The Raging Ones

by Krista Ritchie

  Quickly, I write, Andola, 2450. I outline my answer for them, but Dessa soars through questions much faster than before. By the time we reach the fifteenth question, Mykal stalls about five behind me. Franny is nearly caught up.

  “Question sixteen,” Dessa announces. “Name the person who invented the device used to read deathdays.” Rosanna Rolcastle. Possibly the most influential woman in the world. A biomedical engineer who took thousands of pages of theoretical hypotheses over deathdays and made it into a reality. Now we have Death Readers.

  I can’t remember if I explained this to Franny, but I’m sure I mentioned deathday histories to Mykal once or twice. Still, he lags behind.

  I run my fingers over my page, trying to identify each question for Mykal by touch alone. His frustration grinds inside. I can’t make this any simpler. I don’t know how.

  Franny tries to whisper answers under her breath, but she stops when a little boy whirls his head backward and casts a glare.

  In an hour, the exam ends.

  Mykal sweats through his shirt, and no matter how much Franny and I say that he did well, he just shakes his head vigorously and leaves us with, “It’s what I expected of myself.”

  My heart breaks into three.

  TWENTY

  Mykal

  As my pa would say, “Got through that by the skin of yer teeth, Mykal.” That initial exam ranked me as part of the bottom eight hundred candidates. Out of a thousand. Luckily, they expelled only the first hundred or so. Even cheating, I just scraped by, tail between my legs.

  Franny did about average, but Court—he made a perfect score out of two hundred questions. I was proud of her and him.

  But as weeks fly by and I shuffle from jet propulsion classes to fluid mechanics to flight dynamics, I’m more and more ashamed of myself.

  Nothing makes much sense. Three-hour-long lectures throb my head, spewing words that I can hardly pronounce. Chalk scratches blackboards and all the candidates exit rooms, light on their feet. Like they ingested nursery rhymes.

  My stomach lurches, sick as I believe, This is it for me. I’ll be expelled right here. At this very moment.

  I don’t celebrate or breathe easy when I realize that I’m still here. Tomorrow is another class that I can’t comprehend with people that find me brainless and dull.

  Outside of the classrooms and simulations, it’s not better. In three weeks, I gained two enemies in my dorm for spilling bathwater and forgetting to mop up. I overheard them whispering last night. Theorizing why I haven’t been sent home yet.

  “He’s friends with the top of the class. What’s his name? Court Idlecastle?”

  “StarDust needs some muscle, obviously. That’s all he’s good for.”

  “That has to be it.”

  Their wretched guesses are as good as mine.

  Midafternoon, I’m on time for my mandatory physical with the Director of Health, but he’s not here yet.

  Paintings of bones hang on the clinic’s periwinkle walls and strange metal devices line the sleek countertops. I squat to inspect a jar of flat wooden sticks. “What is that?” I mumble to myself and peer into a container of white … puffballs?

  Food, maybe?

  I pluck one out, squeeze the woolly substance, and then lick—not food. Grimacing, I return the puffball.

  Someone smacks their lips. Franny. Confused about what I’m doing, she must think I’m losing my damned mind. Licking strange things.

  An odd-looking lounge chair is bolted in the middle, lined with thin paper. What in all of three hells…?

  I choose the most sensible seat: the stool on four wheels.

  It goes without saying, but Grenpale has no physicians or hospitals or any of these strange instruments.

  Court has taught me a whole lot about the world beyond my homeland, but he rarely spoke of medicine and everything he once loved. He skipped these details as if they disturbed his mind, and there’s nothing more I desire for him than peace.

  Now that I see what a clinic looks like, I wonder if Court used to touch those puffballs and wield these instruments with great, wise understanding. He was just a little boy alongside grown ladies and men.

  The door swings open. I watch the Director of Health examine a clipboard with great interest. Out of all the directors’ introductions from the first dinner, I remember Dr. Raf Duncastle the most. For no other reason than he’s old—older than anyone I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  Wrinkles sag heavily beneath his sunken eyes, little ridges stretching his thin lips. Bronze skin folds in lines across his forehead and right below sit bushy gray brows. Bones pucker from his frail fingers. Hands splotched with dark marks like large freckles. And I think, Age did all of that?

