The Raging Ones

by Krista Ritchie

  I’d like to believe our chances are as good as theirs, even if we have no real knowledge of science.

  “Patrik is enrolled,” Sel says, “so your point is moot.”

  “He applied zero skills to be enrolled, so my point isn’t moot. It’s applicable.”

  “It won’t be if he’s hired for the mission.” He adjusts his silver-framed glasses. Name badge: Sel Ravelcastle. Of Orricht too. Same last name as Symons, but dissimilar features.

  Could be a couple or could be siblings. Since more Influentials are adopted than Babes and Fast-Trackers, I’ve learned it’s hard to tell.

  Symons taps ash into a leaf-shaped dish. “I love how you never take my side.”

  “I just don’t make predictions based off personal bias,” he says matter-of-factly.

  “Personal bias?” He blows smoke away from Sel, turning his head—subsequently toward me. We almost brush noses and he catches me gazing right at him.

  Gods bless.

  Smoke slithers from his nostrils, his thin lips in an accusatory line.

  Not noticing, Sel continues, “You hate the arts. Therefore, you’ve disregarded the professional flutist. That is personal bias.”

  “Can I help you?” Symons snaps to me, ignoring Sel. His lips twitch as he inspects my name badge. “Mykal.”

  I won’t be turning away and cowering like nothing transpired. I did spy, and we are sitting side by side with nowhere else to go.

  I open my mouth, but Court is faster. Acting wholly relaxed, he says, “He’s fond of cigars.”

  I wish I’d thought of the excuse first. I clear my throat and rid my accent. “I am. Would you mind sparing one?” I gesture to the timber box between Sel and Symons.

  Symons assesses me with a blank look.

  Do I smell?

  I sniff roughly, unable to decipher my stench. I smell what Franny smells: the quiet girl next to her, doused with sickly sweet perfume. A scent much worse than mine.

  “Do you have a preference?” Symons asks.

  I blink hard. “A preference for what?”

  “Cigars,” he enunciates like I’m dense.

  I grow hot, but I’m trying not to play into my own short temper. For Court and Franny’s sake.

  Truth being, I never paid much attention to types of store-bought cigars. Tobacco seeds grow a lot easier indoors than most, so I’d fashion my own.

  What would Court do? I think quickly. “I like them all.”

  Symons sighs like talking with me is painful. But he plucks a stubby cigar from the box. “And I was under the impression that Altians are the foremost thinkers of our generation. With stalwart opinions and wit.” He hands me the cigar and a lighter. Warm in my coarse palm. “Thank you, Mykal,” he says evenly.

  I nod tensely, unsure of what he means.

  “Thank you for proving that Altians are more useless than the rest of us.”

  Useless.

  A rock lodges in my throat and I grip my knee to keep from clenching my fists. Franny boils and Court gives her a look not to chime in.

  We just arrived. We can’t cause a scene. I know that. Useless.

  If I speak, I’ll surely be yelling. So I shut up.

  Symons sucks on his cigar.

  Don’t ruin Court and Franny. Don’t ruin them.

  If I repeat it enough, maybe it’ll be coming true.

  “I apologize for my husband,” Sel says mechanically, nudging his glasses up. “He has a bias against Altians as well as the arts.”

  Symons puffs smoke upward. “Find me an Altian who believes Orrish are better for more than milking goats.” He scrutinizes me. “Before returning home, I spent five years in Altia university for biochemistry, and they still undervalued and underestimated me. Just because I was from Orricht.” To Sel, he says, “We’re all full of biases, lambkin. So is the way of the world.”

  My mind spins, not used to this quick talk. I hardly digest it and his insult starts feeling justified. I busy myself. Cigar between my lips, I light the end.

  “May I have one?” a lady asks Symons firmly. No meekness in her voice or bold features. Her black eyes lance the couple directly across her seat.

  She’s nearly shoulder to shoulder with Court. I hadn’t noticed her before, but somehow she blended seamlessly into the background. Until she decided otherwise.

  Symons raps the box while studying her outspread hand. “You haven’t spoken in five hours, Padgett, and now all of a sudden, you talk?”

