Cassiel Winters 1: Sky's End

by Lesley Young

  “Quit it,” I whisper harshly to Bukin, who’s practically leaning on me, panting in my ear. I’m breathing heavy, too, but this is ridiculous. I face him and notice that he’s fixated on something straight ahead in the distance. I look in the same direction, hard. It’s Stoddard and Jackson, lying flat on the ground hidden by one of the warships, no doubt assessing the situation.

  Bukin and I hit the ground and crawl across the sharp gravel, immediately adjusting our scramble in order to minimize the crunching rubble noises. Stoddard watches our approach. When we finally arrive, he gives us a rapid series of hand signals.

  There are four guards. Oh goodie, one for everyone. Two guarding the entrance to the outpost. Another two just went inside. But, wait, I watch Stoddard’s hands closely. Oh great, there could be more inside. We now have 10 minutes once we are inside to locate the target, Sgt. Henderson. Stoddard and Jackson waited for us, after all, costing us two minutes.

  Stoddard indicates that Bukin and I should take out the two guards near the door to clear the way for him and Jackson to gain entry. Great. On his command, he counts to down from three with his fingers.

  Wait!

  . . . Two. One.

  I inhale sharply and leave the safety of cover, doing my best to dart silently the 30 feet or so to the lit wall of the outpost. Bukin’s behind me. When we reach the wall, we turn, getting our backs against it. I pause. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in.

  I’m absolutely still. The Gogols are just around the corner. All I have in my favor is the element of surprise. But the running has wiped me out. My legs are jelly. My energy reserves are empty.

  I bet Bukin’s wondering why I’m hesitating. Every second that ticks by, more fear spreads. It’s like a virus. My mind’s deadlocked. It’s ludicrous to confront these Gogols. But I can’t not. Doing nothing means a dead-end. No Daz. No King. No future.

  You’ve come this far.

  Like in slow motion, I will my legs to take a few steps sideways, quietly, until I’m at the edge of the corner of the building. I’m only delaying the inevitable. Bukin must think I’m mad. Then again, it’s not like he’s diving into the fray. Just as I decide to jump out, my hand brushes the wall. A Gogol’s right in front of me, followed by the second, who spots Bukin and makes for him.

  Without thinking, I resort to one of my favorite moves, a vertical front kick. Using the ball of my foot and the thrust of my hips forward, I aim right for the Gogol’s gut. He tries to move back but doesn’t quite make it. I get about 80 percent impact, which winds the Gogol but fails to knock him down.

  He watches me with his mouth half-open, straining for air, a long string of gob hanging out. I just want to run. Bukin’s clearly in the thick of things with the other Gogol, given the grunting and rustling I hear. I’m on my own.

  My Gogol hasn’t caught his breath but he’s coming in for an attack anyway. Terrified, I take a 360-degree defensive stance, my arms at oblique angles, hoping I can deflect any direct blows. I manage to block three rapid strikes (that hurt like an SOB) from the Gogol who has swung for my torso once and my head twice. But I’m not strong enough to prevent the fourth hit from knocking my own arm into my forehead, painfully. I stumble back to just miss another blow that would have knocked me out. I simply don’t have the strength. I search frantically for an escape route. But there isn’t one! The running, the fighting, my body is collapsing.

  Not again.

  The thought of failing generates a brand new kind of mind-boggling rage, and its energy infiltrates my body. I’m light as a feather. As deadly as a Vypie. I will kill this effing thing. I will inflict pain like it’s never felt.

  I launch my body and a straight-arm-fist with all might at the Gogol, only I use my legs to hurl me forward instead of my torso. Using the strength of my lower body, my block and strike are supposed to land with 300 pounds of force. Lt. Lazarus spends extra time teaching the women moves for just these situations. As I propel my body a strange noise roars out of me.

  I can’t believe the impact. The Gogol’s thrown back. I stand firm on the ground not far from where I started. With any luck I’ve collapsed his windpipe. Well, he’s grasping at his throat.