  The oldest in Grenpale is twenty-nine years and most everyone appears weather-beaten. I’d no idea that age could change a person as much as the cold wind.

  “Mykal Kickfall.” He raises his head with a fading smile, gaze dropping to the stool under my ass. “You may take a seat on the bed.”

  My face heats. And I jump off.

  This is the strangest bed in the whole damned world. I hope he knows that. Climbing on top, the paper crinkles, and I go still as can be. A grunt sticking in my throat.

  The stool creaks as he sits carefully. Too old to go any faster, I suppose. Dr. Duncastle rolls closer. “You’re the first fall I’ve seen so far. I believe only two or three of you are still here.”

  I take long pauses to think about my words. “I’m not surprised there aren’t more.” So few of us even exist, and unless someone points out the fact that I’m a fall, I forget that my name is different than most.

  Every crease of his face shifts with his smile. “It’d be good luck for the department to have a fall among them.” He dips his hand in his white coat pocket. “My colleagues and I believe at least one of you will be a part of the final thirty. Just between you and me, we have a little bet going to see which.”

  “Save your bills and don’t choose me.” I eye the spool of yellow tape in his hand.

  “Stretch your arms.” He stands and I cautiously extend each arm. He whips out the yellow tape, numbers ticked in black ink, and he starts measuring my wingspan. “Too late.”

  I shake my head once. “Too late for what?”

  Dr. Duncastle jots numbers on the clipboard. “Too late, I’ve already placed my bet on you.” As if I need more pressure and more people expecting more of me.

  As he measures my biceps, legs, and width of my neck, I say, “You must like losing bills.”

  Setting the tape aside, he smiles. “I like underdogs.”

  Underdogs? I dunno if I should be offended or appreciative. I’ll be asking Court later.

  When the doctor checks my hearing and eyesight, I try not to jerk away or flinch, and then he sinks onto his stool with a robust sigh, out of breath from standing for a short while.

  “Excellent vision,” he notes, scribbling. “Hearing is adequate.” Dr. Duncastle snaps on disposable gloves and wheels near again. I stiffen as he clutches my jaw and inspects my face. “Did you have a previous injury to your nose?”

  “I cracked my nose at thirteen…” I trail off, not about to describe the scuffle I had with an ornery muskox.

  “It healed quite poorly.”

  I laugh. “You can call me ugly. That’s fine.”

  He blushes, but truth being, I didn’t mean to shame him. I don’t mind being harsh in anyone’s eyes.

  He says, “I only meant with proper care, the bone could have been set straight.”

  Maybe I shouldn’t speak.

  “Do you smoke?”

  I shrug. “Sometimes…” I grow hot as his pen zips across his papers. “Is that a problem?”

  “Not unless it hinders your performance.” Next, he instructs me to lower my jaw and he peers at my crooked teeth with a puzzled look. Then he writes without a word.

  “What?” I have to ask.

  “Your molars are abnormally sharp.”

&nbs
p; I try to seem surprised. “That’s”—What’s the right word?—“peculiar.” It’s not. I filed my back teeth into points when I was seven so I could better chew the bristled fat off animals.

  “It is,” he agrees. “Were you an athlete at university? You outsize many of the other men and women here.”

  “I played some”—Think of an Altian sport fast, Mykal—“iceling.”

  “Difficult sport.”

  “It is.” I use his words.

  “Almost finished.” He rises, places the clipboard aside. “I’ll draw some blood and then we’ll be done. Sounds good?”

  Like most everything, I have no idea what drawing blood means. I nod with a forced smile. “Good.”

  * * *

  I leave shell-shocked and woozy. Wandering dazedly back to my dorm. Only waking when I notice Court, arm propped against the wall, outside my door.

  Glued there, his eyes cast on the floorboards as if willing himself not to pace.

  “Heya.” I kick his boot with mine.

