by S. M. Wilson
It was the green eyes that made him the obvious poster boy. They were so bright. They would attract attention when his face was beamed across the continent on whatever propaganda they had planned for the expedition. If he hadn’t been smiling at her so much she would have resented him.
“Your name?”
The blood rushed to her cheeks and she pulled her hand back. She wasn’t used to physical contact. It felt odd. She and Dell only occasionally bumped fists. But this Lincoln had reached out and touched her as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Stormchaser Knux.”
“That’s an unusual name.”
“Is it?” He had a calm, easy manner – as if he spoke to strange girls all the time – and it irked her.
He shrugged. “I haven’t heard it before.”
“Maybe you’ve been hanging out with the wrong people.” It was snappy. It was probably uncalled for. But she couldn’t help it. Being around him seemed to put up all her natural defences.
He picked up his empty plate and swung his long leg back over the stool. “Maybe I have.” Was that a trace of disappointment in his voice? She tried to ignore him, the awkwardness, shifting her weight on the stool and scanning the room in the hope that Dell would appear.
But he didn’t. And she was left watching the retreating figure of Lincoln Kreft.
The siren blasted them awake at six a.m. The first day of the physical Trials. Lincoln wasted no time. He dressed sparsely. A thin T-shirt and shorts. He might know what the Trials involved, but he didn’t know in what order they’d come.
One thing was for sure, more than a quarter of the candidates would spend most of the day being sick after the amount of food they’d put away at breakfast.
He stuck with bran and some cedar fruits. He needed slow-burning energy and a less than full stomach to complete the tasks. Tonight? He could stock up on enough food to last the next few days. He wanted to gain weight. He wanted to have some extra fuel for Piloria. Who knew what food would be available there?
The transport to the cliffs took just over an hour. There were murmurs around him as their destination became clear. Whispers about what they would be asked to do. Lincoln didn’t pay attention. He was too busy focusing on the cliff as they drew closer, trying to find the best route upwards without overhangs and with possible hand- and footholds. These cliffs were vastly different from the ones he’d practised on near to home – much smoother – more difficult.
There were figures dotted along the top of the cliff and black ropes snaking down to the ground. Tether lines. The tide was far out, anyone who fell from this cliff face would be in danger of splattering on the rocks below.
He kept scanning. Some parts of the cliff were virtually smooth. Anyone positioned there would have no hope of reaching the top. He focused. There. He’d found it. His best route with two possible tether lines next to it.
The transporter convoy drew to a halt. Lincoln didn’t have time for niceties. He had a purpose, a goal. He pushed his way through to the exit and walked briskly, grabbing a harness on the way past, not even stopping to listen to the instructions from the Stipulator.
Then he saw them. Storm and her friend. Already positioned at the tether lines he needed. The guy even had one of the lines in his hand. He frowned and glanced over his shoulder. How had they got there before him?
They were ready. Their harnesses in position with only the final clip to fasten. He suppressed the urge to yell as he walked up alongside.
The ground wasn’t smooth here. They were all standing on the jagged rocks. A few others came and stood next to him. He was careful not to allow anyone to get between him and Stormchaser and her friend. He moved a little, nudging her elbow. “Move up a bit,” he muttered, trying to keep it light and impersonal.
But she wasn’t fooled. She met him with her unusual violet gaze and clipped her tether line firmly in place, lifting her head to survey the cliff above her.
His skin prickled. This girl was no amateur. She knew exactly what she was doing.
She was focused. Just like he should be.
Reban Don’s voice boomed behind them. “Trialists, the rules are simple – reach the top. Anyone whose full weight is taken by the tether rope is automatically disqualified.”
Lincoln breathed deeply, grabbing the tether rope nearest to him and clipping it to his harness. He wouldn’t be able to use the rope to swing across to the more favourable climbing route. His eyes quickly scanned the cliff again.
He would have to find a way to move over. No one said they had to climb in a straight line. He wouldn’t do that naturally anyway. If he had to, he could always detach his tether line.
Her head was bobbing up and down and her lips murmuring. She was counting along the line, trying to see how many people had actually made it through to this stage.
He was curious too, but just didn’t want it to seem obvious.
It was pointless to count right now anyway. The cliff face was sheer. He couldn’t imagine many of them would make it.
What if most of them didn’t finish? How would they find the hundred people they needed for the trip?
Stormchaser was whispering to her friend, pointing out the route above them. Lincoln was still trying to guess her age. Why would someone so young want to be a Trialist? She must be at least a couple of years younger than him. Maybe she had a reason like him for being here.
“Begin!”
Reban’s voice was like a bolt from the blue, making Lincoln curse under his breath. He had to get away from this girl. She was making him lose focus on the task ahead.
He rested his hands on the cool, white cliff and took a second to breathe. He could do this. He’d done it already. Not here, not with this cliff. But a cliff was just a cliff.
He flexed his fingers. A few others had already started the climb. He bent over and kicked off his boots. They would never hold on a cliff like this. It was too crumbly. Too fragile.
