Hullmetal Girls

by Emily Skrutskie

  “Joy,” I grind out. Good to know that on top of competing with Woojin for the position of weakest link, I’ll be expected to perform in a test that will decide my entire future as a Scela with an arm that’s only been minimally invaded.

  I purse my lips around a question my exo thinks I should keep bottled up. The last time I was in Medical, Isaac brushed off my missing memories, and after he knocked me out, I didn’t bother asking twice. But now it’s pretty damn clear that something isn’t right about the way I came through the conversion.

  I just need something to fill the holes.

  “Why did I become Scela?” I blurt.

  Isaac looks up sharply. His stool scoots back a defensive inch.

  “I still don’t remember, but it must be— Aisha and Woojin and Praava all filled out forms when they chose to take the metal. There has to be a record for me, right?”

  The doctor pushes up his glasses, rubbing his tattooed hands over his face. This close, I can see that the ink sketches the vague outline of Scela machinery over his dark skin, each part labeled with measurements and ratios. “Key, I can’t—”

  “It does exist, doesn’t it? I have a right to know what it says.”

  “You don’t,” Isaac retorts, his voice soft with exhaustion. “You voided your autonomous rights when you became Scela. And even if you didn’t, I don’t have the clearance to—”

  “Fuck clearance,” I snap. “I don’t remember voiding my rights. I have to…I need to…”

  “Key, you need to relax.”

  “Don’t tell me to—”

  “Key, stop…thinking,” he repeats more forcefully. “Unclench your muscles. Clear your mind, or you’re going to rip something.”

  The pain registers over the frenzy of my thoughts, and I give in grudgingly, letting the exo soothe me until my head empties and the rest of my body is as limp as my deadened left arm. My eyes feel heavy and hot, and something tells me this is the closest Scela can get to crying.

  I just want to know. I want a reason for existing.

  “Please,” Isaac breathes, pushing to his feet. “Be careful. You see what this does to your body. If this gets too out of hand, we might have to cut you open again to put you back together.”

  He limps purposefully toward the door, then hesitates.

  “And if it goes too far, we might not be able to put you back together at all.”

  * * *

  —

  I’m released from Medical on the morning of our last rest day with instructions to pay close attention to my arm’s alignment and report back to Isaac if anything seems off. The injury is sore, as promised, but everything seems to be in working order, and after the humiliation of my freak-out in front of Isaac, I’m not keen on seeing the head of Medical again any time soon.

  I’ve got one full day to kill before our final assessment. Marshal Jesuit hasn’t explained exactly how we’ll be tested, no matter how many times Woojin asks, but I don’t want to dwell on that particular uncertainty either. Today’s the last time I’ll be free of my squadmates’ minds before we find out our assignment. Before the blame starts piling on if we get some dead-end patrol job.

  So I’m going to enjoy this time off as much as I can. Clear my head, just like Isaac wants. I duck into one of the halls that leads to Assembly. Even though it’s usually packed with uncomfortable camaraderie, there’s bound to be something worth doing on the deck’s recreational side.

  Only the moment I step out of the hallway and onto the deck, my exo snaps my vision onto a way-too-familiar figure. Aisha’s tucked into a corner, out of sight for most of the Scela scattered across the deck. She has her head bent, lowering herself to the level of the human she’s speaking to.

  Strangely enough, it’s Zaire the dockworker hanging on to her every word.

  Suddenly I want her in my head. I want to know exactly what she’s saying. This doesn’t look like nostalgia for where she came from or any sort of sympathy. It looks like she’s trying not to be seen. The exo urges the fury rising in me. Who does she think she is, sneaking around and blocking us out? If she’s doing anything that’s going to knock us rightward on the board—

  I cross Assembly before I can think better of it, coming up behind them. She’s using part of her body to cloak him from sight, which has the added bonus of keeping me out of view until I’m two steps behind them.

  When Zaire spots me, his face lights up with a wide grin that barely masks the panic in his eyes. “Hey, your squadmate!” he chirps, his voice cracking high.

