by Claire Vale
The market spits me out onto the grassy verge of the Town Hall. The white-washed building stands tall and proud with its peaked roof and sculptured pillars and porched entrance—a paragon to everything Ironcross isn’t: luxury and splendor and excess.
A grand sweep of steps take me to the double set of wide doors, the guards posted on each side dressed in full-sleeved black shirts and black utility pants and polished black boots. The only color is the red in the emblem of the Ironcross crest on their left upper arm: an inverted gray triangle speared by a brilliant red flash of lightning.
One guard holds the door open for me to pass through into the reception, neither acknowledge me with a look or nod or smile. I’ve been here once before, on a school trip, but I’ve forgotten how high the ceiling is and how the light filters in from the glass portal.
An elegantly attired woman comes around the granite desk with the roster and a general air of disapproval that makes me check the bottom of my boots in case I’m dragging mud inside. It hasn’t rained in days and I’m not.
No welcome greeting. “Name?”
“Senna Rhys.”
She checks that off, then ushers me along a warren of passages and finally deposits me in a sparse room with white walls and no windows.
“Please wait here until further notice,” she says and leaves, closing the door behind her.
I inhale a deep breath, my gaze taking in the uncomfortable looking chairs wrapping the walls and the exit at the other end, one of those doors with a steel arm to depress instead of the usual handle. My eyes linger there too long. The sudden urge to flee is ridiculous. There’s nowhere to go. Ironcross is too small to hide in and hopping the wall is a death wish.
There’s a refreshment table pushed up against one wall and I wander over to pour a glass of water and grab an oatcake before choosing a random seat. My thoughts turn to the gray-haired woman again and I try to shake them loose. The time on my wristwatch reads eight-thirty. I don’t regret my rush here, though. Sitting alone with my thoughts is still better than long goodbyes.
My fingers go to my throat and find the Celtic cross, my anchor in this storm.
The door opens and I glance up to see it’s Jacob Darnley. The woman gives him the same, “Please wait here until further notice,” order and leaves.
I offer Jacob a smile but his eyes are downturned as he chooses the farthest seat from me that he can find. I don’t take offense. He’s always been a quiet, introverted guy. I don’t think I spoke more than two words to him through all our years of school. He’s incredibly smart, though. I bet he’s apprenticed at strategic services—the team responsible for maintaining the wind turbines and other critical technology without which we’d, quite literally, be thrown back into the dark ages.
Over the next hour, a few more early birds join us but no one I particularly want to talk to and I’m relieved when Jessie walks through the door. Her outfit brings a smile to my face: skinny jeans and heels and a cut-off top that displays her flat stomach. Nothing gets in the way of Jessie’s fashion sense, not even the Tithe.
She’s looking around as she rolls her suitcase up to take the chair beside me. “I’m going to kill Harry! He was supposed to meet me here at nine.”
“It’s nine-thirty,” I point out. “So technically, you’re also late.
She squints a surly look at me. “How early did you get here?”
“Too early,” I sigh. “I didn’t want to do the whole protracted goodbye thing.”
“Your dad okay?”
“Yeah, he’ll be fine. How did your parents take it?”
She shrugs. “Dad had already left for work before I got up and Mom, well, you know her. She sent me off with a hug and told me to have fun, as if I’m going on some damn holiday.”
“I think it’s just denial,” I say. “How else is anyone supposed to cope with this? Actually…” I twist in my chair to face her, and I’m not just covering for her ditsy mom. “I like that. We should treat this as a holiday. It kind of is. We get to spend all day, every day for two whole weeks, hanging out.”
A grin sneaks in. “With Harry.”
“With Gabe,” I drop in casually, testing the way it feels in my mouth. Like summer strawberries.
I haven’t seen Jessie since the night of my birthday and her eyes go wide. “You and Gabe?”
“Don’t look so surprised.”
She whops me on the arm. “I know you like him and I know he likes you, but I was starting to think the two of you would never get your shit together.”
