Fledge

by Penny Greenhorn

  I went still, my whole body stiff as a flush of panic washed through me. Swanson seemed to sense the change, I glimpsed him watching me as if he knew something had caused me great discomfort and was curious as to what had succeeded when he had failed.

  I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, but I had to. Pivoting around, I hissed, “Winslow, I have to use the restroom.”

  “First Winslow,” he corrected. I was the only one required to address him thus, the rest of the format called him by his surname with familiarity. At the moment I didn’t care.

  “I need to use the restroom,” I repeated, allowing a little desperation to escape through my voice.

  He continued to do the drills, not missing a beat or even breathing heavy. I just stared at him, growing annoyed at how difficult he always seemed to be. When he realized I wasn’t going to turn back around, he replied, “You’ll just have to wait until after.”

  We still had drills to finish, followed by a long jog. There was no way I was going to make it. I could feel our format starting to tune into the unfolding drama, but there was nothing I could do about that.

  From next to me, Swanson said, “Don’t be a hardass, Winslow, can’t you tell she’s having girl problems.” As he intended, his statement had heads turning ‘round.

  Humiliation complete, I no longer waited for permission. “I’m going to the latrine,” I muttered as I stalked off the field. I was sorely tempted to step on Swanson’s boot as I passed, wanting to reciprocate, but then he would know he’d gotten to me. Winning wasn’t one-upping, it was refusing to play the game.

  * * *

  If anything could distract me from that morning’s humiliation, it was Instructor Bardzecki’s class. He paced at the front of the room like a penned bull, agitated and ready to gore. It was incredible how he could keep a classroom full of soldiers, each in their prime physical condition, scared like little children, myself included.

  “What is the name of the weapon designed to penetrate grindt flesh and bone?” our instructor asked, his eyes skimming the room. Everyone seemed to shrink back, and even knowing the answer, I didn’t want to be called upon.

  “Edwards.”

  I cringed, poor Edwards. Having paid attention through meals with my format, I’d long since learned all twelve of their names. Edwards was the doe-eyed soldier that I often caught staring. While his good looks might have made him popular among the farm girls back home, they did nothing for him here. He endured endless ribbing for his ‘pretty face,’ though it was his inability to retain information for which I pitied him. He had yet to provide our instructor with a correct answer, and if the look on his face was anything to go by, today would be no different.

  Bardzecki knew Edwards was at a loss, and wanting to prolong the torture he paused at his desk to take a pinch of birdbane. Honestly, I haven’t a clue why I did it, but the moment Instructor Bardzecki turned his back, I leaned forward over my desk and flicked Edwards on the shoulder. He lazily glanced behind, already resigned to this small failure and all that it entailed.

  “Kodiak,” I mouthed silently.

  The word hadn’t completely left my lips when Bardzecki spun around. I slouched into my seat just as Edwards jerked back to face front. Roth gave me an incredulous look, his eyebrows drawn together. He was usually so reliable and relaxed that the worry on his face was a warning, letting me know that I’d made a colossal mistake.

  “Well, Edwards, do you know the answer?”

  “Kodiak?” Edwards said, his tone more of a question than an answer.

  “Kodiak,” repeated Bardzecki, his cold, narrow eyes darkening down to shadows under his prominent brow. “And you came up with that all on your own?”

  “And the book,” Edwards lied.

  Instructor Bardzecki grunted, turning his eyes from Edwards to me. I knew then that he’d seen me helping Edwards, and I knew that I was going to pay for it.

  “Soldier Frost, can you tell me the number of Kodiaks required aboard a Scarlet during flight?”

  “That depends,” I replied. “If the Scarlet is staying surface-side then only one is required, but if the Scarlet is traveling out of atmosphere, then there is to be one gun for every person aboard, stock included.”

  Instructor Bardzecki glowered while the rest of the class goggled at me. They had all assumed I was hopelessly behind, and hadn’t expected me to know the facts word for word.

  “Why is a Kodiak the favored weapon when facing a grindt?” Instructor Bardzecki pressed.

