by Jim Heskett
But some, like Diego, would stab her in the back without a second’s hesitation if they thought it would buy them another day of freedom. Hard to know who to trust, with so much at stake on a daily basis.
She strode across a section of mats where several Blues were tumbling and wrestling with each other. The sound of weights clattering mixed with the grunts of weightlifters. The gym was a flurry of activity, like a writhing organism. Despite what she thought of Wybert, she did credit him for fostering a sense of urgency when it came to training.
She approached a couple of Blues who were practicing hand-to-hand moves with each other. A newer boy and a girl whose names she couldn’t bring to mind at the moment. To prevent looking like an idiota, Rosia didn’t say anything about it. She’d ask Yorick their names later. He would know. He was the social one.
They stopped grappling when she came near.
“Morning,” Rosia said, trying to mask the panic fueling her.
“Good morning and good harvest,” the boy said. He’d only been a guerrero for a few weeks. Before that, he’d been kitchen staff. He would smile at her as he ladled food onto her tray, three times a day.
“How are things going?” Rosia asked.
The girl cast angry eyes at the guards near the door. She hadn’t been a guerrero for much longer than her male counterpart. A farm worker who had broken up a fight and caught the attention of the field supervisor. She’d taken down both of the sparring field serfs and held them on the ground until guards could arrive. This machismo earned her a chance to try out for the guerreros, which she passed. How she had languished among the farm serfs for so many years, Rosia didn’t know.
“The usual,” the girl said. “Plotting the deaths of those guards by the door.”
Rosia smiled because she knew the girl had been joking, at least a little. She reached out and brushed her fingers against the girl’s arm. “Have faith. Things can always change.”
When the girl cocked her head and offered a confused look, Rosia left her there and padded across the mats. Rosia worried she might spill the whole plan if she had to make small talk for one more second. No sense in bringing in these other people. If they were caught, then knowing nothing might actually save their lives.
Yorick met her eyes as he hoisted himself up onto a pull-up bar at the far side of the gym. He tossed a glance toward a couple of guards standing on either side of the entrance. Supposedly, they were here to prevent any conflicts between Reds and Blues. On the battlefield, guerreros could war as much as they liked. Warring off the field was expressly forbidden. For the most part, such conflicts were rare. Much like Rosia assumed the kitchen staff wouldn’t like to cook when not on duty and the janitorial staff wouldn’t like to clean in their own free time, the guerreros tended to keep their squabbles on the field of battle.
She meandered over to Yorick as he lowered himself from the bar. He leaned down, panting, and kissed her. Then, he whispered into her ear, “they haven’t budged. Not in more than an hour.”
“Do you have a plan?” she asked.
He nodded. “I got Paulo to agree to drop a plate on his foot. Just a small thing; one of the 3-kilo ones. But he’ll howl and hop around. If they don’t come naturally, he’ll ask them to come, saying he needs to go to the infirmary or something like that. Then, we hit the door when it’s free.”
“What if only one of the guards leaves his post?”
Yorick shrugged. “This is the best I have right now.”
An easier plan would be to simply claim they both weren’t feeling well and wanted to retire to rest in their room, but this worked, too. Better if the guards still assumed they were among the guerreros in this room. They would surely send someone upstairs to check on them if they returned to their room during training time.
The rules were often inconsistent. Sometimes, you could wander the plantación at night and expect nothing but a casual glance from any passing guard. Sometimes, you were under strict supervision with an ever-changing curfew and eyes watching your every move. Everyone knew the rules, but never when they would be enforced.
Better to play it safe. Get the guards to move so they wouldn’t know she and Yorick had gone.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s do it.”
Yorick nodded at Paulo, and the kid let a weightlifting plate slip from his hands and topple onto his foot. He yelped, grasping his foot and hopping around.
But the guards barely paid him any attention. Just a simple glance, and then they returned to their stoic stances. Paulo called out to them a couple times and they ignored him.
“Mierda,” Yorick said. “Time for the backup plan. You’re not going to like this, but it’s the only option.”
And with that, he walked away from her. Rosia opened her mouth to protest, but didn’t want to draw the guards’ attention right before he did whatever it was he was about to do.
Yorick walked up to Diego, who was doing abdominal exercises on a mat five meters away from the guards. A trio of Reds stood around him, counting each rep. Yorick said something to him, and Diego stood up. Yorick punched the larger, older guy in the face. No hesitation, no warning.
Rosia gasped. What in the stars was he thinking?
This time, the guards took notice. As Diego shoved Yorick back, the guards abandoned their spot and scrambled over toward the conflict. The door was unguarded and open.
It wasn’t supposed to go this way. They were supposed to sneak to the battlefield together. They were supposed to figure out how to open the hidden door in the warehouse together.
But, that wasn’t an option now. She hustled across the gym, on a straight shot for the doors.
On her way out, she locked eyes with Yorick. As a guard smacked him in the chest with the butt of his rifle, her boyfriend nodded.
Chapter Fifteen
Rosia paused at the edge of the warehouse quadrant, crouched underneath a tree. This would have been so much easier at nighttime. The mandatory battle suits were black, and without an inserted chip to light it up, she would have been nearly invisible in the dark of night.