  Aisha whips her head around, and I see the usual wrath in the flare of her nostrils. “What do you want, Tanaka?” she growls.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Nothing that concerns you,” Aisha says.

  “I mean, I’m a little concerned,” Zaire interrupts. He tries to worm around Aisha to stand between us, but she holds up a hand, catching him forcefully across the chest.

  “Isn’t he off-menu for you?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  “That’s not what this is,” Aisha snaps, just as Zaire says, “Why, jealous?” She bares her teeth at him, and he shrinks back. “Scram,” she mutters, and Zaire immediately turns tail and hustles down the hall.

  “I’m flattered!” he calls back over his shoulder.

  “So what is it, then?” I ask, folding my arms. My exo reads the twitch of her pulse, even without the neural connection lacing our minds together. She’s nervous. Defensive. Hiding something.

  Aisha narrows her brows, setting her jaw in an exaggerated Scela scowl. Being confrontational isn’t working. Cooperation just isn’t a part of her makeup.

  “Look, our assignment is coming. If whatever shady shit you’re dealing with is going to get the squad in trouble, I deserve to know, at least.”

  “I don’t owe you anything,” Aisha says. She steps forward as if she’s trying to blow past me, but I catch her by the elbow, my fingers squeezing tight against her flesh. Aisha’s face might as well be sculpted from hullmetal—she barely reacts, even as my own exo flashes warnings that the pressure I’m applying might be hurting her.

  “You don’t know what you’re starting,” she says, keeping her gaze fixed on the distant launch tubes across the deck. “You don’t have any say in anything that matters to me, and if you have any interest in keeping the squad focused, you’ll leave me alone.”

  I want to scream. She has to realize how suspicious she’s acting. She has to understand how all this looks. But I keep my face set. Perfectly cool. Perfectly Scela. “Don’t blow this for the rest of us,” I warn, keeping my tone flat.

  I drop her arm, and Aisha gives me one last scowl before she hustles across the deck, her mechanically enhanced strides carrying her as quickly as they can. I glare after her, my thoughts spinning. The exo’s right there with me, trying to parse what just happened. In our entire conversation, she didn’t give me a single straight answer.

  I still have no idea what kind of game Aisha Un-Haad is playing, but if it gets in our way tomorrow, I’m going to rip the fucking exo off her back.

  Ten minutes in the mess. Then everyone to Assembly. Rigs on. Shuttle’s waiting. The marshal’s orders burst into our exosystem, snapping me and the rest of the squad awake. Her presence swells to drown out our groggy complaints and I start praying before my feet hit the floor.

  Yesterday, for the first time, Zaire was the one passing information to me instead of the other way around. He warned me that there was going to be something more to our assessment today, something the Fractionists want me to look into. But then Key interrupted, he bolted, and I never found out what exactly I’m supposed to be looking out for. I don’t even know where this shuttle we’re being ordered to board is meant to go.

  So I keep praying as we dress, rush to the cafeteria, and chug our breakfasts down with somber final glances at the
rankings board. We’ve managed to crawl to the center of the graph, but it’s not enough to save us if something goes catastrophically wrong today. And if we have any hope of earning white stripes on our rigs, we’ll have to be at our absolute best. I’ll need every last drop of God’s grace to make it through this test.

  We hurry to Assembly and strap on our full rigs. With the energy of the metal humming through me and the cameras fettering my vision, my nerves start to calm. Even my anxiety over the shuttle ride ahead goes quieter than it’s ever been in the safety of my rig’s cocoon.

  I won’t let it hold us back. Not today, when it’s most important. If we do well, we can put all our struggles in training behind us.

  And there’s a secret hope brewing in me, one I keep buried far away from where the rest of the squad can feel it. If we get a good assignment, one where our salaries double or even triple, I can get my siblings out of Yasmin’s hands. I can stop spying for her dangerous movement and finally put my guilty conscience to rest.

