Emergents Academy: A Dystopian Novel (Academy of the Apocalypse Book 1)

by K A Riley

  I expect Arlo to grumble or get mad, but he smiles, his glistening white teeth and a few loops of his curly, wheat-colored hair visible in the shadows under his hood.

  Even Brohn gets in on the fun and gives Arlo an approving, corner-mouthed grin. “Not every day we get a smile out of Death.”

  Ignacio chuckles and heaves a melodramatic sigh of relief. “I’m just glad you’re on our side!”

  After their dust-up in class a while back, I figured there’d be bad blood. But apparently Ignacio has a short memory, and I’m not sure Arlo even remembers that it ever happened.

  With our weapons selected, we stand around chatting with Brohn for a few minutes during some very rare downtime. He compliments us on our choices and tells us he thinks they’re spot-on.

  When Brohn dismisses us, we trundle up to the Lounge to rest and recover until it’s time for Puzzles, Codes, and Game Theory with Rain—the brilliant mathematician, logician, and chess prodigy from Kress’s original Conspiracy. Switching places in the schedule, Cohort B has the same Alternate Weapons Training we just had.

  After the Afternoon Module, our two Cohorts gather upstairs again in the Lounge. This time, we’re all newly armed.

  I have to admit, it’s fun comparing notes on the various weapons everyone selected.

  (I spent the last few days guessing which weapons my classmates would pick based on their personalities and what I know of them. I got every one of them wrong.)

  Sitting casually on the couch, Arlo leans his scythe against the wall next to him. Glinting in the light, the long, curved blade hovers over his head.

  Mattea walks over and pivots the weapon so the blade faces the other way. “We can’t have this thing falling on your head,” she tells Arlo with a goofy grin.

  Lucid and Reverie proudly show off their katana. It’s an odd choice for such docile, mysterious (and frankly sort of unathletic kids), but the twins are beaming and seem bolder with the lethal weapons in hand.

  Chace shows off her loops of rope and carabiners. “Not much of a weapon,” she confesses with a blush. “But I figure, we go to school on top of a mountain, so who knows when some good climbing gear might come in handy?”

  Sara tells her it was a smart choice.

  “Thanks!” Chace beams.

  “Especially if you plan on getting attacked by a steep cliff.”

  “Leave her alone,” Libra snaps, her hand on Chace’s shoulder. “At least she’s thinking ahead.”

  Sara plops down on the deep purple love seat and swings her legs up onto one of its arms. She flicks three of her throwing darts across the room and says, “Whatever,” as the needle-like swords lodge—plink, plink, plink—into the wall just above Chace’s head.

  Chace shrieks, ducks, and then glares over at Sara, who offers up a gaping yawn in return.

  Trax sees the attack against his sister and frowns, but since nothing comes of it, he turns back to his own weapons.

  He lays his holster of hunting knives out on the table and starts polishing them one by one with the bottom part of his shirt.

  I swing around to face Roxane and ask, “What about you?”

  She looks up from where she’s busily gnawing on the cuticle around her pinky finger. “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “No weapon.”

  “What’s she mean?” I ask Trax.

  He doesn’t look up from his shiny collection of new toys when he mumbles, “She didn’t pick one.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sitting in the small armchair across from me, Roxane hangs her head. “Regret.”

  “You regret not picking a weapon?” I ask. “You can always pick one tomorrow.”

  Looking up from her wet, chewed-up fingernail, Roxane shakes her head. “Remorse.”

  “Remorse?” Libra asks. “Like, you feel bad about something? Remorse for what?”

  But Roxane doesn’t answer. Instead, she gets up, draws her swan-white hair into a short, messy ponytail, and plods off to bed.

  15

  Worried

  The next day, Cohort B is already in the Lunchroom when we file in after Morning Module.

  We’re all sweaty.

  With a morning class, an afternoon class, Apprenticeship training, and with just a few hours of sleep each night, these days, it seems like we’re always sweaty.