Underneath his boots his footwear was deceptive. He’d painted tree resin on the soles of his socks to give him a better grip. It was just as well he’d done it now – soon there would be no more trees to produce the resin. He slipped on the gloves from his pocket. They were fingerless with patches of resin around the palms. Lincoln had no intention of letting go of this cliff.
Stormchaser was already ahead of him, her arms reaching out and testing the possible handholds above, her thick boots resting precariously on tiny outward juts of the cliff.
He stretched his arms, connected with the rock and started his climb. The first hundred sectars were easy. He smiled. He could just imagine the faces back home if he scaled the first ten storeys of one of the tower blocks like this. The heat started to build in his muscles. The handholds came naturally, his arms strong enough to swing his body upwards with increasing momentum.
He was level with Storm and her friend in only a few short moves. She was kicking at the cliff wall, sending puffs of white dust falling to the ground, in an attempt to gain a better foothold. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t wait. His smoothest patch of wall was only another hundred sectars above.
He moved sideways, crossing over the top of her tether line. This was the path he would have logically chosen. The upward route was more natural, with nooks and crevices in the wall. His muscles were beginning to tighten, to burn, as he climbed higher.
There was a yell to his left and a flash of movement. Almost in unison a few people lost their grasp of the wall, flailing in mid-air as their tether ropes took the strain.
His fingers gripped the crumbling cliff tightly. He had no intention of being next.
The higher he climbed, the more Trialists tumbled, dangling on their ropes before being slowly lowered to the ground. The rockier base of the cliff had been easier to ascend, with more weathering and gaps that were easier to hold. The higher he climbed, the smoother the path became.
He was lucky. His height allowed him to stretch further than others; his coated soles and palms made his gr
ip firmer.
He could see her climbing beneath him. She had slowed, letting out pants and little yelps of exasperation.
Her friend wasn’t faring so well. Although his slight frame helped him ascend more easily, his lack of stretch and grip left him struggling to keep up.
She was methodical. Steady. Every move seemed considered. She sometimes stayed in one place for a few minutes at a time, looking for the most logical next step.
Lincoln moved on instinct. In another life he would have been a spider. The sideways moves were almost easier than the upwards ones. No one seemed to be ahead of him.
Only Galen was giving him cause for concern – the man who looked as if he could wrestle dinosaurs with his bare hands. At the bottom of the cliff, Lincoln would have considered him a write-off. But he was fast proving Lincoln wrong. He was moving like a man half his age, and half his weight. Upwards, without a single hesitation. Agility didn’t seem to be a problem. This guy could be more of a threat than he’d thought.
Then he moved sideways. If Lincoln had blinked, he would have missed it.
Galen’s foot caught momentarily in the tether line of a climber floundering a little lower down. It was a middle-aged woman with light blonde hair. He didn’t hesitate. He bent down and caught her tunic squarely between the shoulders and ripped her from the wall. Her shriek pierced the air as she tumbled for a few seconds before the strain on the tether line saved her from falling.
She looked bewildered, her hands coming out to stop her smashing into the wall. The people around her barely moved, they were too busy clinging on to save themselves. Had no one else noticed?
If Lincoln hadn’t been watching, he would have assumed she’d slipped and fallen too. Galen hadn’t even glanced back, just resolutely started climbing again. Ruthless. Determined. In spite of the shock he felt, Lincoln could almost relate to him. He wanted this just as much as Galen appeared to.
Another man was climbing behind Galen. He had a steady and firm pace. He didn’t seem distracted by anything, or anyone else.
On any other Trial, that might have been a good idea. But just as Lincoln noticed him, Galen did too. Even from a distance the snarl on his face was evident. If Galen paused again the other guy could catch him.
But Galen did pause. He glanced at the other guy’s tether line, then moved sideways towards it. The guy was too focused on the white cliff directly in front of his nose to notice. And Galen was fast. For a few seconds, Lincoln didn’t even know what he’d done. It was just a flick of the wrist.
One second later Galen started climbing again, directly above the other guy. The cliff was crumbling, and untested rocks and overhangs could easily give way. The guy was gaining slowly. Galen reached a large overhang and climbed easily over it, pausing once his feet rested on it. He anchored one foot to the side to give him some grip, then used the other to kick down fiercely.
The effect was instant. The overhang gave way, a large lump of rock falling directly onto the unsuspecting climber below.
That was when Lincoln realized what Galen had done.
The guy had no chance. The rock struck the side of his head and knocked him clean off the cliff.
And he fell. And fell. And fell.
Until there was a sickening crunch below.
Lincoln pressed against the cliff, breathing in the white crumbling rock.
Galen had cut the tether line.
He’d cut the tether line and smiled.
He’d just killed one of the other Trialists.
A woman to Lincoln’s left made a whimpering noise. She was pressed against the cliff too, holding on for her life. Somehow Lincoln knew she wouldn’t climb any further.
Lincoln glanced across the cliff. Galen was still climbing. Powering towards his goal. Unflinching. Ruthless.
