by K A Riley
It’s only been a couple of hours, and I already miss the combat and weapons training and my one-on-one, Ravenmaster sessions with Kress.
Being a Ravenmaster is a lot harder than my parents made it look. I thought it was just a matter of feeding the birds and keeping them healthy.
It turns out there’s a lot more to it. Kress has to know the personality of each bird, its quirks, its strengths and fears, and its place in the “pecking order.”
I can’t communicate with any of the six young ravens in Render and Haida Gwaii’s young Conspiracy, but Kress can. I know I’m supposed to be in awe of her abilities—and I am. It’s just hard to be around someone who’s so great at everything while I continue to suck.
I’m antsy, and I feel like getting into a fight. Or even picking one.
Over on one of the orange couches, Chace is scrawling away on her holo-pad. I’ve been sneaking peeks over her shoulder. She’s really good. I don’t know what she’s writing, but her drawings are spot-on.
Her recent collection is a catalogue of all of our weapons. Every few minutes, she uses the projection feature on her holo-pad to show us.
One by one, the images scroll in the air as she flicks them along:
Libra’s sledgehammer.
Mattea’s bear claws.
Ignacio’s shillelaghs.
Sara’s throwing darts.
Arlo’s scythe.
Chace’s rope and carabiners.
Trax’s serrated hunting knives.
Lucid and Reverie with their matching katana swords.
And my twin serpent blades.
Chace is odd because she’s so brainy and talented. But in a lot of ways, she’s like a little girl. She doesn’t crave attention like Libra does, but she seems to enjoy the pats on the back we give her in recognition of her talent.
And she is talented.
In addition to our weapons, she also has dozens of pictures of all of us from around the Academy: Our two Cohorts in class, in training, and gathered around in the Lounge to talk, rest, or play competitive games with each other.
“And,” she beams at us, “there are stories to go along with each picture.”
She shakes her head when Mattea asks if we can hear them, but she promises that someday, she’ll share them with us.
“After all,” she giggles, “technically, the stories are yours. They belong to you.”
She really is a Chronicler, and there’s no doubt that her ability to record stories—through words and pictures—is part of some enhanced Emergent ability.
I especially like how in the pictures, she makes me look taller than I really am.
Still, it’s a little weird how obsessed she is with recording everything we do around here.
It’s like she expects something terrible to happen, like we’re all going to die and she’s desperate to make sure something of us survives.
Honestly, it’s equal parts impressive, morbid, and creepy.
Libra is lying upside down on the couch with her feet dangling over its back and her hair splayed out on the floor. She pivots her bright eyes over to me. “What do you think?”
“What do I think about what?”
“Kress and her Conspiracy going off like that?”
Arlo mumbles something I don’t hear, so I ask him to repeat it.
“What if…?” he begins.
“What if they don’t come back?” I ask.
He nods and looks even sadder than usual under the dark shadow cast over his face by the hood of his sweater.
“They’ll come back,” Reverie promises.
“And you know this, how?” I ask.
“Wait!” Sara chuckles as she waggles her fingers, her voice going comically fortune-teller spooky. “Let me guess. You’ve seen it in your dreams.” Lucid and Reverie exchange one of their cryptic, odd-fish twin glances, and Sara leans forward with a suspicious squint. “Really? You saw it in your dreams?”
Lucid shrugs, and Reverie says, “Kind of.”
Fascinated, Sara sits up straight, her eyes wide now. “Branwynne says you know what dreams really are.”
“We’re learning.”
“Well…don’t leave us in suspense. ‘Cause I had a doozy the other night. See, I was fighting a bunch of naked, inside-out donkey-men who were firing high-caliber bullets from their empty eye sockets.”
Ignacio’s head snaps up. “Inside out?”
“Yeah. Like, their organs and guts and stuff were on the outside. And their skin and hair and everything was on the inside.”
Ignacio stares at her for a full three seconds, before he breaks his gaze and glances down toward his crotch. “What about their…you know…”
“Their private parts?”
“Um…yeah.”
“Wait,” I interrupt. “Sara had a dream about killer donkey-men, and that’s what you want to know? What happened to their twigs and berries?”
Ignacio offers up a bashful grin. “I was just asking.”
“Interpreting dreams can be fun,” Reverie explains.
“And the science and speculation behind dreams goes back into pre-history,” Lucid adds quietly, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“But in our experience,” Reverie continues, “dreams are more like microsecond glimpses through distorted lenses into pinprick holes in the universe. What you see is real. But you’re bound to misinterpret it since it happens so fast and takes place in a realm beyond the ability of the human mind to process.”
“And that’s where you come in?” Sara asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Well…you’re not exactly human, are you?”
“We’re human,” Reverie says.
“Hardly. We’re all here because we’re Emergents.”
“Emergents are still human,” Lucid protests. “Just enhanced.”
“Or advanced?” Sara asks, although it’s not really a question.
“Or just a next-stage evolution,” Mattea offers. “No better. No worse.”
