The Raging Ones

by Krista Ritchie

  “… loss of vision may occur, and some of you will experience loss of consciousness.”

  I start securing my harness. Pulling at the straps and buckles over my bulky chest. Gods bless. They don’t reach.

  I need slack. Yanking for more. The two metal ends won’t meet. My brows knot. Do I ask for help or will they just be expelling me on the spot?

  Hurriedly, I try to wrench tighter. To suck in a breath. Be smaller, thinner. It’s not working. I grit my teeth. I shift and dig my shoulders into the seat.

  “… don’t be afraid if you lose consciousness…”

  While I tug at the straps, my head whirls. For Franny and Court’s sake, I can’t be passing out during this simulation. When we found Franny in the Bartholo alleyway, she was limp and unconscious, which caused wooziness in Court and me.

  Candidates start looking my way. Chuckling.

  Snickering.

  Padgett stays silent and watches my distress.

  I dip my head, nose flaring. This isn’t working. Thinking quickly, I wrap both straps around the armrests and my wrists. Binding me to this damned chair.

  Please, gods, I like my arms. Don’t let them rip off.

  “As we expose you to more g’s, blood will flow out of your brain. We will begin at one g, and then we’ll increase you to nine g. If you lose consciousness before seven g, you’ll be expelled.” Tauris orders us to practice a quick g-straining maneuver before we start.

  I flinch as the chairs mechanically recline. My stomach twists. The g-accelerator room lets out a groan, like air gurgling through a tunnel.

  Godsblessgodsbless. At first, I breathe heavily through my nose. Other candidates no longer jeer at me. Their eyes dart unsurely around the room.

  With a high-pitched screech, the whole room rotates in a slowly accelerating circle.

  What in three hells!

  “Oh gods,” a little lady cries. A few more candidates complain about sickness.

  Heaviness pushes painfully on my ribs. Violent pressure like several bears collapsing on my body. Suffocating. Straps cut into my wrists. I wince, jaw clenched.

  “Three g,” Tauris calls.

  We whirl faster. More and more pressure mounts. Pushing my body backward. Shoulders slam against the chair.

  “Breathe,” he instructs. “Remember g-straining!”

  I breathe rapid, short spurts. Exhaling less often than I inhale. Flexing my muscles, contracting my abdomen and legs in taut, burning bands.

  I’m not ready to die.

  “Five g.”

  Breathe. Breathe. Breathe! I’m crushed by an invisible force, and in my concentration to remain alert, I lose sense of the director’s voice. Vision fogging, I fight for air in my compacted lungs. Veins protruding in my neck, heart on fire—I breathe.

  And then my world darkens.

  * * *

  “I’ll give you all a second to collect yourselves,” Tauris says through the intercom. “You may unbuckle but do not leave the seats.”

  Blinking awake, I massage my wrists. Deep red indents on my skin. That’ll be bruising in no time. Franny. Court.

  I fainted and that surely affected them. I aggressively shove off my seat. Padgett unclips her harness, and I have no heart to inspect the other candidates.

  Failure weighs on my chest more than any damned g could. Gripping my kneecaps, hunched, I listen keenly.

  “Kinden Valcastle,” Tauris says loudly.

  My head jerks to Kinden who stands across from me. Stretching his arms, he feigns a yawn and smiles pompously.

  I asked Court if I’d like his older brother, and he said, “No one likes Kinden at first sight.”

  In that regard, I thought we’d be similar, but I’ve come to discover the most I share with Kinden Valcastle is the place we stand. We’re cabbage and onion, two different vegetables growing in the same garden.

  I’m afraid that I’m the one rotting.

  “… he’s the only one to stay conscious at nine g,” Tauris declares, much to Kinden’s pleasure. He dusts his shoulders like we’re the dirt. “Eighteen of you failed to reach seven g. When I call your name, you’re to pack your belongings and leave through the museum’s entrance.”

  Court’s father starts listing out names, and I wait and wait and wait for Mykal Kickfall. Boys burst into tears, ladies yell in displeasure, and hands cover faces. Hearts are breaking. Dreams crushed.

  I wait and wait and wait.

  “Sel Ravelcastle.”

