by Sara King
“Yeah, well, you’ll like it better on Earth,” Joe said. “Whenever I get a chance, I’m gonna start exploring. Maybe find us a ship.” Joe realized Elf was awake and he smiled, motioning at the walls. “See? We can read their writing now. Soon we’ll be getting out of here.”
“We can’t read their writing until they teach us how,” Libby said. “And you’re being stupid, Joe. We’re not going back home.”
“I’ll teach myself,” Joe said. “I’m going to get us home.”
Libby rolled her eyes, but Elf stared at him, enthralled. Joe winked at Elf, but immediately his enthusiasm began to ebb. Deep down, he knew Libby was right. Sure, he could see their writing, but he couldn’t read it. And even if he could read it, it took pilots years to learn how to fly an airplane on Earth. How long would it take him to learn to fly a spaceship?
Sometimes, Joe, you’re a real idiot. What’s Elf gonna say when you don’t take him home like you promised?
Grimacing, Joe sat down beside the nearest door and began trying to figure out how the Ooreiki thought. It baffled him that, with their sophisticated technology, they could present their words in such an unorganized manner. He felt a little smug, knowing that in at least one way, humans were more advanced than the aliens. He touched the blocky squiggles again, trying to memorize the shapes.
“They write in circles,” Monk said behind him. Her voice was still groggy from just waking up.
“I know,” Joe said, turning back to the blotch of alien symbols. “It looks like they threw darts at the wall and put a word wherever they landed.”
“No,” Monk said, brushing past him to place her finger at the center of the jumble. “They write in circles.” She traced a spiral over the symbols, her finger following the curve of the words perfectly. Joe’s jaw dropped.
“My parents are teachers,” Monk said with a shrug. “My mom knows Chinese and German and my dad teaches gym.”
“I thought your mom taught music,” Joe said.
“She does,” Monk replied. “And Chinese and German.”
“What kind of elementary school teaches Chinese and German?”
Monk frowned at him. “She’s a professor.” Her look added, Stupid.
Joe blushed. “I just thought maybe she’d teach kids your age, since you’re her kid and I thought teachers would teach their kids when they—”
“She makes more money at the university. My dad’s the one who’s gotta smell boys’ stinky locker-rooms when she gets to listen to Chopin.”
Joe frowned. “What’s your last name?”
Monk frowned at him. “Grimsley-Biggs. My dad’s name comes first only because he won the coin toss.”
“You’re Coach Grimsley’s daughter?! But you’re so small!”
“My mom was four-foot-ten.”
“Oh. Guess that explains it.”
“My mom’s smarter than you, Joe.”
He grinned.
“She is. You’re too big to be smart. My dad’s big like you and he only makes half what my mom does and he didn’t have to stop working for a year to have a baby.” She paused long enough to stick her tongue out at Scott, who was sitting up in a daze. “See, Scott? Girls are better than guys.”
“Huh?” Scott said. “No they’re not.”
“Yes they are. They’re better ‘cause they’re smarter. My dad has an IQ of one-thirty-six. Know what my mom’s IQ is?”
Scott rolled his eyes and went to use the latrine.
“One sixty-two,” Monk said, as if she were a magician revealing an awe-inspiring trick.
Libby scoffed. “You’re just saying that. You don’t even know what an IQ is.”
“Do too!” Monk cried, suddenly defensive. “If you have an IQ it means you’re not gonna end up on TV.”
Libby’s face went blank. “What?”
“You won’t end up on TV,” Monk insisted. “Mom and Dad say the people on TV don’t have enough IQ to figure out how to use toilet paper. That’s why they’re on TV.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Libby said.
“Does too. My mom’s got a lot of IQ and she’s never been on TV. My dad has, though. He has to be on TV every time his team wins.”
“That’s stupid.”
“It’s what my mom said.”
“Then your mom’s a dumb bimbo who doesn’t know her ass from her head.”
Joe’s head shot up and he gave Libby an irritated look. Libby, unabashed that she had copied his words, merely shrugged and yawned.