  Court’s stomach flips, but I don’t understand the cause.

  Padgett raises her chin, hair tied in a fuchsia ribbon, and where her brown bony arms and stature could be awkward and gangly, she wears her thin size like sheer muscle. Teeming with confidence in a magenta velvet dress, the collar made of taupe fur.

  “What did you want me to talk about?” Padgett says smoothly. “Did you want me to say how spectacular I am at science and that I will beat you in every round that comes to pass? Oh no, wait.” She mocks surprise, fingers to her lips. “I’m confusing myself with you. The difference between you and me, Symons”—she leans forward, feigning a whisper—“I don’t have to tell everyone I’m smart for it to be true.”

  I laugh. Delighted that someone finally twisted his arm.

  Symons scoffs at me and passes Padgett a slender cigar anyways.

  My laughter dies. I don’t understand any of these people.

  Court gestures between Sel, Symons, and Padgett. “How have you all been here for five hours already?” This question didn’t cross my mind, but enrollment began less than an hour ago, didn’t it?

  Symons slides the cigar box between a sugar boat and rose centerpiece. “Orricht and Maranil had earlier entry times on their flyers. You didn’t really believe this dining room filled this quickly in just … what, fifteen minutes?”

  Court falls into silence. His gaze drifts to the head of the dining room. Where StarDust tapestries hang motionless and an oak podium waits for someone.

  “You keep touching your wrist, why?” Padgett’s question steals my focus. Lit cigar between her lips, she dissects Sel’s mannerisms.

  I thought he’d just been fidgety, nudging his glasses and such.

  “I lost my bracelet before arriving. It must’ve slipped off when I stepped out of a Purple Coach—”

  “It was stolen,” Symons interjects. “Right off his wrist.”

  Sel shakes his head, gaze dropped. “You don’t know that.”

  Symons adds, “Then how do you explain the four other Orrish who’ve lost necklaces and watches?”

  “Thieves are everywhere,” Franny says, somewhat loudly and sourly.

  Symons stretches forward to see who spoke. “Great, another eavesdropper. We should be charging for everyone who listens in.”

  “Your words aren’t worth a single bill,” Padgett says like she announced the weather, tapping ash into the same leaf-shaped dish.

  Symons swipes up his goblet of wine like a sword—And people say I’m strange. “I generously gave you a cigar,” he says, “and I can generously take it away.”

  “I’d like to see you try.” She seems unworried and that’s when I finally read her name badge: Padgett Soarcastle of Maranil.

  “Heya, old friends.” In a single instant, that familiar voice wrecks the moment. Heat perishes in all three of us. Replaced with icy dread.

  A shaggy-haired boy slips into the free chair next to Court, facing Franny. I’ll never be forgetting the day Franny awoke in the Catherina Hotel and how we confronted this very bellhop. How management dragged him out by the ear.

  Only Zimmer isn’t in a red bellhop uniform anymore. His dark blue suit, three sizes too big, swallows his scrawny frame. His clothes may’ve changed, but he’s still a Fast-Tracker.

  Pretending to be an Influential. Just like us.

  SEVENTEEN

  Franny

  Why?

  Why would Zimmer use a fake identification? Why would a Fast-Tracker want to join StarDust when they�
�ll die much sooner than everyone else?

  He followed us. Tracked us down. My paranoia pricks my neck. After we left the Catherina Hotel, we lost sight of Zimmer. He could’ve thought about us. More than we ever thought about him.

  Fast-Trackers are taught to create short-term, achievable goals, and it’s more likely he’s here to ensure we fail than a lofty desire to join the Saga 5 Mission.

  Zimmer plants a sly, self-satisfied grin on me.

  Gripping the table, I press my chest against the edge. “What are you doing here?”

  He extends his arm over Court’s chair, the ruse obvious to me, but it may fool the other Influentials. “Why is anyone here?” Zimmer swings his head to the length of the table, not afraid of stealing every gaze. “Glory … Prestige … History.”

  I don’t believe a fykking word he says. Even if they all do. “Unlikely,” I growl.

  Court pinches his own thigh hard—Ow. I swallow my briny feelings. He’s telling me to cease the argument for appearances’ sake.