  My neck creaks at that familiar name. The thin boy gapes despondently at the floor in shock. So am I. He’s articulate and tough-skinned. I would’ve rather seen Symons leave before Sel.

  I raise my head to the intercom, but no other candidates are called.

  “Congratulations to the rest of you. You lasted beyond seven g.”

  Got through that by the skin of yer teeth, Mykal. Next time, I may not be so lucky.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Franny

  Late that night I sit cross-legged on my bed and scribble in my notebook. The door swings open and a downtrodden Gem trudges into the dorm, shoulders bent and head hanging.

  Knowing she had the late-night grav session, my face falls. “You failed?” You should be glad, Franny. One less candidate can only strengthen my standing, but I like Gem. I tried to add distance and speak to her less, but she didn’t care if I talked little or not at all.

  When she notices that I miss breakfast, she brings me muffins. She offers to study with me when I do poorly in class, and I like listening to her wild tales about crafting electronics from scratch with her older sister.

  She’s as strong-willed as she is kind. During a talk about archaic telephones, Symons had told Gem, “No one can build a telephone.” Pieces of wiring and metal are scattered on Gem’s quilt, determined to prove that she can.

  She eats daintily, blushes at most nudity, and combs her honey-blond hair a thousand strokes before bed. I detect no sinister qualities, no bad intentions.

  I can be upset if she leaves, can’t I? Setting my journal aside, warmth leaks out of my face.

  Gem stops in the middle of our dorm and animates all at once, throwing her arms jubilantly. “I passed! Just barely, but I passed.” She puts a hand to her heart. “Your face…”

  I’m too emotive, too caring. Hopping off my bed, I say, “You tricked me well.”

  Gem perches her hands on her wide hips. “My first successful trick. We have more to celebrate then.”

  I hesitate, hanging on to the wooden bedpost. How do Influentials celebrate? “What kind of celebration do you have in mind?”

  Gem drums her lips with two fingers. “We could toast, but I’m not fond of liqueur, and my mother says toasting with water brings bad fortune. Any suggestions?”

  Mayday. I look upward at the gods for a brilliant idea because all that runs through my mind: Juggernaut, bedding, more drugs, and definitely ale. “Dancing?” I say impulsively, my gut lurching.

  Gem gasps. “I love dancing!”

  Thank the gods.

  Keeping a foot of space between us, she suddenly splays a hand on my shoulder and one on my waist. “Padgett always leads … do you know how?”

  “No.” This is not the “dancing” I had in mind. “I actually never learned to dance like this.” At her alarmed surprise, I quickly lie, “My Fast-Tracker sister taught me how to dance.”

  “Oh.” Gem drops her hands and steps back. “Well, how did she dance?”

  At first I waver, unsure if I should show Gem, but what’s the harm if she believes my imaginary sister is the Fast-Tracker and I’m the Influential?

  So I let go completely. Impulsively. With reckless desire. I thump my head every which way, shuffling side to side, pumping my arms up and down. I shake my straight hair, laughter in my chest.

  Gem, enjoying a challenge, begins mimicking my frenzied movements. A joyful smile enveloping her round face.

  Until we’re two girls. Dancing to the rhythm of our success.
r />   Two knocks freeze our limbs and our boots thud to a standstill.

  Our heads swerve to Zimmer, his knuckles to the door frame, a knowing brow quirked at me. I’d be more threatened if deep dark circles didn’t shadow his eyes. He yawns into his arm, his floral-printed shirt hanging loose over khaki slacks.

  Sleep has not been kind to Zimmer, but I don’t know what’s been keeping him awake.

  “We were dancing like Wilafran’s sister.” Gem pats down her tousled hair. “Wasn’t it wild?”

  “Wilafran’s sister,” he says with faint disbelief and shuts the door behind him. Zimmer props his body against the armoire. “Right, that sister. The one with blue and green hair.” He waves at his nose. “Piercings … three, to be exact. A tiny brow one, a lip…” He bites the corner of his mouth.

  I glare. “You look ridiculous.”

  Zimmer snorts into a laugh, which morphs into a yawn. Followed by an annoyed groan.

  “You should go to bed early,” Gem suggests.