Monk got up and kicked Libby in the shin. “My mom’s not a dumb bimbo! She’s smart. You’re the dumb bimbo, you stupidhead! You don’t have any IQ at all. You’re gonna be on TV and then everybody will know you can’t use toilet paper, just like all those really tall supermodels who are so dumb they want to be on TV!”
Libby got up and, with a cold look at Monk, snapped a leg around and kicked her in the head with a perfect, powerful roundhouse. Monk’s neck snapped back and she let out a small, startled sound. Joe felt his heart stop as he watched her crumple to the floor.
“Libby!” Joe shouted, in shock. “What the hell?!”
Then Monk began to scream.
Joe rushed over to her and dropped to his knees. Wailing, Monk climbed into his lap, holding the side of her head. Gently, Joe pried her fingers from her skull long enough to make sure she wasn’t dying, then took a relieved breath. Her ear was bleeding where Libby’s boot had cut it, but she was still moving her arms and legs, which meant she hadn’t been paralyzed. Monk, meanwhile, shrieked like a banshee, her lungs gaining capacity with every breath.
“She kicked me!” Monk screamed. “Joooe, Libby kiiiiiiiicked me!”
“I saw that,” Joe said, scowling. Libby had sat back down and was nonchalantly picking at the bruise Monk had given her. “Looks like she was in karate.”
“Taekwondo,” Libby said, unconcernedly.
Joe felt his anger growing. “Then you should know you don’t beat up on smaller kids. Apologize, Libby.”
“Don’t feel like it.”
“Stay here.” Joe set Monk aside, who was now sniffling quietly, watching Libby with a malicious anticipation. He walked over to stand over Libby and her eyes burned with challenge when she looked up at him.
“Apologize,” Joe said softly.
“I didn’t see you apologize when you beat up that kid who stole food at lunch,” Libby said. “And he didn’t even hurt you. You hit him first.”
“I didn’t beat him up,” Joe said, prickling.
“You made him pee himself,” Libby retorted. “That’s worse.”
Joe felt his knuckles cracking from the pressure in his fists. “Libby, you hurt one of your friends and you’re going to apologize.”
“She’s not my friend,” Libby said.
“You thought she was yesterday,” Joe said. “That’s why you don’t want to go home. You want to stay with your friends.”
“She hadn’t kicked me yesterday.”
“And you hadn’t called her mom a dumb bimbo,” Joe said.
Libby turned back to scowl at him. “You called my mom a dumb bimbo.”
Joe could feel his jaw muscles work in frustration. “Fine. I’ll apologize if you apologize for hurting Monk.”
Reluctantly, Libby glanced at Monk, who now had little drops of blood crawling out from beneath her fingers where she was holding her ear. Her face softened and she guiltily glanced at the floor. “Sorry, Monk,” she muttered. “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard.” Joe supposed it was better than nothing. He glanced at Monk, who was still sniffling, but looked somewhat mollified, if shaken.
Joe squatted in front of Libby. “I’m sorry for calling your mom a dumb bimbo.”
Libby bunched her nose as if she smelled something bad, but still wouldn’t look at him. “No problem, Joe,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
Joe frowned, watching tears trickle down Libby’s black cheeks. He turned to Monk. “Don’t kick her again.”
&
nbsp; Monk’s eyes got a little wide, like the very idea of kicking Libby was enough to evoke nightmares. She shook her head vigorously, still holding her bleeding ear.
“You okay, Libby?” Joe asked softly.
Libby bit her lip and shook her head, but didn’t elaborate. Joe considered sitting down beside her, but when he scooted closer, Libby just got up abruptly and walked away.
Giving Libby one last, worried look, Joe went and sat down against the far wall, disturbed. It was the first time Libby had given any of them so much as a love-tap, and she had done it with such force she had almost taken Monk’s head off. He had no doubts that Monk was lucky to be alive.
They’re growing up too fast, he thought, watching them. They’re only learning what the Congies want them to learn.
Which meant they were learning to kill.
CHAPTER 14: Gracious Lord Knaaren
As soon as the rest of the recruits were awake, a dozen medics with varying sized golden circles emblazoned inside the silver borders of their rank insignias rounded them up and herded them outside. Their battlemasters met them at the door. The tense way the Ooreiki held their barrel-shaped bodies was Joe’s first clue that something was wrong.
