[Phoebe Pope 01.0] The Year of Four

by Nya Jade

  “Get too excited about this place,” Gabe finished quietly.

  Phoebe tipped her head sideways and studied Gabe’s fatherly expression. “Yeah. That’s how it was.”

  “SIS is not an easy life, lass” Gabe said, breathing deeply. For a moment he stared at Phoebe, his blue-eyed gaze piercing. “Perhaps your father wanted a safer option for you. Like any parent would.”

  “Maybe . . .” she said. In fact Gabe was right. Her father had wanted her to follow a human curriculum and pursue a human career. He’d even hidden the SIS application from her when it had first arrived.

  As though reading her mind, Gabe said, “If you knew your father didn’t want you here, why did you enroll?”

  Phoebe didn’t answer. She tried to smile, not wanting her anxiety to show itself. Her intense session with Afua on this very subject remained fresh in her mind and the emotions it stirred were difficult ones. In the stillness of the chapel, Phoebe heard the sound of tittering voices approaching from outside. Gabe heard them as well.

  “Looks like my new flock of interns are right on time,” he said, glancing down at his watch.

  “Interns?” Phoebe turned her head and looked back. Behind her a group of four students entered the chapel.

  Gabe smiled and drew himself up. “Your father helped make interning at the Eye an official option for third-years. Listen,” he said, as he stepped out of his pew. “Concentrate on the reason you decided to enroll here and it will make everything worthwhile.” Gabe gave Phoebe’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before sweeping down the aisle to greet his interns.

  “Stop me if I get too philosophical for you,” Hayley said to Phoebe later that night as they sat in the Above library basement, their backs against the wall, a batch of Hayley’s I’m-worried-about-midterms cinnamon rolls between them. “I think that almost-kiss happened because you and Scott are two confused people flung into a metaphorical darkness together, both reaching out, wanting to touch the only other person who understands the abyss. To feel less alone—”

  “Stop,” Phoebe interjected quickly.

  “What?” Hayley threw up her palms.

  “You said to stop you if you got too nutty, Dr. Phil.”

  “C’mon, it makes sense,” Hayley said, examining the leaf in her hand before adding a few more dots with her Decomp Pen. “You hear about people developing deep feelings for each other after surviving intense situations together. And,” she quickly added when Phoebe opened her mouth. “Hypothetically, he hasn’t told a soul what’s going on, so you’re the only person experiencing it with him.”

  Phoebe frowned as she considered Hayley’s words, then said, “God, what does that say about me? I mean, I talk to you.”

  “You, my friend, are a whole different situation.” Hayley bit into a cinnamon roll. “I mean, you’re currently avoiding one boy by hiding out in the basement where you attacked another boy. I’m not qualified to assess what’s going on with you.”

  Phoebe stretched an arm to take a swipe at Hayley. As she did, the book she’d been reading fell out of her hands and Hayley grabbed it.

  “What are you doing with a Body Linguistics and Deception textbook?” she asked, surprised. “That’s second year reading.”

  “I thought I’d see what’s coming,” Phoebe said evasively. And what was coming was a debriefing with Afua. Phoebe had checked out the book in the hopes of learning basic techniques for veiling her emotional state.

  “Okay, overachiever,”—Hayley’s fingers leafed through the book—“learn anything I can use on the parentals?”

  “It’s all in the eyes,” Phoebe said.

  “What is?” Hayley asked.

  “Lying. Deception,” Phoebe said. “They say you can control your voice and your facial muscles, but eyes give people away all the time. So if you can control that . . .”

  “How the hell do you do that?” Hayley said, blinking.

  “Years of practice,” came a woman’s rich voice from somewhere in the semi-darkness. Afua, black duffel bag slung over her shoulders, emerged from the shadows of the stacks as both girls shot to their feet, preparing to show their respect.

  “Cadets Corman, Pope,” Afua said, nodding alternately at both of them.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” the girls said in unison, nodding back.

  Afua, her gaze trained on Hayley, said, “Mind if I borrow Cadet Pope?” She spoke in a tone that made it was clear that it wasn’t a question.

  “Yes, ma’am—I mean, no, ma’am,” Hayley said as a hint of a smile played at the corner of Afua’s pressed lips.