  I’m still angry but the fire has died down. I don’t waste any time tripping the Gogol. He lands on his back, and I deliver three kicks to his head, not hard enough to actually kill him. But hard enough. He’s done. I tear my eyes away, and half-yawn. My jaw’s so tight. Keep moving, Cassiel.

  I just catch Bukin slipping into the outpost entrance. What the Jupiter? He’s obviously heard how I failed the test the first time. I’d been eliminated by a Gogol while trying to help another cadet. Protocol is that we aid each other. Of course, we’re not supposed to get killed doing it. Maybe Bukin could see I’d handled my Gogol.

  I make for the entrance, determined not to be left behind. Dig deep Cassiel, you can do this. Quickly I move all the way in—someone has blown the lights—so no one inside can see my silhouette in the doorframe. A thick smog, about three feet high, greatly reduces ground visibility. The only noise is a muffled alarm, which one of us must have tripped, going off. I stick close the wall, entering the first room slowly. I observe nothing in the dim light given off by the equipment but a typical outpost room. Comms, satts, a few tables and chairs. I look around again. There! Bloody handprints on the wall near the entrance to a room on the west side. I catch my breath. This is wrong. Very wrong.

  A loud bang makes me jump, and the sound of wrestling in the room next door sends me into action. I race for the entrance, and go down like a ton of bricks. My chin hits the floor and by the grace of a nebula, I don’t bite my tongue. Unbelievable. Did I really just fall on my face? Dazed, I don’t bother trying to shake off the distorted vision. It begins to clear on its own.

  I must have tripped over something in the fog. Heart fluttering, I twist around on the ground prepared for a Gogol, but it’s clearly Stoddard’s buzz cut. I crawl up to him real close because of the thick fog, and see, what the . . .?

  I can’t believe my eyes. Stoddard’s throat is slit. Wide open. Less than one foot from my face. Blood, lots of it, on my arms and hands, and I make the connection about why I felt something wet on me as I crawled over to him. Is he dead? Of course he’s dead. He looks doll-like. I have never seen a dead person before.

  I sit up, my legs straight in front of me, shocked. To the core. This is . . . wrong. I rub my hands on my legs desperately, but the blood just gets stickier. I hear a whimper. From me, I think.

  More banging next door. My head pops up. Focus. Drumming! That’s your heart, idiot. I lean forward on my hands to get up and feel a wave of dizziness. I prop myself up as best as I can and weave my way toward the next room’s opening.

  I’m not at all prepared for what I see. The fog’s much lighter. Jackson’s on the floor, lying in a pool of his own blood, on top of what I hope is a dead Gogol.

  Then I hear Bukin and, dazed, follow the yells, “Winters!” until I spot him through the haze on the other side of the room on the floor. He’s terror stricken, straddled by a Gogol gone haywire. The giant monster’s holding some knife-like weapon in the air with both hands, preparing to stab him. I have enough sense to run toward him but I’m not going to reach them in time.

  Just as the Gogol brings the knife down, Bukin manages to twist out from under him . . . and I reach the Gogol. Before he stands upright, I land on my knees and apply a chokehold from behind with what little strength I can muster. Oh, it’s not strong—

  Bukin punches him hard in the gut. The Gogol folds forward. I release my hold and Bukin pops up, steps in front of me, and in one swift movement, twists the Gogol’s neck. The motion makes a cracking noise. The Gogol relaxes for a moment, and then falls forward.

  Bukin swings around and glances down at me on my knees.

  “What the fuck
is going on?” he shouts.

  “I, I don’t know,” I choke out. I can’t believe he just killed the Gogol with his hands.

  “Are there any more?” I ask.

  “Negative,” he says, regaining some of his color.

  Dazed, I take in the room.

  “What’s that smell?”

  Bukin sniffs the air. “Smoke! The place is lit.”

  “But we’ve got to find Sgt. Henderson,” I say, whining a bit.

  In the distance, between alarm rings, several thuds give us pause. There! Again! Together we head toward the noises, and in the far corner of the room we silently identify a hidden door. Each of us takes up position on either side, me as backup for Bukin, who signals he’s going to open it. Fine by me.