  “Sure. I’ll try that,” he says flatly. “While you two were dancing like two left-footed FTs”—I shoot him a mightier scowl, he nearly smiles—“someone we all know just left StarDust.”

  Dismay strikes my eyes. I think of Mykal and Court. Concentrate. I try, but my mind is a blur. Senses chaotic. I feel—one of them brushing their teeth? Fingers to my mouth, I taste mint … and a tongue running along sharpened molars.

  Mykal.

  If Mykal is still here, Court should be too.

  Gem places her palms together. “Please say Kinden has left.”

  “Symons.”

  “What?” Gem and I say in unison.

  It makes no sense. “I saw him pass the simulation today.”

  “He left of his own accord,” Zimmer clarifies. “Something about not willing to spend ‘eternity’ without his husband. I told him that he’s not immortal, and he snapped at me for interrupting his ‘departure monologue.’”

  “That’s all happening right now?” I ask.

  “It’s over. Sel and Symons just disappeared in the elevator.”

  Gem sinks on her bed. “At least they’re together forever.”

  Zimmer yawns again. “Eighty-plus years is not forever.”

  I hide my journal beneath my pillow. “What do you care if people see themselves as undying?”

  “It’s obnoxious.” His brows hike, surprised I don’t share his sentiments. “Some people … Fast-Trackers, Babes have deathdays smashed against their eyeballs. Staring them down every fy—” Zimmer nearly spits out an FT curse.

  We both look at Gem.

  Gem looks between us. “Am I missing something?”

  “No,” we say together, and I nod him on, my body unbending. Sweltering hot. Gem definitely sizes us up, but I pretend like nothing happened.

  Zimmer combs an anxious hand at his mop of hair. “I understand that we,” he emphasizes to conceal the lie, “will die much later in life, but we’ll still die. We’re not better than Fast-Trackers and Babes just because we have extra time. We’re not.”

  I try hard to smother my smile, my entire chest swelling. When my friends died, I didn’t think to make new ones. I only have three months left, I thought, and since then, I’d somehow forgotten about the infectious passion of die-hard Fast-Trackers.

  “I disagree,” Gem says cheerfully, and my lips fall. “We will be the ones to change our world in historic, unparalleled ways. Fast-Trackers and Babes cannot do that based solely on the fact that they will die sooner than all of us.”

  I cringe. Is that really the measurement of our worth? How greatly we impact this world? I drove people safely around Bartholo. That matters.

  I still matter. Blinking repeatedly, I try to sort out my thoughts.

  Zimmer lets out a weak, tired laugh. “Sure.”

  Beyond our dorm, stampedes of feet rumble the floor, the commotion jolting us. The last time anyone yelled this brashly, fifty candidates were expelled at once. Without a word, we all bound into the hallway and follow the onrush down the stairs.

  Bodies skid to a halt in the common room, stone fireplace hissing with lilac casia. Someone increases the volume to a television nestled between sturdy bookshelves.

  Candidates in nightgowns and wool slacks cluster on the purple velvet furniture. Others standing in silence.

  All watching Altia News.

  On the fuzzy screen, an old woman buttoned in furs puts a bulbous microphone to her full lips, wind thwacking her reddish-brown cheeks and tossing her lush brown hair. Static crackles her voice and the image, snow dumping hard. The camera pans up to a stone building, white against the dark night.

  I recognize the architecture as Yamafort, not Bartholo. Weaving between candidates, I stop by an end table and frilly lamp. My mind drifts for one second and then … I’m racing. Running.

  Turning my head, Mykal storms down the stairs, more alarmed candidates in tow. I jump as a hand rests on my shoulder. Court sneaks up on me, so swift. He carries his padlocked expression to the television, his palm falling off my arm.

  Only a few feet away, Kinden sits at the edge of a chaise, fixated on Altia News.

  The camera descends to revolving doors, the scarlet overhang emblazoned with The Rose Glades. A high-end apartment building, I guess. The reporter’s voice breaks in and out.

  “Someone fix it!” a candidate yells.

  Gem slides through bodies with “excuse me, excuse me,” and slips behind the bulky television, fiddling with cords. Just as the static disappears, Kinden shoves himself in the situation. Much to Gem’s displeasure.

  “I have it,” she insists.

