
“Don’t bring your problems to me. Sort them out. I don’t have time for every bruised knee and every sticking plaster. If you’ve got kids who want to be kind and helpful, make sure they know that’s not what they’re here for.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Dismissed.” He waves his hand towards the door, and I spin on my heel and leave him to his work. I’m smiling as I leave his office. That promotion is within reach, even working with these schoolchildren. I just need Jackson to back me up.
Iron fists and steel toe caps. We make a good team.
*****
Jackson rocked into camp the same day as me, totally sure of himself. Expensive jeans, expensive trainers, and an attitude that earned him a reprimand before the commander had even finished his introductory briefing.
After dinner on the first night, he found me in the corridor. He slammed my shoulder into the wall and tried to steal a kiss. He got the benefit of 18 years of my learning to defend myself, from my knee and my fists. I left him lying in the corridor, and went to bed with a clear conscience.
The next day, after breakfast, he found me again. I was ready for another fight, but instead he held out his hand.
“I’m Jackson. And I’m sorry. Can we start over?”
“Ketty”, I said, bracing for another attack. I didn’t shake his hand.
He looked uncomfortable, and stuffed his hands in his pockets.
“Do you have something to say?” I looked him in the eyes, challenging him to answer. By the look of his face, I’d given him a black eye the night before.
He couldn’t meet my eyes.
“Yeah. I’m … sorry. I shouldn’t have done that last night.”
“You’re right. You shouldn’t.”
“I’m not used to …”
“To what? Treating people like human beings? Being civil? Asking permission?”
“… to girls who know what they want.”
Girls?
“Women, Jackson. Women. There are no girls here. And yes, if we’re here, we know what we want. We’ve signed up to train and fight. You want another black eye? Then lay a finger on me again. Are we clear?”
He nodded, looking at his feet, and brushed his fingertips over his bruised face.
“Yeah. We’re clear.”
“And don’t let me catch you hassling anyone else, either. No one needs your creepy, entitled attitude. We’ll all need to fight together, when the training’s done. Don’t be the guy we leave behind.”
He nodded again.
“Yeah. Yeah.”
I turned to walk away, but turned back when I realised what he’d said.
“And a girl who doesn’t know what she wants? That’s fine. But trust me – you really don’t know what she wants. So keep your hands to yourself.”
“Okay, okay!” He lifted his head and finally looked at me, his velvet brown eyes meeting mine, hands out of his pockets and held up in mock surrender. “You’re something else, you know that? I’ve never met anyone like you.” He touched his face again. “I think I’m going to enjoy training with you. I think you’re going to make this place interesting.”
He held out his hand again, and this time, I shook it. His grip was firm and businesslike. Respectful. He nodded, dropped my hand, and walked away towards his dorm room, glancing back over his shoulder and smiling as he went.
Test
One week into training the new recruits, and there’s a change to the briefing session. The commander’s been sent a video file for the recruits to watch, and they want everyone to pass a test on it afterwards. I don’t know what happens to any recruits who fail, but that’s not my problem. I’m just running the briefing.
The recruits are all waiting in the dining room when I walk in and switch on the TV. Sleepy and Ellman have formed their own little crew, and they’re sitting together, as usual. The others seem more flexible about who they sit with, but everyone’s paired up, or grouped together at their tables. We need to train them out of this habit.
I introduce the video. The commander and I were both surprised by the level of detail in the film. It seems to be much more than these kids need, and a waste of time that could be used to develop their public interaction skills. But I’m not making the decisions here.
“Today the government has decided to educate you all about the various weapons that you’ll see in use when you’re on patrol. Some, you might get to handle. Others, they want you to know that you must not touch. Those toys are not yours. Those are for the real soldiers. But don’t worry, tiny fighters – you get some toys of your own.”
They squirm at ‘tiny fighters’. Some of them still think they’re the big soldiers. Some of them really can’t get their heads round their role, as the distraction that lets the army get their hands dirty behind the scenes, while everyone’s watching the brave young people on patrol.