  He counts down from three with his fingers. Three. Two. One. He steps on the ground in front, and runs his hands around the wall. A door panel appears, and he yanks down a lever. The door vanishes; the dim light pours into the room.

  Nothing jumps out at us. Instead, we make out a figure, huddled on the ground, facing us.

  Sgt. Henderson.

  He looks up at us with the eyes of a child. Quickly we rush to disconnect his trodes (chain-like bindings that squeeze tighter if you struggle). My hands are shaking so bad, Bukin has to help me unlink Henderson’s legs after he’s unlinked his hands and taken out the gag.

  “Are you able to walk?” I manage to ask Sgt. Henderson.

  He nods.

  “How about run?” counters Bukin, hauling Sgt. Henderson to his feet.

  I’ve lost all sense of how much time has passed, but I know we’re in real trouble. I put my hand over my mouth and realize I’m bleeding from my chin. Must have happened when I took that fall.

  Bukin props Sgt. Henderson up with one arm readying to leave when he asks, “What about the other guy?”

  Bukin and I glance at each other.

  “What other guy?” asks Bukin reluctantly.

  I scan the room, numb, straining to see in the dark corners. The smoke’s dense. This place could blow. In the corner I make out a lifeless form, huddled in a ball.

  “Bukin,” I yell, without thinking, and head toward the body. “Right here.”

  “No way! We stick to the mission,” he shouts.

  I stop about 10 feet from the lump. Uncertain, I turn back. Bukin and Henderson are well on their way to next room’s exit.

  I hesitate before joining them, glancing back at the body. That’s another human. Or, it looks like one. It may not have intel, but it’s a life. Sweat drips into my burning eyes. Seconds are ticking by. ESE protocol. What is it? Rescue this person, too?

  Is there enough time? My body’s trapped in mind’s hesitancy. Never mind getting to the rendezvous, this place is on fire.

  You can’t leave someone behind.

  But helping someone is what cost you the test last time.

  I think I’ve made up my mind, when, after taking one step out of the room, I stop. King’s words come rushing back to me: Do not go gently. The poem’s message is to die fighting. He must have meant die trying.

  I have to, at the very least, find out if this person is still alive. I dash quickly to the body, slide the rest of the way on my knees, and haul over a limp shoulder to check for signs of life.

  The shock’s deafening.

  It’s Daz.

  Chapter 3

  “Daz,” I cry out after the shock passes and I feel his breath on my cheek. I take in his bruised and bloody face, and cough on something acrid.

  I’m choking on . . . smoke! My throat and chest are on fire. How long have I been sitting here holding him?

  “Daz, wake up!” I croak, emerging from my reverie. He’s unconscious. There’s no time! I smack his cheeks. I pry open an eyelid. “Come on, come on, come on!” Wincing, I strain to look out the door. The smoke’s too thick, but I hear crackling.

  “Wake up!” I scream into his face, shaking him violently.

  Nothing.

  Something crashes in the distance. The place is coming down.

  Drag him out. I stand up holding his arms, then rotate around to reverse out. At first he feels heavy, but I don’t doubt my will to get him out of here. Just as determination blisters in me, the drag diminishes and I almost fall backward from the slack.

  Confused, I look down to see Daz disappearing right before my eyes. “No!” I scream, lunging forward to grab him before he vanishes completely. But I’m groping frantically at thin air. My hands come up empty.

  I search for him, desperately.

  But . . . there’s only a silent audience watching me on my knees reaching for . . . nothing.

  That wasn’t really Daz.

  How can this be? Among the sea of faces, my eyes go back to one piece that doesn’t fit. The only person who’s standing. King. He’s glaring down at Lt. Lazarus, who’s staring straight ahead flatly. When King focuses on me, his violent expression softens.

  Pity.

  Metatabulous.

  A throat’s cleared.

  The test. I failed. Again.

  I just want a safe place. I stare down at my empty hands and think how pitiful I must look, covered in gob, blood, and soot. I bend forward and hide my face.

