by R. D. Hale
'Let's just think about the escape pods. They've been landing all over the world. Thousands have already been retrieved. Of course, when the gang landed, they'd have avoided retrieval squads, but we can send one of our own, as soon as we have their co-ordinates,' Jardine says with a forced smile.
'That sounds great, but it doesn't escape the fact you're talking about celebration when you should be in mourning. No wonder my brother was mad at you people. You're all unhinged,' I say.
'Wired differently? Maybe. Unhinged? I wouldn't say so. We'll commemorate the dead in time. All of us are suffering, but not a single soldier would want their death to break us, or even distract us. We will celebrate every victory, big and small, because they are all so important, and every life matters.
'It pains me that Arturo reacted how he did. I have a big admiration and fondness for him. He's already given more than I could ever have asked. Recent events have been traumatic and I can't pretend to know what that feels like, but my biggest concern, right now, is the upgrades we gave Arturo have not been tested. There obviously wasn't time, but we don't know what physiological and psychological effects they're having.
'When Arturo returns, we'll have to carefully monitor him. And I'll do what I can to clear the air, help him understand he's wrong about me, about the Rebellion.'
'He said you're no different from any other terrorist,' I say, doubting the accuracy of that statement, but still seeing an element of validity.
'Who defines the word terrorist? I want all people to live freely and equally. I want to preserve as much life as I possibly can. My goals are true and I'm taking the only available path to achieve them,' Jardine says.
'Let's not dwell on the politics any longer. Today is not the day for such a debate. That time has already passed and our path is set in stone. Today is about retrieving Arturo and the others, and their odds are definitely better than average,' Nyota says.
'Do you agree with that assessment, Rupert?' I turn my gaze towards the telepath at my side.
'I've not foreseen anything specific. I tried to meditate, but I couldn't see through the chaos, however, I feel in my gut that Nyota may be correct. I'm sorry I can't offer something more substantial. I'm not a great telepath, am I?'
'Right now, you're the best we've got. Thank you, Rupert,' I say.
The Enclave have always insisted we need the Rebellion, and not one telepath has suggested otherwise. If it was fair to describe the rebels as terrorists, this either means the Enclave are somehow unable to see that, or they are terrorists too. And I know they are good guys.
I guess this is another one of those shades of grey situations. The lesser of two evils. Greater good. But I lack the energy to care about the politics. I just need to know I will be safe here.
The Shooting Range
The survival odds do not ease the tension during breakfast because we know two percent of Citizens must have died. Even though they are hardly innocent victims, their children are just that. And maybe they would have grown up just as selfish and indifferent to the plight of non-Citizens, but we cannot know what their future held.
On top of that, we know disaster could have struck, and our concerns will not be eased until we hear the voices of Arturo and the others, hopefully by the end of the day…
After breakfast, Jardine drives us from the village to a nearby farm, and we exit the van in a yard among smelly barns made of almost-black wood. A tractor is parked near a large vat, several smaller vats, buckets, and junk – and a tractor tyre is sitting against a crumbling wall joined to a metal gate. This place reminds me of the day the gang raided the chicken coop. Happier times.
'I know yesterday was one hell of a day,' Jardine says and I sense another one of those speeches coming, 'but the Rebellion must go on, no matter how hard things get. Throughout the night, we repeatedly heard good news, and I expect that to continue throughout the day. The important thing is that we're out of sight here, and we can wait safely. We can also keep ourselves occupied. Let's be honest, sitting around would be torture.
'For the newcomers, I'll keep things as enjoyable as possible.' Jardine smiles, immediately making me suspicious. 'Smig, you're not a newcomer. It's your turn to tend to the livestock today. Best get some overalls on.'
Smig trudges past a barn, through a wooden gate, and into one of three farmhouses which look a hundred years old. Jardine goes to continue, but hesitates as a sheepdog runs up to the gang, wagging his tail and barking. Nelson crouches to stroke the dog which knocks him back, then the two roll on the straw-covered dirt.