  Zimmer puts his finger to his cheek, gaze dipping to my name badge. “I like that shade of blouse, Wilafran. I bet that would make a lovely hair color. Don’t you think?”

  I go cold. Gods.

  At the Catherina, I was introduced to Zimmer as a Fast-Tracker with piercings and dyed hair. Not as Wilafran. Not as an Influential.

  “Enough,” Court says with finality, his glare puncturing threats into Zimmer.

  He feigns hurt. “I thought you would’ve liked your wife’s hair the color of ripe fruit.” Looking to Mykal, he adds, “What does her brother have to say about this?”

  Our last names don’t fit the ploy we built in the Catherina. Where Court is my husband, and Mykal is my brother. I feel snow and dirt being shoveled on top of us. Suffocating. I’m unsure of how to claw our way out.

  I burn inside and I peek at my armpit, a large stain seeping through the silk.

  Mykal tries to subtly waft his waistcoat.

  Court lackadaisically unbuttons his suit. “Last I recall, you were using a variety of words that wouldn’t sit well with anyone here.” He shrugs off the fabric and pops the buttons of his waistcoat, cooling us. “And let’s not mention your profession—”

  “Funny.” Zimmer drops his arm from Court’s chair and clears his throat. “You’re funny. We all joke. You don’t have to take everything I say to heart.”

  My lips part, baffled. Zimmer really intends to keep his disguise intact. If he’s not here to solely botch our chances, then why?

  Zimmer even goes a step further, flashing a lighthearted smile at the Orrish couple and Padgett. “We were all in early education together. Childhood rivals, you know how it is.”

  Symons sets his cigar aside, letting it burn out. “I married mine.”

  I try to relax, but Court is always on edge. And Mykal has been pushed to a scorching point. His closed fists hurt my palms, fingernails digging deep.

  Padgett blows perfect smoke rings. “If Court and Wilafran are married, and Wilafran and Mykal are related, then why are all your surnames different?” She speaks casually, but I trust no one.

  Court once said, “Some Influentials can be duplicitous when pursuing competitive, long-term goals, especially if the reward is attractive.”

  “We used to date.” Court’s quick lie twists my gut and he motions from his chest to mine. “Zimmer likes to mock our short romance by calling us husband and wife, even if we haven’t been together in years, and Wilafran has a close friendship with Mykal. They’re brother and sister in spirit, not in real relation.”

  If my stomach didn’t flop because of the link, I’d believe all of his words. I hope they do too. Beneath the table, Court rubs his sweaty palms on his thighs.

  “How amusing,” Padgett says, unenthusiastic. Cigar hangs from her pink-stained lips. Her delicate pearl earrings dangle like water droplets and painted nails shimmer the shade of a raspberry.

  I engrain her in my mind. She screams intelligent and observant and I bet my life that she’ll be a threat.

  Padgett notices me staring and studies me just as hard before saying, “You should be more focused on Zimmer, Wilafran. He’s the one who mocked you.”

  “He knows what he is,” I say without much thought.

  Zimmer raises his white wine. “I am a wiseass.”

  He’s a wart and I can’t believe he used an Influential phrase: wiseass. How is he so good at pretending? My face must be scrunched because he adds, “You have something right there,” and he gestures to his own upper lip and brows.

  “Looks like annoyance,” Padgett says with a flickering smile.

  “Better yet, hatred,” I say coldly at Zimmer, though I find myself not feeling hate as strongly as I express. In my heart of hearts, I know what we did to Zimmer at the Catherina was worse than anything he’s yet to do to us.

  I owe him. I make a mental note to jot down Damaging his bellhop reputation in my journal.

  “I guarantee you, Wilafran Elcastle”—Zimmer lowers the goblet to his lips—“my hatred exceeds yours.”

  Hiding a shiver, I rotate toward the podium and cup my goblet in two hands. Etiquette.

  I take dainty sips, not swigging the wine. My arched shoulders ache as much as Mykal’s and I wish he could spread his legs wide and slouch until his back cracks. Alleviating our combined discomfort.

  Boom.