  Some time ago, I recall Lt. Lazarus announcing, “Class dismissed.”

  Before Bukin left the stage, he said, “Hey, you did good. Don’t worry about it.”

  I wondered if he was part of this whole set up but thought better of it. No one can fake that kind of fear and rage.

  Before Lt. Lazarus left, he stood near me and said, “Cadet Winters, make sure you get that cut seamed.”

  My cut? My cut? What about the giant, gaping hole in my heart, you prick? I wanted to scream.

  It’s time for me to rise, to return to my pod, to pack up my things, to prepare for Academy expulsion orders. I just can’t believe that I fell into the trap. Command always preys on your greatest weakness in its assessments. They must know how worried I am about Daz, and they used it against me. But why? They usually save those kinds of mind games for third-year students. None of it makes sense.

  When I finally lean back and stretch my aching back, there’s King. Oh. He’s waiting, sitting near to me in the stands.

  If I look at him, I might cry. So I don’t. I stand up slowly and begin to make my way off the stage, toward the turbolift. I sense his presence behind me.

  “I am sorry, Cassiel,” he says softly. “They had no right to do that,” he adds with a tone to his voice I’ve never heard before.

  “Look.” I choke a bit. “I appreciate the support, but that’s just the way . . .” I stop. The gravity of the situation hits me.

  How will I help Daz now? I don’t even know if he needs my help. Where will I go? Back to the dome? To do what?

  I tell you, I sure could use Daz’s help right about now! A tsunami of anger, at him, rears up in me. How could he leave me alone, without a word? Quickly I redirect it where it belongs, at ESE. For putting Daz in a situation where he had to choose. Why on earth did I ever think I would find him just by being here? And how could I let everything that matters to me just slip out of my grasp?

  “I’ll be fine,” I say quietly, as the turbolift arrives. I step in and continue to avoid eye contact even as the door appears before me shutting him out entirely. Pride beats out guilt. King’s so guarded with his emotions. I want him to think I’m strong, too. I just need to get to my pod so I can break down properly. In private.

  No such luck.

  Jordanna, the last person I want to be around after the exhausting, rigid, walk back, is sitting on her downcore cross-legged. I’m too spent to care about her. I head straight for my downcore and collapse into it, relishing the sensation as it molds to my body. I�
�m aching all over.

  And thirsty.

  Yup, there is a container of water on my stand, and a Taza Mud. I push myself up, dehydration beating out exhaustion, grab the drink, and glare down my nose at Jordanna, as I gulp the whole thing.

  She stares at my throat with a look of disgust. “You’re bleeding all over yourself.”

  “Don’t care.” I flop back on the downcore.

  “What, are you just going to give up now?” she asks me, with her usual disdain.

  “Come again?”

  “You’ve got to issue a challenge before the Tribunal right away!”

  I’m touched, actually, that she cares. The Academy Tribunal manages cadet complaints. Then I check myself. She must have an ulterior motive. Of course. As my mentor, my failure reflects poorly on her.

  “Look, don’t take this the wrong way. But fuck off . . . okay!” I shout the ‘okay’ part, spitting a bit. I try to center myself, focus on the glowing ceiling.

  She’s silent, probably taken aback by this new side of me, but, alas, going nowhere. She starts her next sentence softly with “Cassiel,” which really surprises me because she never uses my first name. “You can’t let them get away with this.”

  I exhale loudly, exhausted with her, with this place. “Get away with what, Jordanna?” I roll over so I can make direct eye contact. “Oh, please, Tribunal leaders, please overlook the fact that when faced with my greatest weakness, I failed to complete a mission?”

  “No, that’s not what happened today,” she jumps in, unwrapping her legs and swinging them onto the floor. “Listen, you did well. You encountered problems, you overcame them. You should have seen yourself when you took out that Gogol’s windpipe. It was . . . impressive. You defended yourself, you assisted with the rescue, and you never let anyone down. Not once,” she says quickly, with absolute certainty.