  It’s been three weeks since the Aeschylus vent, and I’m still struggling with the revulsion that rises in me every time I pass information along to Zaire. It all feels like harmless stuff—nothing as drastic as what I gave Lopez on the first day—but I can’t stop thinking about how the Fractionists might use the information. What kind of blood could I be painting my hands with, just by giving them facts from missions I hear about on Assembly or the gossip that flickers through my exosystem every time we get popped into a larger body of Scela? That, on top of the constant struggle to keep what I’m doing out of the exosystem, has been keeping my brain spinning restlessly for the past two weeks.

  Key nearly caught me. I have no doubt that if she knew what I was up to, she’d hand me over to the General Body on a silver platter. No matter how much I’d plead, that heartless, cold Scela would give up my brother’s and sister’s lives without hesitation. The risk is too great, and with her getting suspicious, I need a way out.

  Maybe today I’ll get that chance.

  Marshal Jesuit strides between our bays, her headpiece cocked back and her eyes flashing as she glances between us. A little flicker of pride spreads through the exosystem from her, and it warms me. The exo scoffs its disdain. It doesn’t want her pride. It wants her endorsement.

  The others’ exos chorus in rhyming agreement. Praava’s ready to earn a place that will buy Ratna’s freedom from the Lancelot’s cells and get her back where she’s needed. Wooj—well, he’d just be happy to get through this without another glitch, but there’s a tiny hope stirring in him that an elite assignment might mean that Medical would look into fixing what went wrong during his conversion.

  And Key, predictably enough, just wants the validation. She wants to prove she’s worth her metal, to satisfy her greed, to fill those weird holes inside her.

  “Today marks your graduation from basic training. There’s only one more assessment standing between you and your unit’s official assignment. Today, your mission is to deploy to an Alpha world.”

  My thoughts go fuzzy around the edges as the exo smothers them preemptively. Alpha world. The phrase registers.

  We’re going to a planet surface.

  Discovered worlds are ranked on their habitability. Omega-class worlds are impossible for humans to inhabit under any circumstances. Alphas miss the mark by only a couple factors. There are thousands of Omega worlds in the database, and thousands more in the spectrum between Omega and Alpha. There are only thirty-seven Alpha worlds.

  There’s no class above an Alpha. If we found a world like that, we’d name it something real.

  “To the shuttle,” Marshal Jesuit orders. If there’s any hint of nervousness in her, she doesn’t share it. She’s probably done this hundreds of times—it’s part of her duty as head of basic.

  But I’m crushed between fear and excitement, and I feel like my chest is about to collapse. Even if it’s not habitable, this world’s surface could be the closest I ever get to knowing what it might feel like to stand on the planet God promised. But to get there—

  To get there—

  The sharp edge of Key’s warning, the delicate touch of Wooj and Praava’s concern—they can’t do anything to pull me out of the terror that grips me. Somehow my legs are working, encouraged by the buzz of the marshal’s instruction. With heavy steps, I tramp in rank to the end of the deck, where a massive shuttle is waiting, its bay laid open. We file up the ramp, settle into seats, and wait as a pair of dockworkers checks our restraints.

  The moment their backs are turned, my hand slams against the hullmetal behind me. I pray for grace. For strength. For this canister of metal to survive the forces we’re about to be subjected to.

  A nervous giggle slips out of Wooj before he has a chance to swallow it.

  The rear hatch slams shut. Behind us, the engines rumble as they start to warm, and the whole shuttle lurches. We load into the launch tube.

  The engines fire. My prayers vanish as gravity does, my focus shifting to keeping my stomach in line.

  The hold is utterly empty save for the five of us. We’re surrounded by the sway of unbuckled belts as the shuttle pitches and rolls. Out the back window, I spot a ship hull flashing past. We’re maneuvering to the outside edge of the District formation, and I don’t want to think about what comes next.

  “FTL drives ready, engage in thirty seconds,” an intercom crackles above us.

  In its web of data, the exo generates a countdown.