We speak about my shit a little longer, then I bring up the woman I saw being escorted by the guards.
“Who was it?” asks Jessie.
“No idea,” I say. “I only saw the back of her—gray hair, shortish and thin. I don’t know if she lives there, but it was Gleeson Lane.”
Jessie thinks that through, then shakes her head. “No one comes to mind.”
“Have you heard anything around town? About anyone stirring trouble?”
“No, nothing…” She shakes her head again. “But considering what today is, maybe she was speaking out against the Tithe. Could be she’s family to someone…” She glances around at the chairs that have slowly filled. “One of us?”
“They’ll go easier on her, then,” I say hopefully. “Maybe a small fine.”
Jessie blows out a harsh laugh. “The punishment will be more severe. The last thing they want is people acting out on this day.”
I slump low in my chair, arms folded, the playful banter whooshed out of me. Jessie doesn’t talk about it, but I know she’s seen public lashings in the square. It’s our duty to bear witness, to take learning from the mistakes of others. That’s what we’re taught in school. Dad never made me go. Living so far out where we can’t even hear the bells that toll half an hour before to summon upstanding townsfolk, it wasn’t an issue.
The elegant but dour woman returns, shadowed by two guards. Our personal escort to GHO, the Guard Head Office and Training Facility where we’ll spend the next two weeks. The location of the Tithe has never been a secret. It’s what happens inside that never leaves the compound.
“What about the others?” someone asks as we’re shuffled out through the door beneath the emergency sign.
I do a quick count. Eleven heads.
“Aren’t we going to wait for them?” Jessie demands. “I’m meeting my boyfriend here.”
The guards don’t answer, they barely acknowledge our presence. Jessie slows her step, but picks it up again when she sees Mrs. Dour-face standing at our backs. That woman does not look like someone to be messed with.
“I’m seriously going to kill Harry,” Jessie seethes.
I wouldn’t usually condone being stood up, but in this instance Harry gets the benefit of my sympathy. It’s the reason I didn’t make specific arrangements with Gabe. This is hard, leaving home, not knowing if you’ll return. We should all be allowed to do it on our own timetable.
Outside, the guards wave us onto the back of a jeep with the canvas canopy flapped open. There’s a short bunk seat down each side and it’s a tight fit. Three of the guys gallantly choose to sit on the hard metal bed between the bunks where they can’t see a thing.
The guards climb in the front cabin and a moment later the jeep rolls out. The gate swings open on our approach and then we’re turning north onto the Ring.
Jessie and I share a glance but say nothing. No one speaks. The air is thick with nervous tension, so loud, I imagine I can hear it above the faint whirr of the electric engine.
Across from me, Oliver (Olly) wraps an arm around June, tucking her to his side. Clearly they’re together. It makes me wonder how many more of us are already unofficially paired.
Which leads to another thought…
I do the math in my head while my gaze fixes on the passing scenery above Olly’s head, woodland leading to the lake at the foot of Mount Claire. Even without Tommy and William, we’re still three girls short to balance out the
number of guys this year. There could be some pairing from outside our Tithe year, but by design there aren’t many eligible singles out there. In all likelihood, three guys won’t pair, won’t even stand a chance.
“Hey…” Jessie nudges my shoulder to get my attention.
We’re passing the smoke-smudged buildings of the industrial zone that stretches past the fisheries at the top of the lake. This is as far as I’ve ever cycled. Up ahead, a chain link fence cuts across the road and climbs part way up Mount Claire. It would be a bit of a hike to get around it, but that’s not what keeps us out. The fence encloses the GHO compound and no one would be foolish enough to trespass.
The jeep pulls up and a guard gets out to unlock and swing open what appears to be a seamless gate. As we drive on, my stare roots to what we call the ‘dark side’ of Mount Claire—the side we never get to see. The slope swells up gently from the base, the trees thinning out with the rise. There are some columns of rugged cliffs that look like streaks of tears washed down the mountain, but to my disappointment it’s not a whole lot different.