  Instantly, he straightens off the wall and clasps my hand. “I should’ve told you the doctor would most likely take blood samples.”

  I expel a knotted breath. “It’s all right.” I check over my shoulder, seemingly no one in the circular hallway, but I lower my voice anyway. “Is that what you did at a hospital?”

  He glances over my shoulder for passersby. Two young boys giggle, hardback books held to their breastbones, and they slip into their dorm opposite mine.

  “Most of the time, yes. I mostly worked in the trauma unit.” He pauses like he wants to say more, but he’s not sure if he’s able. “For someone who has no concept of physicians and healthcare, I can understand how—”

  “I’m all right,” I say again, but I almost smile at his concern. “For a second there, I thought I’d punch him.”

  “Me too.”

  I laugh. I did flinch as the needle neared my arm. A gut reaction, but Dr. Duncastle said lots of people are scared of them.

  We slip inside my dorm room. Roommates gone.

  Court reaches into his black slacks and turns out the pockets.

  I plop onto the edge of my bed, quilt not as finely tucked as all the others. Gold-stitched pillows sit off-kilter too.

  “What’re you doing?” I ask and eye the clock. “Don’t we have a gravity simulation soon?”

  “In ten minutes.” Court knows the time without looking. And then he reveals …

  “What the…?” I spring off the bed and step toward the splayed indigo cards in his hands. At least forty of them.

  My smile spreads and I jump in pleasure, hugging Court roughly to my chest. “You know how much I like you, you little crook?” I kiss his cheek and hold his face with two callused hands. More than anything, I needed this right here.

  Hope.

  Tall above me, his gaze dips to my lips, his stern jaw beneath my palms. Closer. Closer. The link tugs at us.

  We stay put, but I fear nothing at this moment. Nothing at all.

  “I stole them this morning,” he says in his smooth but biting voice. “We can meet in the library later tonight and memorize them with Franny.”

  Nodding, I let go of Court and inspect a few cards. The front is plain, but vibrant paint splashes the back, this one crimson red. The drawing is unmistakable, but even so, tiny script below reads: Heart.

  A heart.

  Easily, I recall my own card, given to me weeks ago. I saw the painted image, pinkish-red hues bleeding into green, and I wanted to chuck the silly card out the window. My card, my word, is strawberry. A nauseating, overly sweet strawberry.

  Even with a vague warning about disadvantages, we shared our cards with each other. Too trusting not to.

  Franny had a good laugh at my strawberry until she flipped over her card.

  Bear.

  She expected something fancier. Like crown or earrings. “Let’s trade,” she joked, wafting her card at my cheek. I pushed her face. Then she pushed mine right back.

  Court couldn’t care less about his own card. Torch. Flames painted on a wooden club. All that time, he must’ve been pondering ways to see everyone else’s cards.

  Now that he stole them, we should have an advantage for the final exam down the line.

  * * *

  The training room is righteously ugly. Metallic walls and concrete floors, gray and more gray. Monstrous, silver apparatuses and mechanical boxes landscape the long stretch of sterile space.

  Most everyone is dressed in collared shirts or blouses and slacks. A hundred or so candidates linger in the open center. Careful not to touch any equipment.

  Court theorized that our schedules are random and candidates are rotated to certain lectures and tasks at different times. All three of us haven’t been assigned a single class together.

  Until now.

  We join the group the same time Franny weaves through bodies to reach us, and then we stand together by a chair contraption that I’ve heard spins candidates rapidly upside down. That better not be a part of today’s gravity simulation.

  Franny’s eyes sweep my frame. “Earlier—”

  “I’m fine.” I use the proper sounding word. I rest my arm on her shoulder. “Where were you when I was at the clinic?”

  Franny acknowledges Court with a weak, tense smile.

  He nods in greeting.

  Then to me, she says, “Seminar on emergency landing protocols. I tried to pay attention, but I knew something was wrong.” Fire in her brown eyes, she rakes her short nails through her flat black hair. “Should I go talk to someone for you?”

  I wear a crooked smile. “And what will you be saying?”