Galen was a rival. If Lincoln reported his actions, he could end up as Galen’s next target. He had too much at stake. Arta had too much at stake. It would be sensible to stay away. But somehow Lincoln felt a burst of motivation. He might not be as ruthless, but he could match Galen’s physical ability. His arms powered upwards, ignoring the burn, his legs pushing into the rock and thrusting him nearer his target. Stormchaser was still in his lower peripheral vision. She was moving steadily up the rock face, trying to match him. His pause had allowed her to gain ground. Her face was pale. Had she witnessed what had just happened?
She was directly below him now – and as his foot moved into position, her hand reached for the same jutting piece of rock. There was no avoiding her – his full weight landed on her hand. “Ouch,” she yelled, but kept her hand firmly in place. She had no choice – there were no other handholds close by.
She frowned at his foot, eyes fixing on the material she was touching. Her head pulled back a little, as if she were trying to ignore the weight on her fingers and focus elsewhere.
“What is that?” she hissed. “Some kind of glue? Something to make you stick to the cliff?” She looked furious. It didn’t matter that she was hanging on to a cliff by her fingertips. Face tilting upwards, she stared straight at him with flashing eyes. “Are you cheating?”
“Of course I’m not. They didn’t tell us what to wear.” It seemed the simplest answer. Even if it was deliberately evasive. “And at least I’m not killing anyone,” he muttered under his breath.
He tried to redistribute his weight but it was impossible. His other foothold was slightly higher, meaning the bulk of his weight was on the foot below.
He tried to edge his toes away from her hand; he saw her wince. “Sorry, give me a moment.”
There was a handhold above him, just out of his reach. He had to jump to try and grab hold of it. He heard Storm squeal as his leg bent to power himself upwards. He grabbed on to the outcrop of rock and, shifting his weight to the other foothold, he searched with his dangling leg for another. Seconds later his foot found resistance against a different piece of rock.
He glanced upwards. Another few minutes and he would reach the top and complete the task. But he could see Storm squirming beneath him, trying to reposition herself on the rock face, whilst nursing her injured hand. He could also see her rubbing her fingers together. Some of the resin must have come off on her skin.
No one could climb this cliff one-handed. It would be an impossible task. Lincoln’s eyes scanned the cliff wall. He could only count ten figures. He’d been so focused on climbing he hadn’t noticed the others falling around them, bouncing on their tether lines. How on earth were they going to find one hundred people to send to Piloria?
Storm was tentatively trying her hand on the cliff, reaching towards another rock jutting out. The change in weight put her off balance and she slipped. She reached up with her bad hand and caught her weight to steady herself. Her scream tore through his body.
This was his fault.
He hesitated on the cliff face. Galen was still climbing resolutely, destined to reach the top before anyone else. Storm would be lucky to reach the top at all.
Storm’s friend was directly underneath her, climbing quickly, trying to reach her. “Storm! Storm! Hold on!” What did that skinny guy think he could do? Prop her up?
She was scrambling underneath Lincoln, trying to find a secure spot to place her foot. But Lincoln had the bird’s-eye view. In her panic she wasn’t thinking straight. She wasn’t seeing the most logical foothold.
He took a quick glance at the rock face underneath him. He could do this. He could. He took a deep breath and released his fingers, sliding down the crumbling cliff.
It was literally only a full body length. Not enough to yank the tether line into place. The whiteness flashed before his eyes as his foot connected with a piece of rock below. He bent his leg quickly for the impact as he jolted to a halt. His arms were spread wide, to add some stability to his drop.
She was just an arm’s length beneath him. Her violet eyes were wide with shock. They were the most distinctive and unusual eyes he’d ever seen. He didn’t wait to explain. Just
grabbed hold of her injured hand around the wrist.
“Right foot, over to your left and up a bit.” It came out like a command. Something flitted across her face. The immediate instinct to say no. But her brain kicked into gear and her scrabbling foot stilled and quickly found the foothold she needed.
He kept hold of her wrist, looking upwards and immediately trying to map a route to the top. It would be difficult. If she could only hold on with one hand he would need to be immediately underneath to help steady her.
Storm’s face was pressed against the white cliff. It was the first time he had really had a chance to be this close. Her skin was tan against the rock, the sun obviously leaving its mark. Her long brown hair was like a sheet around her face, shielding her violet eyes. Her hand tugged backwards, trying to loosen his grip on her wrist.
He shook his head, looking closely at her hand. The skin was red and broken in places, the swelling around her knuckles apparent already. Chances were he’d broken something and it made him feel sick.
“Don’t fight me. Do what I say or you’ll never reach the top.”
“This is your fault.” She pulled her bad hand free and waved it at him accusingly. “You did this to me.”
“Do you want to reach the top or not?” He didn’t have time for this. Galen was already hauling his stocky body over the cliff edge. If Lincoln waited any longer there might be others.
He pointed to the place where her hand was resting. “I’m going to give you a bump up. Put your foot there. There’s another handhold just above.”
She seemed surprised. It took her a few seconds to follow the path with her eyes and decide if she could manage. He didn’t wait, he manoeuvred down and put his hand directly under her backside. “Now,” he said, before she had a chance to object.
She moved quickly, the extra momentum pushing her further up the cliff, her right hand clenching the rock above.
Lincoln shadowed her movements, staying just behind her, directing her onwards. “Where’s Dell?” she muttered as she looked down.