“After the informative video, you’ll have five minutes to complete the questionnaires in front of you. Don’t screw this up. Identify the weapons, and identify whether they are for you to use, or for the grown-ups. This isn’t rocket science, recruits, but it is important, so pay attention.”
I hope they can hear the sarcasm, and the boredom. I think this is a waste of time, but here I am – so they can shut up and get on with the learning experience.
I play the video, switch out the lights, and grab an empty chair with the group of recruits who came in last. They look terrified to have me sitting at their table. Maybe they’ll actually pay attention.
The video shows all the government-issued weapons and equipment that our tiny fighters need to know about. The kids I can see from my seat are all paying attention, drinking up this exciting grown-up knowledge.
I let my attention drift. Dan Pearce is sitting opposite Ellman, staring intently at the screen. He’s rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, as he always does when he’s not on the training field. He’s another of the posh kids, and he’s got that posh-shabby-gorgeous thing going on. He manages to be effortlessly good looking, even when his hair’s a mess and his clothes are crumpled. Unlike some of the other kids, it’s as if his clothes really fit. As if, subconsciously, he knows how to wear them.
In another place, I’d be checking him out, even though he’s only – what? 16? 17? He seems older than the others, more sure of himself, but without the defensive attitude of someone like Jackson. It must be nice to feel so at home in the world, and so certain about your life.
The video recaps the information they’ll need for the test, and I send the recruit sitting next to me to switch the lights on while I switch off the TV. I wait for everyone to move their chairs back to their tables, and then shout into the silence.
“Grab a questionnaire. Grab an answer sheet. Grab a pen. Show me that you can watch a short video without falling asleep. No conferring. Five minutes. Go!”
I pace up and down the room while the recruits scribble on their answer sheets. I keep an eye on the tables in the corners of the room, but I don’t see anyone conferring. I honestly don’t care what they do, but the commander cares, and I’ll be in trouble if he thinks I can’t control a briefing session.
Dan and Ellman are intent on their questionnaires. Heads down, determined. Some of the other recruits are less focused, taking longer to think about their answers. I roll my eyes. There might have been plenty of new information, but it wasn’t hard to understand, and there was a recap, in case they missed something the first time.
I check my watch, and the clock on the wall. I pace some more. I stop, and look over some shoulders, watch the kids panic when they realise I’m standing behind them.
“Time’s up! Pens down.”
I move round the room, collecting the answer sheets from the tables, and hand over to Jackson to run the rest of the session.
*****
I head to the Senior Dorm and claim a table where I can sit and mark the papers. I work my way throug
h, and I’m genuinely amazed that most of them pass. Even Sleepy scrapes a passing mark, and most of the posh kids get every question right.
I put the papers in a file for Commander Bracken to look at, and pull out a large sheet of paper. I’m drawing up a pass/fail list using the scores from the test, when Jackson walks in, ready for dinner. He sits at my table.
“So – how many fails?”
“Not many.”
“Not even Sleepy?”
“Nope. He passed.”
“Huh. I guess he’s found something to be good at.”
I finish writing up the list, and lean back in my chair.
“Right! Your gun training. How was your extra lunchtime tutoring?”
Jackson rolls his eyes.
“I don’t know how Sleepy gets anything done. I don’t know how he gets dressed in the morning. I don’t know how he ties his own shoelaces.”
“He doesn’t, usually.”
“True. Well, he can’t fit his gun into the armour, either.”
“A lot of them had trouble – it is their first day in their shiny new armour. I had to personally dress most of the girls in it today, like some sort of babysitter. They’re so distracted by how cool they look wearing it that they’re not paying attention to the things they need to learn. Attaching their helmets, or clipping and unclipping a gun from their backs when they need it. Things that could save their lives.”
“Sleepy couldn’t find his back with a map.”
“Did shouting at him for the whole of lunchtime help?” I can’t help smirking.
“He managed it in the end. And then I made him repeat it, and repeat it. I think he was actually feeling proud of himself by the time I let him go.”
False Flag (Battle Ground YA UK Dystopia Series Book 2) Page 2