  Phoebe picked up her belongings and threw them hastily into her backpack, shaking her head ever so slightly when Hayley attempted to give back the Body Linguistics book. Phoebe followed Afua out of the library basement, brushing cinnamon roll crumbs from her clothes.

  When Phoebe stepped outside, the wind that whipped her hair across her face made her feel as though she’d entered the heart of a frozen tundra. She walked in silence beside the Blackcoat, the dark, jagged outline of the Campus forest getting closer. In minutes, they reached the expanse of tall trees and began making their way through, avoiding the tangled underbrush and fallen branches. As they walked, Phoebe found herself grateful to have the symphonic hum of nocturnal insects intrude upon what had become nerve-wracking silence.

  Afua came to an abrupt halt.

  “We’re here,” she said, getting to her knees. Grabbing two fistfuls of earth, Afua pressed her palms together—her hands crackling with electricity—before flinging the dirt out into the trees. The floating particles formed a thin, glowing rope that stretched and tied itself around the trunks of a long line of trees. Then, as if yanked by some invisible hand, it pulled the trees sideways.

  Phoebe gasped, her mouth gaping, her bulging eyes fixed on Afua who rose to her full height and dusted off her dirt-caked hands. A cluster of trees roped to one side, they were now standing in a semi-circle-shaped clearing, brightly lit by the low-squatting moon that had previously been blocked. A feeling of nervous anticipation rushed in to replace Phoebe’s shock, and she brought a hand to her neck, absentmindedly stroking the pendant on her silk necklace.

  “That blue-gray side is called falcon’s eye,” Afua said.

  Phoebe snapped up from looking at her pendant. She should not have been surprised that the Blackcoat had been watching her closely. “Is it another form of protection?” she asked.

  “No,” Afua said, opening her black bag. “It’s believed to free the wearer of the emotional turmoil that cripples rational thought.”

  Phoebe tensed. “Do you believe it works?” she asked cautiously, watching Afua strap a quiver to her thigh.

  “I believe overwhelming feelings can force us into a maze of confusion.” Afua unsheathed a beautifully polished recurve bow engraved with gold symbols, and strung it. “As to whether or not the falcon’s eye provides a path out of that maze,” she continued, “it may depend on the wearer being open to receiving help.”

  Phoebe stood motionless, absorbing the impact of those words. She almost opened her mouth to ask Afua if falcon’s eye had ever helped her, but stopped when she noticed a gold arrow, with a single perpendicular line just above the bottom embroidered into the side of the Blackcoat’s quiver; she recognized it as her Zodiac sign.

  “Are you a Sagittarius?” Phoebe asked as Afua filled her quiver with dark wood arrows.

  “Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking.” At Phoebe’s confused look, Afua said, “How is your Latin, Cadet?”

  “Not good,” Phoebe admitted, sheepishly. Cadets were encouraged to learn Latin on their own time, as a way to connect more with their history, but Phoebe hadn’t taken to it. “But I do know that Sagittarius is Latin for archer and the plural is Sagittarii.”

  “Well, that’s a start,” Afua said. “In ancient times, Roman armies were accompanied by auxiliary—support—regiments. A good number of those regiments were called Sagittariorums, which meant they contained archers.
After the fall of Pompeii, the Royal Court decided to have its own Sagittariorum for added protection. Archers have remained a part of the royal security detail ever since.”

  “So you’re a Sagittarius and a Blackcoat?”

  “I’m a Sagittarius who was recruited to become a Blackcoat,” Afua said, slipping on a fire-red arm guard. “Blackcoats are pulled from various disciplines. I don’t do as much archery now, but I like to get some practice in. That’s where you come in, Cadet.” Afua threw an object at Phoebe, which she caught against her chest. “You’ll assist in my target practice while I debrief you.”

  Phoebe stared down at her hands; she was holding a thin black disc with about twenty numbered buttons on it.

  “This area has been wired with targets that are buried beneath us,” Afua said, answering Phoebe’s unasked question. “You’ll use the remote to launch them from the blast-free zone.” She pointed to a black X drawn at the base of a pine in the north end of the clearing. Phoebe moved over to it at once, fearing the undetectable targets as if they were landmines.

