by David Estes
Gritting my teeth, I will my body to ignore the pain and move faster than I’ve ever moved before. I finish the roll and use the momentum to push up with my legs and one arm, regaining my feet. In the back of my mind I know there are people watching and that they’re making a lot of noise, but my head is a void, focused on only one thing: winning the fight.
Using my heel, I stop myself and charge back the other way, where Han went down. She’s scrambling to her feet, but I can tell from her wide eyes and slightly parted lips that I’ve surprised her. I see fear. Another advantage I can use.
I scream something that sounds like “Arrarararara!”—part roar, part battle cry, perhaps?—and lower my shoulder, watching her eyes widen further before I crash into her chest, flattening her with the power of a miner’s sledgehammer. Not graceful—but effective.
Another one of my father’s nuggets of wisdom pops into my head at that moment—don’t stop until it’s over—and I make him proud by continuing to drive forward after the initial impact, crushing Han into the stone and landing with my full weight on top of her. She half grunts, half screams, and I can feel the air go out of her lungs with a whoosh of breath on my face.
I know it’s over—there’s no way her smaller frame could get up from the power of the smack that I just laid on her—so I roll off her and stand up, looking around.
Initially, I worry I really have lost my hearing from Buxton’s incessant yelling, because there’s no sound. But then I realize that it’s just because everyone’s quiet, staring at me like I’ve just grown a third arm and started juggling hunks of limestone. I scan the crowd, searching for a familiar face. I see Buxton, who’s scowling, but with an eyebrow raised; Brody, who’s wearing a big grin, as if he planned the whole thing himself; Tawni, standing out with a smile of her own, like a sparkling diamond amongst ashy hunks of coal; and finally, Trevor, who looks half amused and half like he wants to kill me.
Ten seconds pass in silence, and then: a clap rings out through the seemingly impenetrable silence, sounding like the hollow ring of a dinner bell in the caves. I jerk my head to the side and see that it’s the short, black-eyed guy. The heckler. He claps again and then shouts, “WoooOOO!” getting louder as he yells. The next thirty seconds are a bit awkward as some of the other soldiers join in, some applauding, some shouting encouragement, and others just staring at me. I focus on Tawni, who is laughing, until the noise dies down.
I hear a strange sound behind me, like an old person trying to breathe through a ventilator, and turn to see Han on her hands and knees, wheezing through her mouth. She was my enemy, but now she’s my comrade, and so I stride to her and help her to her feet, lifting her by her elbows. Leaning on me, she manages to walk to the edge of the circle, whispering, “Thank you,” in my ear, like I’ve just done her a huge service, rather than crushing her sternum.
Brody approaches us. “Nice fight, soldiers,” he says. “Zarra, take Han to medical to get her, uh, her ribs and her…chest, and, well, whatever else hurts looked at.” A girl no more than twenty-one, with short-cut black hair and thick black eyebrows, steps forward and takes Han from me.
I turn back to face Brody, and Buxton, who has once more moved to his side. “Well done,” he says, grinning again.
“It’s just one fight and I didn’t mean to hurt her so bad,” I say. I’m not proud of having sent a girl to the medic, especially because it’s just training, and she’s supposed to be on my side.
“Damn right,” Buxton says. “It was just one fight and Han is a small fry compared to a lot of the soldiers, so don’t get a big head.”
I don’t know what her problem is, but I’m getting tired of it. “Don’t worry, I won’t,” I say, glaring at her.
Brody pats me on my injured shoulder and I clench my teeth so I don’t show how much it hurts. “At ease, soldier,” he says, and I realize my hands are fisted and my arms are tight, like I’m straining against a heavy weight. He probably thinks I’m about to hit the other sergeant. Maybe I am—I dunno. Sometimes when the adrenaline gets pumping and I’m in fight-mode, it’s like I lose a bit of control, which scares me a little.
I force my hands to open, flexing the soreness out of them a few times. Then I relax my shoulders, allowing them to droop just a little. “What’s next?” I ask, trying to keep my voice pleasant.
“Have you ever even fired a gun?” Buxton asks, with a note of sarcasm in her voice.