  Libra slips into the seat next to mine and manages to knock against my shoulder even though there’s more than enough room on the long bench seat. I shift to the side, so now I’m sitting with half my arse hanging off the edge. But it’s better than being shoulder-to-shoulder with Miss Human Chatterbox.

  True to form, she’s babbling on about our weeks of training sessions with Brohn.

  Ugh. I guess she’s harmless enough. But does she really have to always be such a pleasant little chuffer?

  “At first, I couldn’t even hold that arbalest of his,” she giggles. “And now, I have my own sledgehammer!” And then, she launches into a five-minute soliloquy about what a good teacher Brohn is and how much she’s looking forward to carrying her new toy into battle.

  Then she asks us about all the weapons we selected and if we’re set up for private lessons yet.

  “I am,” she boasts with a thumb pressed to her chest and before anyone has a chance to answer. “War’s going to work with me in one of the Combat Skills and Training rooms. We’re going to work on strength training, balance, combat simulations…”

  I swear, I don’t know how anyone can have lungs big enough to hold the amount of air needed to keep their mouth moving non-stop like this.

  As if her unending prattling isn’t enough to annoy me, she has the lovely habit of nudging against me or squeezing my arm every time she makes a point or thinks she’s being clever. Like I’m going to encourage her or something.

  When I try to shrug her away, she acts like I’m kidding around and rambles on.

  It’s Roxane who cuts her off, which is ironic since Roxane has spent most of her life mostly mute. When she does talk, it’s almost always just a word or two or a cluster of random words the rest of us have to try to assemble, jigsaw puzzle-style, if we want any hope of figuring out what she’s on about.

  As far as I know Trax and Mattea are the best at deciphering her monosyllabic gibberish.

  This time, she says, “Worried,” before sweeping her hair behind her ear and nibbling on the tip of her pinky finger.

  Libra rolls her eyes, apparently annoyed at having her monologue interrupted. “Who’s worried, Rox?”

  When Roxane doesn’t look up, I ask her if she’s worried about something. She shakes her head but doesn’t answer.

  I look over to Trax and Mattea for help, but they both offer up flustered, apologetic shrugs.

  Roxane lifts her eyes and stares at Libra, but I don’t think she really sees her. There’s a weird, distant blankness to her face. Roxane blinks hard, points at Libra and asks, “Meaning?”

  “What do I mean?” Libra laughs. “You’re the one who said someone’s worried.”

  Roxane’s head doesn’t move, but her pale blue eyes scan the rest of us sitting at the table. “Worried.”

  “What?”

  “Kress.”

  “Kress is worried?” I ask, leaning forward now. “Or you’re worried about Kress?”

  If this barmy nutter even thinks about doing anything to Kress…

  Roxane scrunches up her forehead and blinks hard like she’s staring into the sun.

  Sara rolls her eyes and tilts her head toward Roxane. “I swear,” she says to Ignacio who’s sitting on her other side. “Sometimes, I just don’t understand this girl.”

  Ignacio grins through a mouthful of food. “Well, you don’t have to live in a tree to be a nut.”

  Roxane scowls at the insult and stamps her foot under the table. “Danger.”

  Ignacio scowls back, and I don’t blame him. Roxane’s already picked one fight with him for no reason. Now, it loo
ks like she’s coming back for seconds.

  The next three words tumble out of her mouth faster than she can control them. “Leaving. Planning. Capture.”

  Normally, I wouldn’t pay much attention to Roxane. But since this is pretty much the most I’ve ever heard come out of her mouth at a time, I’m curious. Besides, if it has something to do with Kress, my mentor, I have a right to know about it.

  I put my hand on Ignacio’s arm to stop him in case he’s planning on lunging at her again. I lean in, my elbows on the table, and ask her—with as much patience as I can manage—to explain what she means.

  Roxane shrugs and drops her eyes. But I’m not letting her off that easy. Reaching across the table, I clamp my hand onto her wrist. “What is it, Rox?”

  The tendons in her neck strain like she’s trying hard to swallow or to hold back tears. “Overheard.”

  I take a deep breath.

  Stay in control, Branwynne. No need to lash out. Yet.