The road curves away into the flat land and a spread of uniform, gray buildings that make up the compound.
We’ve arrived.
6
WE HERD AROUND THE grizzly bear of a man in the hexagonal shaped foyer. He was there to welcome us once we’d clambered out of the jeep with our suitcases and now he introduces himself as, “Lt. Palmer, I’ll be your liaison officer for the duration of your stay. If you have anything to discuss, my office is right through there.” He points at one of the five swing doors that open from the foyer.
The tension from the jeep has followed us indoors. It feels like a tangible thing, a jungle of overgrown vines pulling tighter and tighter. There’s nothing inviting about this place. The inside of the building is as cold and gray as the outside. The Lieutenant is a large, overbearing man with steel eyes and a grim expression. The guards we’ve dealt with so far have the personalities of a brick wall. If I don’t make it back from the Tithe, I’d hate to think this is where the remnants of my soul will reside.
The rest of the grand tour takes all of fifteen seconds and involves Lt. Palmer pointing at each of the swing doors in turn.
Auditorium and training rooms.
Cafeteria.
Gym.
Recreation room.
He looks from one face to the next. “Any questions?”
Dozens, but none he’s likely to answer.
Our silence seems to make him happy. A fleeting glimpse of what might be a smile flits across his lined face as he takes us through a doorway wedged between the auditorium and gym. We’re squeezed down a short, narrow passage and pop out into sunshine blazing on a grassy quad where two guards await us.
Jessie, me and June are handed off to the female guard, a pleasant looking woman in her twenties. The boys cut across the quad to a long, shallow building adjacent to the one we’re headed to. It quickly becomes apparent this will be our living quarters.
“I’m Private Mackintosh, your dorm supervisor,” our guards informs us as we walk. “But please call me Mac, everyone does when we’re off duty and…” she graces us with a warm smile over her shoulder “…well, you’re not in the Guard, so no need for formalities.”
Her pleasant chattiness lifts the tension from my neck, loosens my white-knuckled grip on the suitcase handle. “I’m Senna,” I say.
“Jessie.”
“June.”
We enter the dorm directly into what Mac calls a mud room. She waves a hand at the faucet and tiled shower base in the corner. “If you come in dripping anything, it gets washed off there before you go any farther.”
Jessie looks down at her pointy heels. “I never drip.”
Mac flashes her a winning smile. “You will.”
I laugh at Jessie’s disgust, but my humor dries when we’re shown to our allocated rooms. Four beds to a room. I’m with June, but Jessie is three doors down.
“Are we allowed to switch around?” asks Jessie.
“Absolutely not,” Mac says firmly.
We quickly learn that as friendly as Mac is, she’s no-nonsense when it comes to the rule book. No boys, food or drinks except water in the dorm. The communal shower room is not gossip central, get in, get out, leave the cubicle in the same condition you’d like to find it.
“I don’t care what time you turn the lights off,” she says, “but if I hear a peep after eleven pm, that’s a demerit.”
“What does a demerit mean?” asks June.
Mac hitches a brow. “A black mark against your name.”
“I know what a demerit is,” June retorts. “What does it mean for us? Do the Alders use it against us somehow?”
“All I know is that I record it, what the Alders do with it is up to them.” Mac’s tone softens as she goes on, “Look, girls, I know this is hard, I’ve been right here where you’re standing.” She gestures down the hallway to the very end. “My door is always open if you need a friend. But I don’t know the Alders’ minds any more than you and I’m under strict orders to not discuss anything to do with the Tithe. Are we clear?”
“Does it matter if we’re not?” June grumbles.
I touch her arm, a gentle warning. Mac basically said she can’t help us, but she just did. She didn’t have to tell us about the demerit system. Rules are rules, we don’t need to be told not break them.