“I only learned how to fight with staffs and bows and slingshots,” I say. “But mostly we focused on hand-to-hand combat.”
“Yeah, we noticed,” Brody says, winking. I wonder why he’s being so nice to me. Maybe he’s just a nice guy. I wish Buxton were more like him.
“You trained with your mother?” Buxton asks, sounding relatively interested in me for the first time since I met her.
“No—my father.”
Her head jerks back in surprise. “That’s interesting,” is all she says, and I want to ask her why, but I don’t, knowing she won’t give me a straight answer. “All right, soldiers, time for target practice!” she announces, once more deafening anyone within earshot.
I follow the stampede of uniformed men and women as they move further down the gray ore slab. A few of them slap me on the back and nod encouragingly, but no one tries to talk to me, and most just ignore me.
I hang back, letting Tawni and Trevor catch up. “Took you long enough to finish her off,” Tawni says.
I laugh, feeling all the pent-up tension slip away upon hearing my friend’s sarcasm. “Yeah, I paid for it, too,” I reply, rubbing my shoulder.
“You got lucky, kid,” Trevor says, smirking.
“Whatever you say,” I reply, desperately wanting to smack the smirk off his face. “But don’t call me kid.”
“Whatever you say,” he mimics, “kid.” Now I really want to punch him, but I’m sure it will land me some sort of undesirable army punishment, so I manage to just flash a fake smile.
Tawni doesn’t let it go, though. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Trevor,” she says. I give her a real smile, and finally I think maybe she sees why I hate this guy so much.
“Oh yeah? Then educate me.”
“Just let it go, Tawns,” I say.
“No, really, I want to know,” Trevor insists. “Why do I not know what I’m talking about?”
“No, Tawni,” I say, warning her off with my eyes.
“Because she doesn’t look so tough,” Trevor continues, raking a hand through his chestnut curls. “Hell, I wouldn’t trust her to cover my as—”
“Adele killed Rivet, Trevor,” Tawni blurts out, her eyes brimming with tears.
I look away and swallow hard, trying to choke down the bad memories that well up every time I think of Rivet. Because when I think of Rivet I can’t help but think of Cole. Cole. No. No. No! God, no! Why did it have to be him? I ask in my mind. No one ever answers me.
Blinking furiously, I fight off the tears and try to think of something else, anything else. It’s harder than fighting Han, but I manage to win the battle.
I glance back at Trevor, whose face is ashen, as if dusted with chalk powder. Luckily, we arrive at target practice and he and Tawni are forced to move to the side, out of the line of fire. There are six guns, three handguns and three rifles. Each black, each foreign to me. My weapons are fists and rocks and sticks and feet. Hot metal bullets are used by Enforcers and prison guards. Bad people. Not me.
But I know I have to do this if I want to be a part of the rebellion.
“Line up, even numbers in each line!” Buxton barks.
The platoon moves somewhat haphazardly into relatively equal, straight lines. The soldiers don’t seem to be the most disciplined—not like the sun dweller troops we saw anyway—but they get the job done. I choose a line on one end that seems to have fewer people than the others.
Brody raises a hand in the air, his thumb and forefinger extended in the shape of a gun. Not surprisingly, it’s Buxton who
shouts, “Fire!”
Pop, pop, pop! The first rounds are fired by the front soldiers in the lines on my half, the ones with the handguns. They are smaller and lighter and presumably quicker to prepare and aim.
Crack, crack, crack! The rifle fire thunders through the low-ceilinged cavern, echoing off the walls and roof.
“Hold your fire,” Brody says sternly. “Dom—check ’em.”
One of the soldiers in my line breaks away and jogs to the other end of the slab, where a row of canvas targets are set up. He checks each target, and then pulls the canvas upwards, removing the old target and revealing a fresh target underneath. They must have a big old roll of targets strung behind.
The guy named Dom lopes back, calling, “One, three, five, six—out! Two, four—in!” as he approaches.