Sara scoffs at this. “We need to stop believing that. Kress and the others aren’t out there risking their lives to help a bunch of ordinary kids. There’s no way they’d have left if that’s all that was out there. They’re out there to rescue Emergents because Emergents—like us—are all that’s stopping the Typics from finishing what they started: blowing up the world.”
Libra flips herself upright and draws her hair back into a thick ponytail. “I don’t see what any of this has to do with inside-out donkey-men.”
Sara points an accusing finger at Lucid and Reverie. “The point is, these two dream-readers know more than they’re saying.”
“We think we know what dreams are,” Lucid explains. “But we don’t have any power or control over them.”
Reverie blushes. “But we’re getting better at it.”
I back them up and tell the rest of our Cohorts that it’s true.
“And how do you know that?” Sara snaps.
“We have the same mentor,” I explain. “Kress and the twins and I…we share a connection.”
Libra gives a gleeful smile and a little clap of her hands. “Tell us! What’s your connection?”
Still shoulder to shoulder, Lucid and Reverie sit back in unison in their seats, leaving me to try to explain what’s frankly unexplainable.
“There’s a place called the Lyfelyte. It’s an access point or staging area where we can see what’s known as dreams. Well, Kress and the twins can see it. I can just catch glimpses here and there. But only when Kress is around.”
Mumbling to herself, Mattea stands and starts pacing, dragging her fingers along the back of every piece of furniture in the lounge as she goes.
Ignacio turns back and calls out to her over his shoulder. “What’s with you?”
“I was just getting good, too.”
“At what?”
“My languages. Rain was helping a lot.”
“Um. She’s not dead,” I remind her.
“I
know.”
“She’ll be back. They’ll all be back.” I give Mattea a dismissive wave of my hand. After all, I’ve seen Kress and her Conspiracy in action more than anyone in this room. “I still think I should have gone with them,” I sigh.
Swinging herself around, Libra gives me a skeptical squint. “We’re not ready.”
“Speak for yourself. I fought side by side with them in London and all across this country from D.C. to here. I can handle myself. They probably left me here to protect all of you.”
“I don’t need protection,” Ignacio insists, flickers of blue and white electric sparks lighting up his dark eyes.
The bands of holo-lights running along the ceiling blink off for a second and then snap back on.
“Did you do that?” Mattea asks.
Ignacio shakes his head. “Wasn’t me.”
“Either you’re wrong,” she says with a flat, unamused smile, “you’re lying, or else this place is getting glitchier by the minute.”
It’s the first morning without our teachers and mentors, but it already feels like they’ve been gone forever.
Griping and dragging, we get suited up and are ready to head down to the third floor Combat Skills and Training Rooms, but before getting to the door, we go crashing into Libra who’s in the lead.
She presses her palms to the door’s glossy surface. “Door won’t open again.”
“Too bad Manthy’s not here,” I say. “She’d have it fixed in no time.”
At the sound of her name, everyone goes quiet. I knew her the best, but the others all met her. They know what she could do, and they know about how she left.
After years of pain caused by her Emergent abilities, she and Cardyn—two members of Kress’s original Conspiracy—walked into the Lyfelyte.
Ignacio bangs the side of his fist on the doors a couple of times.
“Who do you think you are?” Sara asks with a snide grin. “Terk? You’re not going to smash it down.”
I slip over to try the door leading into one of the communal washrooms, but it’s sealed, too.
“Call Wisp on the intercom,” I suggest.
Libra presses her thumb to the black intercom button and tries to connect with Wisp, but nothing happens. Not even static.
“Now what?” Arlo asks.
One of the many things Kress has been teaching me is how to use my limited access to the Lyfelyte to walk through walls. She calls it “traversion.” It’s an insanely painful trick that I’ve only done successfully twice before. And never without her present.
Taking a deep breath and with my palm pressed to the panel of cold steel, I’m just about to give it a shot when the door wiggles a little and then slides fully open.
“Funny,” I say, drawing my hand back and secretly happy I didn’t have to try my trick. (Kress warned me that failure could mean an agonizing death with my molecules mixed in the with the molecules of whatever I’m trying to pass through.)
Libra asks me, “What’s funny?”
“Well, it’s just…I’ve been here since the beginning. I was here when Terk and the Auditor and the others activated all the energy and security systems in the place.”
“And?”
“And…everything worked like a charm. No glitches. No stuck doors or inactive mag-lifts. No flickering lights.”
“Systems get old,” Arlo assures me. “Things get glitchy and break down all the time. Sometimes the systems you put in place to help you wind up working against you.”
Sara says, “So do people,” and starts heading down the stairs ahead of us.
21
Six-Station Race
Wisp meets us in the Tavern and even joins us for breakfast, which is weird because I don’t think I’ve ever seen her eat anything.
While the rest of us scarf down our modest meal of pine nuts and protein cubes, Wisp makes small talk with us about how our lessons have been going so far. She asks about any problems we might be having and listens patiently while we go one-by-one around the table, rattling off a list of all the things we’re learning, all the physical challenges we’ve endured so far, and all the hours we’ve spent being patched up by War and Mayla in the Infirmary.