'Gary, it's been a while,' Nelson gasps as the filthy pair separate, sitting side-by-side. The sheepdog has floppy ears and a friendly face which could be so handsome after a good bath. Despite my fraught nerves, I cannot help grinning as I gaze into those shiny black eyes. I have always wanted a pet.
'How you doing, Nelson? I've missed you.' The sheepdog looks to Nelson with its tongue hanging out and hay tangled in its long brown and white fur.
'Oh my goddess, the dog talks!' I shriek as the gang point and gawp, confirming I am not losing my mind.
'You never seen a talking dog before? It's almost like our kind hasn't been around the past three years.' Gary frowns and shakes his head as though I am ignorant or stupid or both, but I laugh giddily, unable to be offended by his snappiness.
'Myla told us about a talking dog in Skye City, but I thought that was a joke,' I say.
'As you can see, I'm no joke,' Gary says as Nelson ruffles his fur, brushing off the straw. My brain is bubbling in my struggle to figure out how he pronounces his words with a dog-shaped mouth.
'Just another GMO.' Nelson gets to his feet. 'Gary here is supposed to have the intelligence of the average person.'
'So twice as smart as Scoop.' Bex smirks and Scoop elbows her ribs.
'I dunno about that, but I've never seen a three year old talk this well, so I'd say he's smarter than most, or maybe his brain just developed quicker. After all, a three year old dog is an adult,' Nelson says.
The gang crouch and stroke Gary who laps up the attention as I gawp at Nelson, mouthing: 'What the hell?' Nelson just laughs and I glance around the barns to see cattle with huge horns glaring as though annoyed by our presence, as though grinning is inappropriate, and they would be right, of course. Smig emerges from the farmhouse in dungarees and wellies, looking far-from-happy, and he enters one of the stinking barns. Rather him than me.
'I thought you guys would enjoy a little target practice to take your mind off things.' Jardine opens the doors of a massive barn and I squint at dummies which are standing among hay bales. Strange barn. 'Come in.'
The gang reluctantly leave Gary and enter the strange barn, forming a line next to the wall. Jardine hands me a small lump of grey plastic with a handle and a trigger. I stare at yellow and black circles at various points on the naked dummies, and then I switch my gaze to Jardine, sensing this is actually going to be fun.
Fun on a day like today.
'This is a phaser. It's at the lowest power setting so it should stun rather than kill, but still, make sure you don't shoot anyone. This dial here increases the power. Do not touch it. In a moment, I'm gonna start the test. It's your job to shoot every dummy as quickly as possible, but it won't be easy.' Jardine rests his back against the wall, next to a tall device with a screen which is standing in the corner. 'Everyone step back.' Jardine taps the device a few times. 'Targets take position. Emmi start on the first buzzer. Stop on the second.'
A buzzer sounds and the 'dummies' spring to life with dead faces, running into the cover of the hay bales. My hand trembles as they draw phasers from behind their hips. Yes, phasers! I scream as one shoots an energy beam in my direction, just missing my arm, and I jump sideways as the dummy returns to cover. Screwing my nose, I squeeze the trigger as a dummy peeks its creepy, orange head from behind a hay bale. It falls to the floor, dropping its weapon, and my heart pounds.
A dummy runs across open ground and I spray
fire wildly, hitting its legs as the gang cheer. Two energy beams hit my chest, and my skin tingles, but thankfully I feel no pain. I shoot back and take down two more dummies, screaming: 'I'm really doing this!' as four of my foes lie on the floor.
Shifting side-to-side, I shoot the remaining dummies and every hay bale, raising the possibility of fire. The second buzzer sounds and I take a bow as the gang applaud my performance.
'Whoa, Emmi, you were amazing,' Bex yells, jumping on the spot. 'Any boys wanna mess with me, I'll get my best friend to shoot them.'
'I was amazing, wasn't I?' I smirk, stroking my weapon. 'Hey, Jardine, is this not dangerous? What if the hay bales catch alight?'
'They've been sprayed with fire retardant so it's a very low risk at this power setting, but at max, this barn would be an inferno.' Jardine checks the screen on the tall device in the corner. 'Not bad, Emmi. Sloppy aim but decent reaction time. You took down every target, and if this was real, you'd only have been killed twice. Score – eighty seven.'