A crackling squawk comes from the region of Mac’s hip. She unclips a two-way radio from her belt and walks a distance for privacy.
I take the opportunity to say, “We should watch what we say or do in front of the guards, even Mac. We don’t know what else they’re reporting back on.”
“This sucks,” Jessie says. “I didn’t realize we’d be under constant scrutiny.”
We share a look. Of course it sucks. Everything about the Tithe sucks.
Mac returns and goes to scribble on a whiteboard stuck to the wall.
Medical Interviews.
Welcome – Auditorium 16:30
She taps the marker on the items as she speaks. “You’re free to unpack and settle into your rooms and familiarize yourself with the facility, but don’t leave the dorm until you’re called for your medical interview. The cafeteria is open all day; lunch is served from twelve-thirty until two. The Alders have scheduled a welcome speech in the auditorium at four-thirty. Check this board every morning for the day’s agenda, everything on here requires mandatory attendance.”
“Senna…” She looks at me. “You’re up first. Training Room A. You know how to get there?”
My mouth opens. Closes on a nod. The doorways from our grand tour in the foyer are signed.
I send Jessie a cracked smile on my way out. Annual health checkups are mandated from the age of sixteen, but what the hell is a medical interview? I’d almost asked Mac, but made the split second decision to bite my tongue. Asking questions that may or may not be answered is like throwing my vulnerability up into the air and praying it lands somewhere soft. I’m stronger than that. I hope. I plan to be, anyway, I just need to keep practicing.
The foyer is quiet when I pass through, the main entrance door firmly shut. It feels like another version of the wall, keeping the world out, keeping me in. Except the things out there aren’t wild beasts, it’s everyone I love. A shadow falls across my heart. It’s stupid, Gabe will be here soon, he doesn’t have a choice. Still, I can’t shake the darkness loose, it lingers like a bad dream as I walk into Training Room A.
I’m momentarily taken aback by the black-uniformed woman who glances up from behind the desk. But of course they wouldn’t bring in a nurse from the clinic, from outside.
“Senna Rhys?” She doesn’t wait for confirmation, waves me into the visitor chair and gets busy opening the folder in front of her without introducing herself.
Taking my seat, I glance around the very ordinary office—no white-sheeted examination table or glass cabinets or biological charts on the walls. The desk holds a stack of
folders similar to the one she’s reading through.
I cross one leg over the other, fold my arms and turn a stare on my would-be interviewer. With her head bent, her hair falls over her face like a sheet of black silk combed through with white gold. The shape of her eyes hint at Asian descent. She’s not young, but she has one of those faces that age gracefully and I can’t really place her.
“Hmm, I see you had your annual checkup in March…” she says, reading from her notes. “Everything was normal.”
Not a question and she’s not looking at me, so I don’t bother with a nod.
“Right.” She picks up a pen and scribbles on the page in the folder. “Have you experienced any headaches since then?”
“Um, no.”
“Bleeding?”
“No.”
“Any spotting?”
I shake my head. I haven’t bled since they started me on the contraceptive injection at sixteen. I was mortified that first time. I’m not having sex, I swear, I’d blurted out. You’re a teenager, you’re not having sex until you’re having sex, the nurse replied. Which was ridiculous. Sexual relations outside of marriage is frowned upon, sex before our Tithe is downright unlawful. It was only later that I figured out the flip side. Like most things in Ironcross, there’s the public facing side, this progressive understanding that despite the Alder law, teenage hormones will run amok. And there’s the Tithe side that’s never spoken out loud, the moral dilemma of a pregnant teenager and her unborn child in the selection process.
“Cramps?”
“No,” I say, answering all the same questions I’d been asked three short months ago.
I’m starting to relax, thinking this is just like my annual checkup but without the actual checkup, when she observes while reading, “You’re an only child, your mother passed away six years ago...” Her eyes lift to me with a compassionate smile, “Sorry for your loss.”