(There’s even an amusing bout of one-upmanship where we take turns holding up our arms, tugging up our shirts, or planting our boots on the table and hiking up our pant legs to show off our assorted, grisly injuries to Wisp.)
Nodding her appreciation, she tells us she’s proud of us and that she predicts great things from us in the future.
She doesn’t eat, but when the rest of us are finished, she stands, claps her hands together, and says it’s time to take the next steps toward that great future of ours.
With Wisp leading the eleven of us up the wide glass and wood staircase, we’re escorted to one of the Combat Skills and Training Rooms.
Although we’ve been in it before, the whole room can be reconfigured to suit the needs of whatever class we’re being taught at the time. Which means we never really know what it’s going to look like from day to day.
In the past few weeks, it’s been a martial arts dojo, a boxing ring, an indoor racetrack, a sand pit, a rock-climbing training course, a simulated junkyard, and a knife-throwing range.
According to Trax, it’s even been set up as a mock trauma center for the Field First Aid class his Cohort’s been taking as a supplemental seminar for the past couple of weeks.
This time, the doors open to reveal what looks like a long obstacle course running the length of the deep, arena-sized room. A wide walkway of glossy white tiles runs along its entire length as well. Six pairs of glowing pink circles of light are embedded side by side in the floor and spaced at intervals down the length of the laneway.
Altogether, it looks like pictures I’ve seen in holo-books of street fair midways with stands and activity booths set up along an illuminated promenade.
Now all we need is a carnival barker.
“Welcome to Command Post Exercise Alpha,” Wisp announces with an attempt at a grand bellow…Sort of like, well, a slightly tinny-voiced carnival barker.
Perfect. What sort of circus is she going to make us perform in now?
“Today, instead of your regular classes, mentoring sessions, or fitness training, you’ll be competing in a series of physical and mental activities in the six stations you see set up before you. Each station presents a unique challenge specifically designed to test your balance, reflexes, mental acuity, and unarmed combat skills. You’ll be in two teams based on your Cohort.”
Our two Cohorts buzz and chirp back and forth. We don’t have many classes as one big group, so we mostly see each other for a few minutes in the Tavern, recuperating in the Lounge, or passing in the halls outside of the Infirmary on days when we need to get bandaged up.
Except for Libra and Ignacio in my Cohort and Trax and Reverie in Cohort B, we’re not the most competitive bunch.
Not like Kress and our teachers, anyway.
They compete non-stop—in the gym, on the firing range, in the VR Battle Sims, and even over the chess tournaments they play in the Tavern or even on the stairway landings from time to time. And throughout it all, their Conspiracy stays stronger than any people in any relationship I’ve ever seen or heard about.
Someday, I’ll have to ask Kress how they do that.
Pushing her sleeves up above her elbows and slipping a lock of hair behind her ear, Wisp makes a sweeping gesture at the spectacle in front of us, directing our attention to six specific stations running along the white walkway and counting them off on her fingers.
“The six stations you see are loosely based on the five Disciplines that form the core of your education here at the Academy. At Station One, you’ll be required to display your long-distance sniper shooting. At Station Two, you’ll need to demonstrate what you’ve learned in Transportation and Mechanics. At Station Three, your balance and coordination will be on full display. Station Four will challenge your reflex skills. And you’ll
be required to solve a series of puzzles at Station Five.”
Wisp doesn’t have the ability to command a room with her voice like her older brother Brohn does, but she has a magical way of focusing us and drawing our attention to her all the same.
It’s almost hypnotic. Or, who knows? Maybe it is hypnotic.
At the moment, though, she looks completely innocent, like she’s fighting not to smile when she adds, “The first team to complete all the stations, wins.”
Trax steps forward, his thick eyebrows pinching down toward his nose. He toggles his thumb between our two Cohorts. “Um…wait. There are only five of us and six of them.”
“That’s true. And because your Cohort only has five students, Granden will jump in with you to even out the teams. The members of the Cohort who aren’t competing at the time will gather in one of the two pink viewing pads in the walkway at the front of each obstacle.”
Chace raises her hand and tilts her head toward the array of labeled stations spread out in front of us. “How come there’s six stations?”
“Station Six, the one at the far end, is for Tap-Out.”
“Tap-Out?”
“Each Cohort will select one member to square off in the pit at the end of the course.”
“And do what, exactly?”
“Fight.”
We look around.
“Don’t worry, though,” Wisp adds. “It won’t be a fair fight! Whichever team is the first to finish the five stations with the best time and the highest score gets a bonus.”
Apparently sensing some sort of injustice on the horizon, Libra frowns. “What kind of bonus?”
“Whichever Cohort loses, their champion will have to fight blindfolded.”
Next to me, Libra gulps. She’s a decent fighter when she’s pressed. But she hates getting hit, and I know the thought of playing punching bag to someone from Cohort B is pretty much her nightmare scenario.
Behind us, the door opens, and Granden strides in to take his place with the cluster of Cohort B.