Jardine taps the screen as the dummies retake their positions, and the others take their turns, one-by-one, with much shrieking and laughter. No-one beats my score, apart from Nelson, who scores a perfect one hundred and fifty.
'That doesn't count. You've clearly had loads of practice. I'm unquestionably today's winner,' I boast.
Brains as Well as Beauty
'Well, it looks like everyone had fun. I have another contest for you guys, and the next one is not so exciting, but I have a special prize for the winner. We need to go indoors. Come on.' Jardine leads from the dummy barn and past the snorting cattle which Smig is tending to. Although he is not visible, I can hear him grunting and muttering, agitatedly.
We enter a wooden gate on a crumbling wall, reaching an area with three farmhouses and scattered equipment. A path of damp slabs meets the closest farmhouse which is made of cream stone, and two storeys high with a slate roof. We pass under a canopy of wood and slate, entering a large black door. The interior is nothing like a farmhouse is supposed to be, with contraptions and gizmos inside the lobby and passages.
We gather in the main room which belongs inside a rebel base more than any room of the mansion did. Yet there is no sign of anyone, apart from us, which seems odd. Perhaps they are out of sight, hard at work in the fields when they should be preparing for civil war. Interesting priorities.
The gang sit at a large table, or rather eight small tables pushed together, with holoscreens before each seat. I stare idly at the wooden beams on the ceiling, surprised by my efforts in the shooting challenge. Our wait is suddenly flying and I bet the guys are being retrieved from some foreign land, right now. We could be reunited by tomorrow morning.
'When the test begins, you'll be given a series of multiple choice questions,' Jardine says from the end of the table, but the gang do not pay him much attention. They seem far more interested in the holoscreens which they prod and poke without response. 'Simply touch whatever you think is the correct answer. The questions will be projected exclusively to you, so no conferring. Any questions?'
'Er, what does conferring mean?' Scoop says and the rest of us giggle.
'It means don't ask for help with the answers. No talking.' Jardine sits at an enclosed desk which forms a semi-circle in the corner, tapping at a holoscreen.
The displays light up and a logo appears on mine, followed by a message which reads: Touch the screen to begin. A gentle male voice reads the message aloud, probably for the benefit of those who cannot read. I however can still remember enough from my school days all those years ago, and my practice from reading style magazines certainly helps.
I follow the instruction, quickly pulling my finger away as five animals float before the crystal clear, three-dimensional display – each of them utterly realistic.
A written message and a gentle male voice ask: 'Which one of these creatures is least like the other four. Touch the correct answer.'
I analyse the dog, mouse, tiger, snake, and rhinoceros, and only one of them is scaly so I tap the snake, cringing at its bright yellow eyes and forked tongue. It is hard to believe the holoscreen is a sheet of glass and the snake is not a teeny-tiny real one.
The holoscreen asks many more questions about animals, everyday objects, shapes and patterns, and then it plays videos, asking memory-based questions. The ones near the end are really difficult so I take educated guesses, using a process of elimination. I feel mentally exhausted as the test ends, and I look around to see the others squinting in concentration; their faces illuminated by holograms. Strangely their holoscreens are silent, and have been throughout the test, like there are no voices or anything.
Scoop is the last person to finish the test, saying: 'That was easy,' as his holoscreen is deactivated. The gang roll their eyes from behind transparent sheets of glass with tube-shaped bases.
Jardine taps his holoscreen in the corner and lifts his head, saying: 'Well done, everyone, the scores are in, and we have a winner…
'In fifth place is Scoop with a score of seventy seven.
'In fourth place is Bex with a score of one hundred.
'In third place is Oscar with a score of one hundred and twenty three.
'In second place is Emmi with a score of one hundred and thirty six.
'And in first place is Rupert with a score of one hundred and fifty.'
'Whoa, well done, Rupert,' I say and the telepath lowers his gaze. I can see his fingers fidgeting through the green tinge of the holoscreen.
'The test isn't fair. I have a genetically-modified brain. Emmi is the real winner,' Rupert says, raising his head over the holoscreen, and who am I to argue with a genius?