  “This debriefing,” Afua said, “by the way, is not about your recalling the events of the previous week’s sting.” She reached into her jacket pocket, withdrew a black silk cloth and tied it around her eyes. “It’s what we call a ‘psychological debriefing’ that we use to check in on your state of mind.”

  At that, Phoebe accidentally pushed a button. A clay ball the size of a fist exploded from the ground in a towering spray of dirt and rocks. Without a sound, the ball shot upward and hovered between two pines. Before Phoebe had even processed what she’d done, Afua had nocked an arrow, drawn the string to her cheek and hit the target with a ringing thunk. Clay chunks rained to the ground.

  “Sorry,” Phoebe said, and began to scold herself internally. She found herself rather grateful for Afua’s blindfold because she did not want the Blackcoat to see her shaky hands.

  Afua had a second arrow nocked and ready. “That’s the idea. Fire at will,” she said before adding, “Tell me how you are.”

  “I’m fine,” Phoebe said, sending another ball sizzling upward. Unlike the first one, this target moved in a zig-zag motion. In seconds, it too lay in pieces.

  “We both know that isn’t true,” Afua said, bringing the bowstring to her cheek. “You look like you haven’t slept for days. And although your class attendance has been one hundred percent, your focus hasn’t.”

  “I . . .”

  Afua spoke over Phoebe. “There’s no shame in feeling what you’re feeling. You’re a Hastati-year trainee. Most SIS agents go their entire careers without having to be bait in a field mission. And the impact of the operation has been made worse by the fact that you can’t share it with your peers.”

  Phoebe said nothing, but launched another target.

  Turning in place, Afua shot it down.

  “How do you remain so unaffected?” Phoebe blurted, pressing several buttons at once before she could stop herself.

  Afua’s hands were a blur as, one shot after another, her arrows impaled each swirling target with precision and speed. “Don’t mistake my focus and sense of duty for lack of emotion, Cadet,” she said with a softer tone, lowering her bow. “I choose to connect with feelings I find productive: pride, loyalty, triumph, and courage. It’s simply what works for me.”

  Phoebe thought about that for a moment, then cleared her throat. “Permission to speak freely, ma’am,” she said.

  “Proceed.”

  “You told me that everyone comes to the service for a reason. What was yours, ma’am?”

  Afua slipped off her blindfold and fixed her intense gaze on Phoebe. Several seconds passed before she answered. “Survival,” she finally replied. “Joining the service gave me a sense of purpose and allowed me to change my circumstances.” She began unstrapping her quiver. “I grew up in a Shaper orphanage in Cape Town, South Africa. One day a woman came by and handed us older kids a bow and some arrows and taught us how to shoot. I took to it like breathing.

  “The woman was impressed with my skill and offered me wonderful things—opportunity to see the world, a better home, and a chance to hone my shooting skill. It turned out that she was a recruiter for the Sagittarii and orphans fit the NET profile they looked for.”

  “NET?”

  “No Emotional Ties, Cadet,” Afua said. “It’s a sacrifice made by those of us who guard the Crowns. Some make that tough choice willingly. Others, like me, come in having none.”

  Phoebe lowered her eyes to the ground; she felt an overwhelming need to say something to Afua. But what to say, or how to say it, eluded her.

  “Listen,” Afua said, removing the string from her bow. “I am well aware that I am not the most approachable person. But should you need to discuss anything regarding the sting operation, I can make myself available to you.”

  “Okay,” Phoebe said weakly. She couldn’t meet Afua’s eyes. Instead, Phoebe glanced around at the broken clay, trying to bring herself to tell the Blackcoat about Colten. She was frustrated. This wasn’t her. She knew right from wrong and everything about her behavior was wrong. Withholding such information was treasonous. But every time she thought of turning Colten in, the image of the Vigo in the glass case came to her in a rush; Colten would not be allowed to live. It was law. Kill Vigos no questions asked.

  Something within Phoebe clamped her tongue; a voice that kept screaming that there was a contradiction between the boy she’d come to know and the monster he was supposed to be. Or had it all been one brilliantly acted role on his part? She thought back to dinner in his room. Their connection had felt real. Raw. Didn’t she owe it to herself to find out what was behind her hesitation before making an irreversible decision? On the other hand, the potential consequences of her inaction could be too frightening for words. It wasn’t just about her own death. A frantic part of her mind wondered if Colten was just a small part of a bigger plan? Perhaps a massive attack on the school? Was her silence dooming her fellow cadets and the future of the SIS program?