“Fourth platoon, get over here!” Battlemaster Nebil snapped. “Chins, line them up!” ‘Chins’ was Nebil’s nickname for Sasha, in honor of her jutting lower jaw. Nebil’s voice was sharper than usual and Sasha rushed to do as she was told, her usual superior look gone, her face anxious.
Apparently sometimes she can shut up and do what she’s told, Joe thought. He was still frustrated that Battlemaster Nebil had not so much as even looked in his direction after giving him squad leader. No matter how well Joe did—and even an idiot could see he was much better than Sasha—Sasha remained Battlemaster.
It’s not fair. It was supposed to be me.
Once Sasha had them lined up, without screwing up, for once, Battlemaster Nebil came to stand in front of them and fell into one of his long silences as he scanned their faces.
“Takki have delivered night-wear to your barracks,” Nebil finally said. “The sun will disappear in three hours and return in another four days. The ferlii branches trap in the heat and the spores act as insulation, but the dark side of the planet often drops below freezing anyway. As soon as the formation is over, you will don your night gear and continue wearing it until the night cycle is over.
“Until then, I want your minds sharp. Prime Commander Knaaren has decided to inspect you. He’s finding all of our setbacks to be inconvenient and already suggested Congress sell Sixth Battalion to one of his brothers, so you Takki sootwads had better be on your best behavior if you want to stay out of a Dhasha’s slave pens.
Libby’s voice broke through the silence, loud and angry. “We’re not slaves.”
Nebil merely glanced at his protégée and Joe felt a pang of jealousy. If he had done that, Nebil would have pounded him flatter than a pancake.
“If you fail to learn, Congress has every right to sell you. Your species is still very new and very rare, so Dhasha will pay enormous prices for Humans. The Army can fund twenty ships for a year just from the sale of one dysfunctional battalion. You’re a novelty, plus you have no scales, so you’re easy to eat. That makes you high-demand, and the Dhasha hold a lot of sway in Congress. They’ve already had several bidding wars over which Dhasha planet gets the first load of Humans to fail training. If you want to avoid that, you need to—”
“I will take the platoon from here, Battlemaster.” It was the first time Joe had seen Commander Tril since landing on Kophat, and his presence now seemed ominous.
Battlemaster Nebil stiffened bodily, then slowly stepped out of the way without looking at Tril.
Commander Tril moved to the front of the platoon and his eyes locked on Kihgl’s kasja. “You can’t wear that, Zero. Bring it to me.”
“It’s mine,” Joe blurted. “Commander Kihgl gave it to me.” That morning, Nebil had told him to wear it openly, that it deserved to be on the outside of his sleeve, not hidden under his clothing in shame. He knew he should be relieved Tril would take it from him, but after seeing the golden designs engraved on it after waking, the thing had grown on him. Besides, it was Kihgl’s. Not Tril’s. “Commander Kihgl gave it to me.”
A look of satisfaction crossed Commander Tril’s face. “Commander Kihgl is being tried for treason,” Tril said. “I am now secondary commander of Sixth Battalion.”
Joe felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Nebil, too, looked similarly upset. The battlemaster looked away, his sudah flipping wildly in his neck.
Tril pointedly eyed the triangle on Joe’s chest. “You can give me the kasja or you can lose Squad Leader. Pick.”
Joe stared at Tril, feeling the beginnings of hatred. For some insane reason, he wanted to tell Tril to get stuffed, keep the armband, and lose his rank. The kasja’s golden alien designs easily could have fit on the shelves beside the collection of Celtic armbands and neck ornaments that his dad had pounded out of silver at the base hobby shop. He opened his mouth to tell Tril where he could stuff his demands.
“Give it to me, Zero.” Nebil stepped forward. “I’ll see you get it back.”
Tril stiffened. “He won’t get it back unless I give it to him, Battlemaster.”
Battlemaster Nebil ignored him, his sticky brown eyes holding Joe’s. “You’ll get it back,” he repeated.
Even after beating him and running him until Joe was puking like a dog, there was something about Battlemaster Nebil that Joe trusted. He reluctantly tugged the kasja over his bicep and lowered it into Nebil’s open tentacles. Battlemaster Nebil tucked it under his arm and went back to formation.