But, no such luck this morning. She had a small window to accomplish this task. That small window was even harder to squeeze through since Yorick had sacrificed himself to make sure she could get away. But, nothing could be done about that now. Rosia had to take advantage of her only shot.
She squinted at the tops of the plantación walls and could only detect a single guard patrolling this area. There were guard towers at the corners, but as far as she could see, there were no eyes on her area at the moment.
If cameras watched her moves, as was the rumor, she couldn’t see them. They had to be hidden away, concealed from prying eyes. But, again, that was only a rumor.
Still, she had to be careful. She didn’t know what the punishment would be for entering the battlegrounds on a day with no round scheduled, but it couldn’t be good. She’d never even heard of anyone attempting such a thing. On days off, guerreros stayed far away from the quadrants. No reason to be reminded of the place they toiled every day to earn their keep.
The guard atop the wall turned in the other direction, and she darted forward, headed for the second warehouse. Yorick had told her exactly what to look for inside.
Her heart thudded in her chest as she ran. Arms sliced in the air, legs kicking and pushing her forward at light speed. She skidded to a stop near the rear door of the warehouse. A terrifying thought occurred to her: what if it was locked?
Too late to back out now. She was on the battlefield. The door would be unlocked. It had to be.
She planted her feet and reached out to grasp the knob. She gripped it, and it turned. Not locked.
A satisfied chuckle escaped her lips as she yanked back the door and jumped inside. When the door shut behind her, she found herself in a space of total quiet. That had never happened on the battlefield before. There were always bullets firing nearby, the shuffling of boots or barked orders echoing off adjacent buildings.
/> She couldn’t even hear the rambling songs of the field workers or the sounds of their pickaxes striking the ground. No squeal of the front gate opening and trucks belching smoke as they arrived to take fruit or deliver fresh children to become serfs.
Nothing.
She closed her eyes and inhaled, relishing the silence. Likely, she might never experience this peaceful sense of isolation and quiet again. But she allowed herself to sit with it only for a moment. She had a job to do.
Rosia slid into the standalone side room and climbed up atop the space above it, and then slinked forward until she could see where the roof had caved in above the adjoining sealed room. The air in here stank like unwashed clothes left in a pile for too long.
She dropped into the space and noticed the door immediately. Like a cellar entrance, in the ground, but at a slight angle. Same concentric circle pattern carved at the bottom as they’d seen on the door near the mansion. Hidden, but not too well. Someone wanted them to find it.
She knelt in front of the door, examining it. Yorick had said he couldn’t figure out how to open the door, but he'd had little time. There was no handle, no indentation for fingers or a hand to slip through.
The door was raised above the surface, so she ran her hands along the outer edge. When her fingertips reached the bottom, she felt it. A piece of metal sticking out like a button. She pressed it and heard a click, then she lifted the door. Yorick said he’d spent five minutes searching for how to open the door. She grinned. He was cute and strong and level-headed, but terrible at finding lost things.
The door rose a centimeter after the press of the button, and she grasped the heavy metal and lifted it open further. Cool air rose from the dark space underneath.
“Oh, wow,” she said into the dark. Full, complete blackness, like a night with zero stars.
Her eyes could find nothing in the darkness below. But, she was prepared for this. She had a small flashlight, no larger than a fountain pen. She twisted it to enable the light and then shined it down below. The walls were metal, with grating on the floor.
With one hand on the edge of the door, she lowered herself two meters to the grating. It clanked softly as her shoes touched down on the surface.
Rosia pressed the tip of the pen light against her hip to hide the beam. She sat in darkness, listening for voices or footsteps. Nothing but total silence came back to her.
She shone the light ahead to find herself in a long, straight tunnel. The light broke off and faded before she could see to the end of it. Hundreds of meters long, maybe even more. She took a few steps forward and then turned and shined the light at the hole in the ceiling she’d come from. A bolt of panic made her shudder. The idea that at any second, the door could slam shut, and then she’d be trapped down here, with no choice other than to surrender to the next guard who happened to stumble upon her.
At least, she hoped it was a guard she might find down here. Rosia wasn’t sure if she wanted to encounter anything else. Better to face the evil you know than the one you don’t.
A conversation from a few years ago echoed through her mind. Her, Hamon, and Yorick at lunch one day, eating tepid tortilla soup and discussing the Reds. Before Diego, they’d had a leader named Rafael, but he was on the outs. They’d lost too many consecutive battles, and those guerreros were growing restless. All the Blues could smell an oncoming mutiny in the air. Diego would soon assume power and force Rafael out by making sure he ended up last in the ranks during a battle. Of course, back then, Rosia didn’t know for sure Diego had orchestrated the leader’s ouster and assumed power by cheating his way to the top. No one knew the extent of his malice then. And what had Wybert said about him, in the interrogation room yesterday? That he liked Diego’s initiative?