  Phoebe began retrieving Afua’s arrows from the ground. A gust of wind swirled from behind her, sending her a waft of a smoky cinnamon scent. Phoebe took a breath and halted all movement. Has Colten returned to campus? Has he been watching us this whole time? In panic, Phoebe scanned the stretch of trees looking for shadows in the darkness, seeing nothing, hearing nothing.

  “Something wrong, Cadet?” Afua said.

  Phoebe was startled, realizing suddenly that Afua was right beside her. She felt a hollowness in her throat. “I thought I heard something,” she said, grateful for the words that came.

  “I’m sure you did,” Afua said. “There are four agents wandering around on guard duty.”

  Phoebe exhaled in nervous surprise. “There are?” she said.

  “I wouldn’t have brought you into these woods without precautionary measures,” Afua confirmed, her mild offense implicit in her tone. “But our debriefing”—Afua indicated the Privaque on her collar—“was confidential.”

  A minute or so later, after returning all of her arrows to her quiver, Afua walked over to the particle rope while Phoebe’s penetrating gaze once again darted around. Phoebe inhaled deeply. The smoky cinnamon musk was now barely discernible, but it was there. Colten was somewhere close by, that she was sure of. But so were agents. She still didn’t understand how his presence continued to raise no alarms.

  “I suggest you start moving,” Afua called out to Phoebe, who had just barely dodged a tree that had snapped back into place; she didn’t need to be told twice. Phoebe broke into a run following Afua closely. The particle rope began to disintegrate, and trees returned to where they belonged, leaving no trace of the clearing.

  When they broke free of the final line of trees, the security foursome at their flanks, Phoebe’s thoughts returned to Colten. Where had he been all of this time? What about his classes? Didn’t he have assignments he was required to do regardless of his star status? Phoebe glanced over her shoulder on i
nstinct. Her hearts rammed against her ribs, as a silhouetted figure with Colten’s build stood at the edge of the tree line, unseen by Afua or the others. Before Phoebe could completely trust her eyes, the figure pulled the bill of his baseball cap over his face and faded into the darkness.

  Phoebe returned to her room and she dropped onto her bed in a heavy heap. Before the thought of undressing even crossed her mind, she fell into a deep, tormented sleep. In her dream, she was on the red carpet again. This time, instead of running, she pointed a finger at Colten’s neck and screamed “Vigo!”

  The weekend’s dreary overcast weather made most everyone into hermits. Eager to be by herself, Phoebe seized the opportunity to wander the campus freely. Her camera bobbed against her chest in its case, where it would remain until inspiration hit—something that was increasingly hard to come by. Before long, however, an unexpected downpour forced her to seek cover in the nearest shelter. Phoebe found herself running a short distance to the chapel. And if it weren’t for the gale force winds that had begun to blow, she would have paused to capture the image of the steeple spearing a thick, hovering cloud like a sentinel in battle.

  Soaked and cold, Phoebe stood in the entryway, surprised to find the pews filled. Of course, she thought. It was Sunday and some students had gathered for the nondenominational service that was optional for Green Lane. Out of respect, Phoebe moved to sit at the back of the chapel, scanning for familiar faces as she went. Gabe stood in the shadows, leaning against the wall, eyes firmly fixed on the pulpit. He wore a vaguely tortured look on his face and Phoebe wondered if his concern lay with the priest who moved energetically and far too close to the narthyx. But then she noticed that Gabe’s hands were clutched around the red picture frame that held a photo of his daughter. Phoebe’s hearts went out to him.

  As she continued to look around, she saw focused Blackcoats standing along the walls, too many to be there just for her. Phoebe spotted Scott sitting on the opposite side of the aisle, his arm around the girl she only knew as “Gorgeous.” She couldn’t help but stare at them. She’d been wondering a lot about how she’d feel the next time she saw Scott. And she had her answer. Seeing Scott with Gorgeous evoked no sense of jealousy, hurt, or pain. Instead she felt happiness for him. Perhaps Hayley had been right: Whatever she may have thought she’d felt for Scott had just been a byproduct of one of those intense moments.