“Brady, Wong, Henderson, and Raine—bad luck,” Brody says. Four soldiers—three girls, one guy—step out of line and sit on big stone benches erected to the side, near where Tawni and Trevor are standing. The two who apparently had the best aim move to the back of their respective lines, to wait their turn again.
The cycle continues on, as more and more soldiers are defeated and forced off to the side, and the lines get shorter and shorter. As I slowly move up the line, my legs stiffen and I can feel my shoulder bruising under the sleeve of my tunic.
The guy in front of me is up and I watch him carefully, trying to memorize his every movement. He places his feet shoulder-width apart, steadies them, holds the gun at approximately shoulder-height using both hands, his elbows locked but not tightly. He stares down the barrel and—
Pop! I see a flash in the dim cavern and then a finger of smoke curls from the gun. The bullet is invisible, but I see the canvas visibly flutter near the edge about the same time as I heard the gunshot.
They check the results and the guy is out, trotting off to the side to join his comrades.
It’s my turn. I’ve never held a gun until that morning, when my mom handed one to me, and I’ve certainly never fired one, but I hope it’s like shooting a bow and arrow, or a slingshot. You know, point, aim, shoot. Simple.
I step up and grasp the gun and feel all eyes on me as I stare at it, trying to position it right. The handle—is that what it’s called?—is cool to the touch, but also a little moist from the previous shooter’s sweaty hands. There’s something weird about the gun, but I can’t figure out what and I don’t have time to think about it. I mimic my predecessor’s positioning, although maybe I shouldn’t because apparently he didn’t do very well. I take aim, trying to get the end of the gun even with the target, while I wait for the command.
One second—I’m too high. Two seconds—I’m aimed dead center. Three seconds—“Fire!” Buxton yells.
I squeeze the trigger with my finger, surprised at how easily it pushes in. Dangerous, if you ask me. The gun explodes back into my palm, and, despite my locked arms, my elbows bend and it bucks upwards, forcing me to take a step back and out of my shooter’s stance. The target doesn’t flutter, but I hear a zing! as the bullet ricochets off the wall behind, sending splinters of rock in every direction.
“Oops,” I mutter.
“Pathetic,” Buxton scoffs. “No need to check that one. Rose—out!”
Staring at the ground the whole way, I walk over to the rest of the eliminated soldiers, taking a seat without looking at anyone. I feel a tap on the shoulder from behind. I’m not in the mood to be ridiculed, so I don’t turn around.
Tap, tap. The fool isn’t giving up, so I raise my shoulder sharply like I’m trying to get a pesky fly off of it.
Tap, tap. I whirl around. “What?” I hiss.
A young guy is looking at me, mouth open. He looks around my age, with thin black stubble, full lips, and swirling gray eyes. His brown eyebrows are arched in surprise. He’s not bad looking, but I’m not interested in that right now. “What do you want?” I ask again.
“I was just going to say that I missed on my first attempt, too.”
My shoulders droop and I feel bad right away. The poor guy was trying to make me feel better, was probably one of the ones clapping when I defeated Han, and yet I was so rude to him. I can’t let even a tough situation like this turn me into one of the bad guys. “Oh. Thanks.” I manage a crooked smile although I know it’s not very believable. I turn back around, trying to calm down.
Soon target practice is over and the winner is announced. It’s the dude named Dom, a sturdy guy with athletic arms and legs who’s about two heads taller than me.
This is meant to be training, but with only getting to take one shot, I don’t feel like I’ve learned anything. I stand up, take a breath, and promise myself I’ll do better on the next challenge.
Chapter Twelve
Tristan
When Ram came to get us, he said there was a “situation.” Whatever that means. He wouldn’t give us any details, but insisted that we follow him immediately. I thought about giving him a hard time, refusing to go, but decided it wasn’t worth the fight.
So now we’re traipsing back through the tunnels, along the familiar route to the honeycomb room. Elsey is humming softly while Roc whistles along. Some tune I don’t know, but that they both seem to. They are a funny pair.
I’m watching Ram’s every movement, daring him to try and hurt me again. This time I’m ready if he tries anything. To be honest, I’m somewhat disappointed when he doesn’t.