  “It’s not working.” Kinden pulls out a cord and the whole screen flickers black.

  Everyone hollers, and I crane my neck to see Mykal beside Court. “What do you think?” I whisper to them.

  “Overreacting, the whole lot of them are.” Mykal chews on his toothbrush like its dry root. “They’d piss their slacks by the sight of a mountain lion. It’s most likely nothing.”

  He believes what he says, but my arms shake, my own dread filling the hollow places that belong to Court. Who remains eerily silent.

  I wish I’d worn my coat. I’d hide my face in the furs and sniff the lingering honeysuckle perfume. I’d hug it tightly and remind myself that everything isn’t so wrong.

  Gem crouches, but Kinden follows suit. She tucks a hair behind her ear. “I can do it myself.”

  “Oh Gem, you can do it,” Kinden mocks, pestering her constantly. “Hand that to me.”

  “Never.” And then they topple into the back of the television.

  The screen flickers. Picture returning.

  “It’s on!” several people call out.

  “… Altia Patrol has begun an extensive investigation.” The reporter raises her voice over the wailing wind. “Today at eleven o’night marks the twenty-eighth recently reported theft in the country. Nineteen of those are in Yamafort alone, and three are now being cited as grand theft, the stolen property worth one point five million bills—”

  Collective gasps tune out the reporter.

  I stagger numbly back between Mykal and Court. As though to distance myself from this proposed thief. Hatred slowly and surely grinds at my insides, my face twisting painfully.

  The reporter lists off items the thief has stolen so far: porcelain figurines, music boxes, jewelry, feather hats, fur rugs, and on and on and on.

  Mykal and Court’s hands immediately drop to mine, and they tenderly open my closed fists, my nails burrowing too deep in my palms. They lace their fingers with mine, their sentiments not as sweltered. Not as hot, but I still bristle.

  I still brew.

  “I hate someone without a face.”

  Court says, “You’re not alone.” I think he means himself, but I skim the room, half the candidates enraged, the other half frightened to the bone.

  “… the most recent theft occurred right here at The Rose Glades with famous residents like Everly Storycas
tle—”

  “I adore her films!” a little girl exclaims, quickly shushed by Odell.

  “—Altia Patrol will not tell us what has been stolen from The Rose Glades. As the investigation continues, the list of suspects remains confidential. More to come with updates. Until then, we’ll replay President Morcastle’s good luck message to the candidates of StarDust.”

  Someone lowers the volume, the message aired so often that no one reacts. StarDust refuses to name the candidates and our location for television, so the only information Altia News has are handfuls of wet flyers and Morcastle’s stale “good luck” to us.

  Chatter escalates but dies quickly as lightbulbs flicker. The howling wind echoes, and heads turn cautiously.

  “It’s a storm.” Kinden stands by the television, hand in his pocket. “If you fear the wind, you shouldn’t be here.”

  “Maybe they fear the Two Thieves of Yamafort,” says a girl by the stairs, her tamed curls casting shadows on the wall.

  “Maga and Cissy Icecastle are dead!” several people shout.

  “Quick-Hands Jakker,” Zimmer predicts, grabbing everyone’s attention. “His deathday is in five years, and he likes shiny toys.”

  “Vorkter.” Kinden shuts down the theory.

  I blocked out the famous thieves in Bartholo. I’d rather scrub my nail beds with Mykal’s dry root than spotlight a thief. Some probably like the accolades and seeing their images on Altia News where Influentials gasp and recoil.

  “What about Bastell Icecastle?” Seifried murmurs so softly that the whole room hushes, his words so rare that we all listen closely. “My … my father and mother said he was the greatest thief in the past century. I was … a baby when he crept into my nursery…”

  The temperature plummets, coldness draping the room like rolling fog.

  “They said he stole my teddy … and crept out.”

  My nose flares just as Gem whispers, “Talk of Bastell reached Maranil. We heard that he stole what people value most.”

  “He was an affluent Influential,” the curly-haired girl interjects. “He never needed the bills.” An Influential thief.

  My cheeks burn.

  Seifried murmurs, “They say he stole for sport.”

  For sport. My pulse races ahead. Court wouldn’t even steal for sport.