  I wind my fingers in the straps of my restraints.

  The ship crawls forward. The gentle push of acceleration becomes an insistent nudge, which leans forward until the drives are roaring mercilessly, tugging us closer and closer to the precipice of light speed.

  We trip over the barrier, and my exo fizzles with delight. It tries to get me to share its glee, but I’m too focused on my hold. If I grip too hard, the excess strength of the exorig gloves will rip the restraints right out of the wall. The temptation is all too real as the ship hurtles farther and farther from the Fleet.

  My heart feels like it’s swelling in my chest as I think of my siblings. Of how much distance is rapidly expanding between us. I never got to tell them I was leaving. If something happens to me—

  The exo chokes off the speculation, trapping me solidly in reality as we plunge through the void between stars.

  * * *

  —

  With our only window facing the rear of the shuttle, we don’t actually see Alpha 37 on our approach. Our first glimpse of the planet is through the fires of our entry burn, and it’s barely more than a glimpse for me—one look and my eyes are squeezed tightly shut, the sounds of my prayer drowned out by the roar of the flames and the rattle of our ship. Even after the deceleration breaks and we cruise the rest of our way to our targeted landing site, I don’t dare open my eyes again until we’ve settled on solid ground and the shuttle’s engines cut out, leaving us still and silent.

  I unstrap as soon as the exo will allow me and immediately collapse onto the stable floor of the cargo bay, my thoughts smarting with humiliation. My legs feel like jelly, even with the metal supporting them. A hand comes down on the back of my rig, and Marshal Jesuit lifts me to my feet like a kitten. “Real grav, kid. How’s it feel?” she chuckles. She walks to the hatch easily, already adjusted to the strange pull beneath her feet.

  Real gravity. An actual planet, holding me to its skin. Hundreds of thousands of souls in the Fleet have lived and died and returned to God without ever experiencing this. Three hundred and one years have gone by, and only a small fraction of humanity has stood the way I am now.

  “Heavy,” I reply at last. Heavier by a factor of 1.1, my exo informs me. But with my enhanced body, the extra weight is nothing.

  “Trainees,” Marshal Jesuit announces as the other three unstrap and get their feet under them. “Masks are located in a bin
up front. You’ll want them on good and tight before the doors open.”

  Our exos nudge us into formation and parade us to the equipment. I grab a mask, fit its clear plastic mouthpiece over my nose and mouth, and attach it to a tank, which the exo prompts me to sling over my shoulder. It catches on a set of magnetic hooks, and then it’s part of my body, its weight sitting naturally on my bones. I check the seals on the mask once more because the exo wants it and a third time because I need to be sure.

  Behind me, Wooj starts leaping from foot to foot. He seems outrageously excited about the fact that each time he bounces into the air, an entire planet is pulling him back down again. With his full rig on, his exo’s winning over his mind in the struggle to control his body, making him slightly unsteady. Overall, though, he seems stable. His headpiece hides his eyes behind bulbous lenses, but the smile we feel through the exosystem is genuine and Scela-wide, not manic. I hope it stays that way. We have too much at stake today for him to glitch out again.

  I let myself share in his enthusiasm. Just a little. I think of the Ledic scripture’s descriptions of our promised world, and for a brief second I let myself imagine that I’ve landed on Paradise with the Fleet at my back, ready to make a new start. It’s said that our souls are bound to Earth, that they return there when our bodies let them go. But the great priests of generations past were so in tune with their spirits that they could feel Paradise calling to them, and even though the air outside is toxic, I imagine the gravity beneath my feet is that same pull, calling me home.

  Even Key isn’t immune. Over and over, she has to remind herself to focus, to not get carried away by the fact that there’s a planet under her feet. Over and over, she fails. A rare smile peeks through the distortion of her face mask.

  With all of us standing, our masks on, Marshal Jesuit flicks a signal out to the pilot, and the rear door of the shuttle slides open with a whir. Starlight floods in, and our cameras flicker as they rush to adjust their apertures.