  I flinch as doors slam closed, chatter subduing to muffled muttering. My lungs engorge full of air thanks to Mykal, who inhales deeply while Court imprisons his breath.

  I wait for their shared agitation, which comes next. Biting me. So routine that we could schedule it in with eating and sleeping.

  Eight commanding figures enter. Both short and tall, big and small, men and women. They walk in a single line through the aisle between the tables. All wearing onyx cloaks with a golden StarDust brooch: three stars within a triangle. In their dignified presence, I find myself sitting more upright.

  Whispers escalate, candidates gleaming bright in their seats.

  Court said that he’d only heard rumors about StarDust. “It’s not militant,” he told me after I finished reading The Hunter in the Snow out loud. “In my lifetime, StarDust has always been regarded as sophisticated. Like someone speaks about an elite university or exclusive academic society.”

  I didn’t understand then, but I do now. Each figure in StarDust has earnest eyes, demeanors more regal and ceremonial than authoritarian. They don’t march.

  They glide.

  I like the beauty and grandeur of it all. In Bartholo, I never had enough bills to spend on fancy movie theaters or heated orchestra houses.

  My mouth curves up as these gorgeous figures in gorgeous clothes slide to a stop by the podium.

  The truth crashes against my lungs. That here I am, Franny Bluecastle, a part of a world I was never supposed to see. What would my mother think?

  Live, my little Franny.

  My eyes widen and well.

  Amelda stands among the StarDust personnel, but Tauris is the one who breaks from the line and nestles behind the podium. Fingers go to my lips—That’s not me. I hug my arms around my waist.

  Without looking, I feel Court touch his mouth, his senses overpowering some of mine. His face set severely, muscles taut. Chest on fire.

  His father is the cause. Tauris surveys the crowd with a radiant smile, so unlike Court whose lips never upturn. His father’s infectious joy causes hundreds of Influentials to return a dazzling grin.

  “Welcome.” He speaks into a microphone, his silky voice rebounding through speakers. Mykal swings his head backward, confused about how his voice traveled so far and so loud.

  Everyone within the dining room suddenly claps their hands together.

  Why we’re applauding already, I’m not sure, but I clap with the other candidates.

  Mykal joins in as the applause weakens and his cheeks roast a little. He scratches his neck.

  “Firstly,” Tauris says, “thank you for
showing your commitment to the future of our world by being here.” More applause.

  Mykal catches the tail end again. Symons gives him a snooty look. I blister and try not to kick his chair. Be kind.

  Be proper.

  “I’m Tauris Valcastle, Director of StarDust, but trust me, the aerospace department would be nothing without these seven Influentials next to me.” He waves toward the line of cloaked personnel. “StarDust’s directors, all of whom will help in deciding who’s hired for the Saga 5 Mission.”

  Heartier clapping, some whistles.

  Mykal is on time and I feel his lips tic up. I smile much wider than that. In turn, his smile stretches.

  Tauris introduces the line of directors, some for engineering the starcraft, others for flight, and when Amelda curtsies, we learn she’s the Director of Enrollment for StarDust.

  “Besides myself,” Tauris says, “Amelda Hobblecastle will be in direct contact with you. Your questions should be posed to her first.” He pauses with more severity. “And I’m certain that many of you have questions, but to protect the integrity and confidentiality of StarDust, we cannot answer all of them yet. You’ve all been enrolled in a rigorous training course and those who fall behind will be expelled. The thirty most qualified candidates will be hired full time and hear StarDust’s closest kept secrets. And the top five will make the Saga 5 Mission. You may be here for weeks. You may be here for months. If you’re lucky, you’ll be on the Saga starcraft for an entire lifetime.”

  Court blows out his first measured breath. No one claps, too apprehensive.

  “Your training … well, you’ll discover the details soon enough.”

  The dining room groans.

  Tauris sports a humored smile. “Patience. In the common room, we’ve posted your dorm assignments, and daily schedules are on the main bulletin. There are one thousand and twenty-four of you. And only five will see the stars.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Franny

  Up the common room staircase, we walk. On the hardwood floor, we stop. Doors curve around a circular hallway, brass plates numbered: 1A, 2A, 3A, 1B …