  “Don’t poke my friend with a needle and make him fainty. And I may stomp a few times.”

  Court side-eyes her at the word fainty.

  “Oh you’ll be stomping?” I shuffle to the side. “Let’s see how.”

  Franny tries not to smile and plasters on a sizzling scowl. “I’m serious.” I know. I’m just not used to being the one that needs so much comforting.

  “He’s fine,” Court assures her and then asks if anyone was expelled at her seminar.

  “Five candidates. They quizzed me at the end and luckily, I”—she mouths, cheated—“off of Symons. I bet he’d burst a blood vessel if he found out.” Her eyes ping to a cluster of Orrish candidates by a water fountain. Symons and Sel among them.

  “Probably,” Court agrees. “You did well though.”

  She fixes her skewed blouse. “I did, didn’t I?”

  Court tilts his head. “That was where you say thank you.” Since he rarely seeks gratitude, he reminds Franny only due to etiquette and appearances.

  Franny smiles a bit more. “My roommate said that I should be proud of my successes.” Must be Gem. She’s grown close to the young Soarcastle sister, but we sense Franny’s caution at times, so I don’t concern myself over their fledgling friendship.

  “Be careful,” Court emphasizes.

  “I am,” she emphasizes right back.

  Wrapping my arm around their shoulders, I hug them to my sides and nod to what the Orrish candidates point toward. A yellow door labeled G-Accelerator (Do Not Enter).

  What lies through that door could be my undoing.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Mykal

  “In the event that Saga’s anti-grav shields fail, you must be able to handle high levels of gravitational acceleration called a g.” I try my best to listen, but Tauris Valcastle’s voice booms out of an intercom system within the g-accelerator. The glaringly white circular room is lined with fifty bolted chairs, harnesses attached.

  We were split into two groups. And told to dress in an emergency g-suit and to strap ourselves in a metal seat.

  Zipped from crotch to neck, my black g-suit fits me too snugly. Made for someone with less muscle. To worsen my wretched luck, a familiar lady nimbly sits beside me.

  Dark hair tied with a pink ribbon, Padgett Soarcastle stares intently at me. Waiting to captu
re my hard gaze.

  Ten times I’ve fallen for this ruse. I could bang against the headrest. Frustrated. Since the first day, our schedules have been matching, and every day thereafter, she’s chosen to be right next to me.

  Not out of fondness. Padgett has picked me out as the slowest goat, the one scraping helplessly behind others to reach a mountain peak. I’m falling.

  And she’s ready below with an ax and an arrow.

  Earlier, I prayed for a familiar face like Court or Franny. But both were placed in the second group. The gods enjoy toying with me.

  “We’ll proceed after everyone settles in,” Tauris says. I whip my head left and right. Searching for his voice. Acting a fool again.

  My face contorts at the hellish intercom and bulky cameras screwed into the ceiling. How no one else finds those disturbing, I dunno.

  I dunno anything.

  “Six hundred and eighty-three,” Padgett says to me.

  Don’t eat her bait.

  I grind my teeth and then spit out, “Six hundred what?” Court is right. I can’t shut my mouth.

  “Candidates remaining.” Padgett buckles her safety harness, tightened to her thin frame.

  “Why tell me that?” I ask in an incensed growl.

  “I’ve said this before,” she says smoothly, “and I’ll repeat the same words until you believe them. I want to share information with you.”

  I trust nothing that escapes her lips. Leaning toward her, I say lowly, “Why me?”

  Padgett skims my features with rapid haste. “You’re peculiar. I think you recognize that you’re peculiar, and your peculiarity intrigues me.”

  I scratch at my head. “Are you sure you don’t just want my card?” For the better of three weeks, Padgett has implied that she’d like to “swap indigo cards” and examine mine.

  Padgett crosses her ankles. “I want to share information.”

  “Which includes cards?”

  “Yes,” she says bluntly.

  Court’s warnings are engrained too deep. I decline her offer and mention that I need to concentrate.

  She’s about to press further, but the director’s voice grows.