We pass through the common area, which is less filled than before, but not empty. It seems as if people are always eating in this place. My heart still feels slightly warm from my time spent with Roc and Elsey. It was nice, for a change—just being able to hang out, learn something about Roc I never knew before. My guard is down, but the walk gives me time to raise it back up. Whatever this “situation” is, it’s probably not good. Nothing in our world every really is.
We reach the same sturdy metal door as before, and Jinny is waiting for us.
“Auntie!” Elsey exclaims, running to her and hugging her around the waist.
“Ready for dinner?” Jinny says.
“Yes,” Roc and I reply simultaneously. Seems we can always eat these days.
Jinny laughs. “They’ll have food for you guys in there,” she says, motioning to the door.
“That’s what Mr. Meathead said last time,” Roc says under his breath.
I chuckle. “See ya later, El. Bye, Jinny.”
“I’ll miss you both dearly,” Elsey says, pushing the back of her hand to her forehead like she might faint.
“And you, Lady Elsey,” Roc replies in his best theater voice, generating a peal of giggles from his new best friend. Jinny smiles and shakes her head as she shepherds Elsey back the way we came.
Ram grunts and pulls open the door, holding it for us. “Ladies first,” I say, motioning for Roc to enter first.
“Age before beauty,” he returns, bowing graciously.
“I’m a day older than you.”
“And ten times uglier.” I fake a punch to his midsection and he flinches.
The cast around the table is the same as it was earlier. The Resistance leaders. Ben, at the head. Vice President Morgan at the other head, her back to us. Maia sits next to Jonas on one side, and flashes me a smile as I enter. Jonas’s expression is less friendly, his mouth a tight line. His eyes follow me to my seat.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Ben says.
“How could we refuse when you sent such a persuasive escort,” I say, watching Roc smile as he sits down. Even if no one else gets my sarcasm, at least he does. Ram grunts again from the spot he’s taken in the corner. I guess he gets it, too.
“We have a bit of a—”
“Situation? Yeah, we heard, but what does that mean exactly?” Unlike the last time I was in this room, I feel more confident. I have a better idea what to expect from the other people in the room. Vice President Morgan I know from before; Maia’s got my back; Jonas is one to watch out for, but could be an ally; Ben’s my big
gest advocate. And Ram, well he’s just a bunghole. I smirk at my own thoughts.
“The President has taken over all the airwaves,” Morgan says. I like the way she calls him the President, and not your father.
“He does that all the time,” I say. “Whenever he wants to spout his propaganda.”
“True,” Ben says, “but this time it’s a message about you.”
“Wha…what?” I say, unable to prevent the slight stutter.
“It’s probably best if you see for yourself,” Morgan says, motioning to a screen that’s descended from a crack in the roof behind Ben. For living in a cave in the middle of nowhere, these people are full of surprises.
“Nice telebox,” Roc says. It’s the first thing he’s said while in this room, and his face turns a dark shade of crimson when everyone looks at him.
“It wasn’t easy secretly running lines in here,” Ben comments. “But then again, it wasn’t easy building a train network unknown to the government either.” It’s weird thinking about how Ben had another life, back before we were even born, a life involving secret trains and communication networks and the Uprising.
The dark screen turns white, and then gray bubbles buzz across it. “Acquiring signal,” a voice drones.
The screen changes, bringing up a visual that I know is from the Sun Realm, because the lighting is way too bright to be anywhere else. And because I’ve been there many times. It’s where my father conducts all his press conferences: on the steps of the government buildings. The camera pans to show the beautiful backdrop of the palace gardens. In the top corner of the screen is a message in red: Recorded earlier today.
President Nailin is at the podium. Before he speaks, there’s light applause from his admirers. “Thank you, my friends,” he says. Another round of applause. “There has been much speculation over the past couple of weeks about the state of our great Tri-Realms. Rumors of attacks by the star dwellers in the Moon Realm plague the headlines. People are worried about my son, Tristan, who went missing about the same time as the star dweller attacks began. I thank you for all of the letters and cards wishing for his safe return.” A pause. He licks his lips, scans the crowd.