A wave of cold rushed down the dark hallway. She gritted her teeth to shake the fear from her mind, and then Rosia pushed herself forward. Feet clanking on the metal grate. Below the grate, the floor seemed to also be made of metal, so she wondered what purpose the grate served. Why cover the metal with metal?
A hundred meters down the hall, she came to the first intersection. Straight, right, or left? She shined the light down each of the three and found roughly the same thing in each direction. More hallway, but now with doors at intervals. She chose left and eased up to the first door. Cold metal, with a single painted number 087 on the door.
She reached out and tried to open it, but found it locked. No place to enter a key, only a small metal panel next to the door, with a couple of darkened LED lights. She guessed one would be green and the other red, and would light up if you pressed a device of some kind against the metal panel. A card or some electronic gizmo to open it.
After a moment, she did recognize the panels. The guard quarters and off-limits areas had them to keep the commoners out.
She pressed her ear up against the door and heard nothing. She moved on to the next door on this same side of the hall which was numbered 454. Same result. The next door showed the number 017, and she paused to think about the sequence. There seemed to be no consistency. She might have expected alternating numbers on either side, but that wasn’t the case here.
It didn’t matter. That door, plus every door after that on both sides of the hall were locked. No sounds coming through the metal. Eventually, after twenty doors, the hallway ended at a dead end.
She made her way back to the intersection and turned left, which was a straight turn from the original entrance. Committing her path to memory had to be the top priority.
More locked doors this way. But, four doors down, she found one with that same marking of the concentric circles around a triangle and cross, carved near the base of the metal. Barely visible, a couple centimeters above the grating. Did this door lead to the garage they’d seen yesterday by the mansion?
She pressed her ear up to the door, and this time, she did hear a sound. But not through the door.
The clanking of boots on the grated metal floor came from somewhere. Vibration reverberated along the metal until it reached her, jittering the grate under her feet.
Guards. In the tunnels.
She knelt and placed a hand on the grate to evaluate the vibrations. Were they coming closer, going further away, or staying lateral? In these long halls, would it matter? Anyone with a flashlight could see her from a hundred meters away. And she would have no idea where to run. Back to the cellar door, she supposed, but if the warehouse entrance became known, they could never use it again.
Her heart, already thudding against her ribcage, pounded so hard she could barely hear. A lump formed in her throat and she couldn’t swallow. Her lips moved, forming a wordless affirmation: you can do this. You can find your way out of here, and they will not catch you.
Despite the panic throttling her senses, she couldn’t sit and wait. She had to move. Had to cut back through the hallways and reach the exit before anyone else saw it.
After clicking off the light, she placed one hand on the wall and swept forward. She couldn’t see the intersection up ahead, but she anticipated it would take her about twenty paces to reach it.
And then, flashlight beams cut across the darkness in front of her. She froze. Two beams, skittering over the floor, dancing left and right. Then, they spoke.
“This configuration messes with me the most,” said one, a gruff male voice.
“Really?” said the other. “I think yesterday’s was worse. This one is like a bunch of X’s on a board.”
The flashlight beams hit the intersection up ahead, and Rosia flattened against the wall. If they turned this way, she was ruined. Maybe she could get one of these doors open, but if she fiddled with the metal pad, they might hear.
They were close enough now she could hear the individual falls of their boots on the grate. Two guards appeared in the intersection. Rifles at their sides, the noses pointed down.
For a moment, one of them slowed, as if he might not go straight. She could barely make out his features in the darkness.
/> What was he waiting for? He hadn’t turned his head this way.
“X’s, huh?” he said, and then his boots clanked on the floor in front of him.
And they kept on straight, past Rosia. She let out a colossal breath and then hesitated for a few more seconds as their footfalls continued to dissipate down the hall.
Staying on her toes, she slinked forward in their intersection. Her eyes drifted after them. A brief thought occurred: follow them and take them out. Get their rifles with their real, non-rubber bullets. Find a way into the mansion. They must have keys, right? How else had they accessed these tunnels?
With keys and real bullets, she could end Wybert and open the gates. She could make an actual difference.
Or, she could die in an instant when the guards heard her clumsy feet thundering down the grate after them.
No, Rosia couldn’t do anything now. Time to go home, back to Yorick, back to planning. The time to act would come soon.
Chapter Sixteen
On the sixth floor of the dorms, in the Blues’ ready room with chairs and a large table at the center, Yorick sat and stared at the whiteboard on the wall. In front of the whiteboard, the Blue guerrero Paulo scribbled names. The nominees for the team leader. Paulo’s name was on the board, as were three others.
Yorick’s foot thumped on the floor, and his eyes darted between the whiteboard and the door. Rosia should have been back by now. He didn’t know for sure how long it would take her to do whatever she was doing, but she’d been gone too long. But, he had to assume if she’d been caught roaming around in the tunnels under the mansion, they would have sounded the alarm. They’d have sent in the guards to put the whole dorms on lockdown. A serf unlawfully entering the mansion—or tunnels underneath it—would be a serious offense.
And now that he thought about how serious it was, the icy fingertips of panic squeezed the back of his neck. What in the stars were they thinking? They’d been so cavalier about the whole thing.