'That's a fair point, Rupert, Emmi is naturally the smartest member of the group, and also the best shooter. Therefore, she is the perfect person to receive this prize.' Jardine approaches, offering me the phaser from earlier. 'It's switched off at the moment. Flick the safety and use the dial to switch it on, and always use power setting one, unless absolutely necessary. Higher power settings can cause serious injury and even death.'
'Is this really mine?' I collect the phaser from Jardine's grasp, nervous about owning such a dangerous weapon. I stroke the curved surfaces of this compact grey and orange device, trembling ever-so-slightly. Using a clip on the side, I fix the phaser to my belt-line and suddenly I feel like a bad-ass. A very smart bad-ass.
'It certainly is, Emmi, and in this world, you're gonna need it to keep you safe. Please treat it with care. When we have time, I'll give you some additional shooting practice,' Jardine says and the fact he is entrusting me with a weapon eases my concern.
'Sm-smartest, are we really talking about Emmi here? I'm supposed to be the brainy one.' Oscar stares around the group with puzzled eyes. 'I read, I know things, like science and stuff… How do questions about silly shapes show how smart you are?'
'There are many ways to be smart, Oscar. The test is just one measure. I believe everyone has genius within them. Sadly, intelligence is often held back by the inner-fool. In the Rebellion, we figure out what makes each person special and utilise those abilities. By helping the person grow, we help the collective grow,' Jardine says.
'It'ssth not fair, I wanna phaser.' Scoop pouts with his chin in his hands. 'Stupid test must be fixed.'
The Woods
'Jardine, I think this lot have had enough testing for one morning. Why don't I take them out and show them the countryside?' Nelson stands at the doorway of the testing room.
'Sure, just watch for cobwebs,' Jardine mutters, too distracted to look up from his holoscreen. Perhaps he is checking for updates, which might not be good news, and unless one involves my people, I would rather not know. I have too much on my plate.
We follow Nelson into the farmyard where the bulls have arm-sized horns which look absolutely brutal; their curved points almost meeting the doorframes of the barns. The midday sun seems to have triggered something because the smell of manure is so much stronger so I plug my nose. Alt
hough I am used to the smell of the slums – the sewage-like aroma that lingers around every shack – this is something else.
The talking sheepdog runs across the dirt and splashes through a puddle. He approaches the gang, happily wagging his tail as though his nose does not work. I thought dog noses were ten times more sensitive than ours. Gary's is clearly the exception.
'Hey, boy, you coming for a walk?' Nelson strokes Gary's head and floppy ears.
'I'd love to.' Gary trots alongside the gang with his tongue hanging out as we leave the farmyard. We pass greenhouses and workers standing among plastic sheets suspended above the ground.
Our path rises and dips through endless fields, and Rupert's robes trail through patches of sludge. Cloud shadows drift over red grass which sprouts from furrows. Tractors chug past hay bales, and animals graze and drink from troughs. Workers carry baskets and use equipment, and they are surprisingly active so late in the year. It is hard to believe they are soldiers who plan to overthrow San Teria, any day. Perfect disguises, I guess.
The view of the countryside may be charming, unfamiliar, and relaxing, but when I finally unplug my nose, I discover the smell of manure has not gone away. Lovely.
'I'd be curious to know why the Rebellion has a talking dog.' I glance to our brown and white friend who seems so jolly as he bounces along, and I wish I could be that carefree. I wonder if he has any comprehension about what is coming.
'Well, aside from the fact he's frigging awesome, it makes communication a lot easier. If we want Gary to complete a task, like say, rounding up the sheep, we just say Hey, Gary, go and get the sheep.'
And with that, Gary runs into a small hilly field lined by trees on one side. He circles a herd of sheep which instinctively scurry, huddle and look around nervously, then scurry again. Gary perseveres, approaching different sides of the flock to correct their course. He guides them over rock and grass towards a distant pen, maybe a quarter mile away. And he returns a damn sight faster than any person could. The dog's speed and energy are impressive, and I cannot believe how easy he made the exercise look.