  I take one more breath and ask, “What exactly did you overhear?”

  But Roxane bites her lip and shakes her head, her eyes distant and glossy.

  Chace takes a rare moment to look up from her holo-pad. “I think…I think maybe I know what she’s talking about,” she says under her breath.

  Ignacio crosses his arms hard across his chest. “Great. Care to share with the class?”

  “I was there,” she says. “On the stairs. Right near the Techno-Genetic Research Lab. The door had glitched open, and Terk was trying to fix it. Roxane was sitting on the stairs, and I stopped to make sure she was okay.”

  “And…?” I ask.

  “Kress and Brohn were talking about some threat to the Academy.”

  “What threat?” Mattea snaps.

  “I don’t know. They mentioned the Devoted. The Unsettled. Civillains. Plaguers. The Cysters. They were talking about a lot of stuff.”

  Ignacio rolls his eyes and shoos Chace away with his hand. “And you happened to overhear them without being noticed?”

  Chace holds up her holo-pad. “I’m the Chronicler. It’s my job.”

  “Cysters?” Reverie asks.

  “A band of women survivors of the Cyst Plague,” Trax clarifies on behalf of his twin sister as he picks at a spot of dry skin on the back of his hand. “We learned about them from Granden back in D.C. They’re crazy, and they hate men.”

  “Doesn’t sound so crazy to me,” Sara grumbles. “Have you met some of the men out there?”

  Chace shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s who Kress was worried about.”

  “Who then?”

  “I don’t know. But I think…”

  “Spit it out, Miss Chronicler,” I hiss.

  “I think maybe someone knows we’re here.”

  “Impossible,” Ignacio boasts. “This place is locked up and secure at the top of a mountain, and it has a Veiled Refractor. No one can see it from the outside, and Kress and the others would kill anyone who tried to get in, anyway.”

  “They don’t kill for no reason,” Lucid says quietly.

  Ignacio responds with a condescending grunt. “Protecting this place—and us—wouldn’t be for ‘no reason.’ Let’s not forget, our teachers have killed before.”

  “But only when it’s been necessary,” Mattea chimes in.

  We all jump when Roxane smashes her fist onto the table, and our plates, glasses, and silverware rattle and bounce into the air. “Danger!” she hisses.

  Ignacio leans toward me. “I don’t know what the frack she’s talking about, but the real danger is me bashing her face in.”

  “That won’t stop her from being right,” I tell him.

  He points a stabbing finger at Roxane, who doesn’t react as his voice peaks with a cocktail of fury, impatience, and disbelief. “Don’t tell me you’re buying this garbage?”

  “Maybe not ‘buying,’” I concede. “But I’m willing to rent it for a minute.”

  Reverie nods her agreement, which makes Ignacio back down. He’s a tough guy, and I don’t think there’s a lot he’s afraid of. But the twins—especially Reverie—seem to set him a bit on edge.

  Her voice soothing and low, Reverie turns to Roxane and asks what she thinks we should do about this “danger.”

  Every one of us around the table leans forward, anxious for the big revelation.

  But Roxane blinks at us and frowns like she’s waking up from a dream.

  “See!” Ignacio exclaims with triumph. “There’s no danger. She’s dumb as a soup sandwich. And you’re all just as bat-barf crazy for listening to her, and I don’t want to be late for Propaganda.”

  He scoops up his silver tray, drops it into the cleaning chute, and storms out of the Tavern.

  16

  Propaganda

  A few days later, I’m just finishing washing up in the Dorms following a fast but intense workout in the gym.

  After a very pleasant sonic shower, I gather up my books and am just getting ready to head downstairs for Afternoon Module when Libra pops out of nowhere and hooks her arm into mine.

  “It’s been quite a few exciting days, hasn’t it?”

  I slip my arm out of hers and give her a death-glare she doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Come on,” she pleads. “Weapons. Drama. Secret Meetings. Some unknown threat to the Academy. You can’t tell me you’re not worried.”

  “That’s exactly what I can tell you. What do I have to be worried about?”