“I’m turning it in to the Peacemakers,” Tril snapped. “Give it to me. It belonged to a traitor.”
“It belongs to Zero now,” Nebil said, making absolutely no motion to obey.
Commander Tril’s sudah were fluttering rapidly as he glared at Nebil. After a long silence, he snarled, “Get them moving. We’ve got two hours to teach these furgs to march as a battalion. We’re already underpowered and I don’t want Lord Knaaren claiming any more of them than necessary.” Then he stalked off to another platoon, leaving Nebil once more in charge.
Under Tril’s orders, the ten Ooreiki battlemasters gathered their platoons and formed them into a square five groundteams deep by thirty groundteams wide. A sense of urgency began to permeate the air as the Congies laid out the basics of marching in a battalion. Each recruit was to keep an arm’s distance from the kid in front of him while keeping an eye on the recruits to either side in order to stay in perfect line, their boots landing in time to their battlemasters’ orders—which were given in Congie, not English. Joe only knew half of them, and he had memorized every word that Tril had taught them on their trip here.
From the start, all of the Ooreiki turned their translators off, so it was left to the humans to decipher what they were trying to say fast enough to keep from getting singled out for stupidity. The battlemasters cuffed dozens of kids for minor errors, and the recruit battlemasters got worse. One was beaten bloody for stepping forward when the order was to stop. Another had her jaw shattered when she missed a step and sent her entire column out of sync. Sasha garbled a command, confusing the platoon, and Commander Tril broke her arm for it. Takki came to spirit her away and Battlemaster Nebil made Libby take over in her place. Though Joe was initially worried for her, Libby somehow managed to perform the drills perfectly, even in the alien language. It made Joe feel jealous listening to her smooth, confident commands. Again, he thought, That should be me up there.
The rest of the platoon was almost pissing themselves in fear. As the Ooreiki’s orders grew more frenzied, the recruits’ anxiety rose until all of them were shaking, unsure what to expect next.
It was the most nerve-shattering experience Joe had ever had. When Commander Tril finally called a halt, Joe felt the mass terror emanating from those around him, but their secondary commander eith
er did not notice or did not care.
A horn reverberated across the glossy faces of the enormous buildings. Deep, resonant, it made everyone jump. Immediately, Commander Tril ordered them to march to one corner of the cleared parade grounds. Around them, black-clad recruits were flowing into the plaza in perfect, sharp formation. Joe glanced at Sixth Battalion’s ragged columns and he felt a new wave of fear.
Their formation stood out amongst the others like a two-year-old’s attempt at geometry mixed into an upper-division calculus assignment.
Their battlemasters stopped them at one end of the plaza and had them turn on heel to their left, leaving Joe in the front row with thirty other kids.
“Get your fire-loving eyes on the ground!” Commander Linin shouted. “If a Dhasha’s inspecting, keep your heads lowered and your bodies bowed like you gotta shit yourself. And don’t move. His lordship Knaaren is a son of Prince Rethavn. That means he’s a believer in the Old Pact. That means he can take you ashy furgs and make you pick his scales or eat you, whatever burning mood he’s in. Whatever happens, don’t move unless you’re told to. And never look him in the eyes. Dhasha declare ka-par by looking each other in the eyes.”
Then Tril, Linin, and the battlemasters left them, moving to join the other Ooreiki standing in their own formation across the plaza.
This is bad, Joe thought. He stood as still as he could, despite the tremor in his limbs. Around him, a wild-eyed hysteria was spreading through the kids as they stood there, waiting. Most knew what it meant to be inspected by a Dhasha and they were so frightened they were trembling.
A commotion erupted at the far end of the plaza, but Joe kept his eyes down as Linin had told them. A girl beside him went pale, her eyes wide. “It killed someone.”
Joe glanced down the rows at First Battalion.
A grizzly-bear-sized monster was strutting down the ranks, a screaming, armless girl thrashing on the ground in its wake, spreading blood over her stone-still, wide-eyed companions. A couple of the Takki trailing behind the monster stopped to bind up the girl’s stump. Then one of them picked up her discarded rifle as they carried her away.