  “Well, for starters what’s with the weird power outages?”

  “What? The lights? They’re just glitches.”

  “And the doors and lifts not working?”

  “Glitches.”

  “And the way Kress and the others have been walking around looking worried and having secret meetings all the time? And don’t say, ‘Glitches.’”

  “It’s nothing.”

  With the straps of her sagging blue Academy shoulder bag slung over her shoulders, Libra folds her arms hard across her chest as we walk. “Then what about the stuff about War being afraid? Lucid and Reverie being so weird about it…? Roxane…?”

  Not wanting to be late for Granden’s class, I pick up my pace and wait for her to finish. When she doesn’t say anything and just sort of stares at me as we get to the top of the stairs, I ask her why she’s making such a big deal out of it. “Lucid and Reverie have always been weird. Trust me. I’ve seen them in action. Roxane is…Roxane. And War…maybe Mattea was just reading him wrong.”

  Libra frowns and mutters, “Maybe,” but I can tell she still thinks there’s more going on than some nervous teachers, a couple of weirdos, and a few glitches in the Academy’s power.

  We’ve been in classes together and living in the same dorm room for months now. I’ve rarely seen Libra worried or without her signature smile for more than about three seconds at a time.

  But now…

  Oh, wait. There it is. The smile has returned.

  Libra grins and pokes me in the arm. “I thought you were going to punch Sara the other day. Seriously, who died and made her leader of our Cohort?”

  I just shrug and keep walking, but Libra’s more than happy to fill the dead air. “And you have to admit, Ignacio’s pretty cute when he’s pretending to be brave.”

  “Ugh. He’s a self-involved wanker.”

  I feel dumb for letting Libra draw me into whatever teenage girl drama she’s trying to stir up, so I clamp my lips tight as we get to the classroom where Granden is standing next to his slender teaching console with the other four members of our Cohort sitting in front of him in a semi-circle at their glass-topped desks.

  He’s already started the class, and Libra and I offer meek apologies as we slide into our seats next to the others.

  “Welcome, ladies,” he says before turning back to the holographic projection hovering next to him. As he touches the image, it morphs and shifts into a scroll of text and pictures.

  “As we talked about last week, when it comes to propagan
da, what you see is definitely not what you get. That’s the point of propaganda. It’s a trick. A manipulation. A way for someone to get you to do what they want.” Granden taps a finger to his temple and scans the class, his eyes stopping for a full second on Sara, although I’m not sure why. “Only, the real trick is how the ‘someone’ gets you to think it’s what you wanted all along.”

  Libra launches her hand into the air. “And how are we supposed to fight against that?”

  “First, by understanding that it’s happening. Second, by having enough personal pride to get offended when you know someone is trying to manipulate you. Third, you need to be educated, which is part of why you’re here. People who aren’t exposed to other ways of thinking and to other ways of being are the ones most likely to fall for propaganda. That’s because they need something to follow. We all need someone or something to follow. That’s human nature. We begin life as a connected entity. But sometimes, laziness and the temptation of taking the easy route convinces some people to let others do the thinking for them.”

  Mattea raises her hand and asks a question about the homework from the night before.

  We were supposed to read a sixty-page article posted to our holo-pads about the historical role of repetition in advertising and propaganda.

  I got through nearly all of the first page before I got restless. Instead of focusing like Kress has been teaching me, I jogged up to the roof to visit Haida Gwaii, and then jogged back downstairs to the third floor for a workout in the Fitness Center. (I lifted weights, ran on the treadmill, and practiced with my Serpent Blades until I got bleary eyed and headed back up to bed.)

  Granden asks Mattea what she thinks about the article, and she replies in that measured, even way of hers—as if she’s afraid the person she’s talking to is judging every syllable. “The power of propaganda is in its repetition. If you say anything enough times, almost anyone will start to believe it.”

  “But why?” Granden asks with a smile and a rolling, “tell me more” motion of his hand.

  Mattea shrugs and looks over at me like I’m somehow going to magically know the answer. After last night’s workout, I’m too tired to remember my own name.