  I didn’t hesitate. “As you said, the Kodiak was designed to penetrate grindt flesh and bone, both of which are denser than our own. A normal bullet is trapped in a hostile’s thick muscle, and therefore, not fatal. But a Kodiak, at close proximity, is capable of delivering a mortal wound.”

  Instructor Bardzecki had paced closer and was now standing directly in front of my desk. He continued to ask me about weapons they had studied in months past, and when I didn’t falter he asked me about a Shetheerie weapon featured in a chapter we hadn’t yet studied.

  I sensed that in this instance it was in my best interest to know less, to show ignorance, but I could not. “The Larolin is a traditional Shetheerie bow, and it is also fatal to the grindt as the arrows are made to sink and shatter out, catching in the muscle and sending a deadly spray of shards to pierce the organs beneath.”

  Once I’d caught up, I made a point of reading three chapters ahead. He wasn’t going to stump me. As if realizing this, Instructor Bardzecki stared down at me for quite some time. The classroom remained quiet and unmoving as he made his assessment. Up until then he had ignored me completely, but he noticed me now. “Clever girl,” he said, but his disparaging tone belied the compliment.

  I nodded hesitantly, unsure where this was going.

  “Everyone up,” he bellowed suddenly. “Go to the West Field.” And when we all stayed in our seats, “Move!”

  A knot of dread formed in my gut. We were scheduled to be in-classroom today and I felt sure this impromptu trip was a result of the last few minutes.

  “You should have kept quiet,” Roth said as we moved toward the door.

  “I thought you’d be pleased. You love field training,” I replied, anxiety making my voice monotonous.

  “Believe you me,” Roth said with a hearty slap to my shoulder, “there won’t be anything to love about today’s field training.”

  Hearing the usually exuberant Roth so diminished made things worse, because I knew it was on my behalf. Whatever was going to take place on the West Field, it didn’t bode well for me.

  I was right.

  Instructor Bardzecki went to the small locked building that was strictly instructors only. I’d often seen Swanson and Steward, the troublemakers, stare at the door with hunger in their eyes. Today everyone’s eyes were filled with anticipation as they waited to see what hell Bardzecki would unleash. The small gray box was something of a let down. He set it on the table and instructed one of the soldiers (Small, from the twenty-fourth format) to put a target on the range.

  “Frost,” Instructor Bardzecki barked out as he opened the box. I wended my way forward. It wasn’t difficult, soldiers split, parting to make a path that lead directly to the table. “Do you know what this is?”

  I glanced down into the box. For a fraction of a second I panicked, thinking he meant to shoot me. The intensity of the unfolding drama led me to believe that nothing shy of my impending doom would satisfy the situation. Then I came to my senses and replied, “It’s a Kodiak.”

  “I want you to load and fire.”

  I had never touched a weapon before (well, unless you counted a shovel) and I wasn’t keen to do so now, but I didn’t have a choice. Reaching into the gray box, I lifted the Kodiak with both hands. The thick octagonal barrel was a brownish-red, and if it hadn’t been so large and heavy, I would have guessed it to be some type of redantium. Next I plucked up a bul
let and put it into the empty magazine, and knowing I’d never hit the target my first try, added a second, third, and fourth. I would have slipped the magazine into the Kodiak’s grip, but Instructor Bardzecki ordered me to fill it. At first it wasn’t difficult, but the more bullets I added, the harder it became, the spring-load giving resistance. It took much longer than I’d anticipated, and I began to flush, feeling the eyes of twenty-something soldiers at my back. My fingers became sore and clumsy, and by the time I’d finally loaded the magazine, I was eager to shoot and bring my humiliation to an end.

  Snapping the magazine into place, I took up the Kodiak, doing my best to imitate the textbook’s instructions. I put my feet a shoulder’s-length apart, remembering not to pull my shoulders back. Holding the gun outstretched in both hands, I looked down the range. Small had cleared the field, leaving behind a paper target, the rough image of a man outlined in black, a red and white bull’s-eye on his chest. I used the gun’s sight to take aim, breathing once before holding my breath, and then I gently squeezed.

  I can’t say if I hit the target, because after that everything went black.

  Chapter 12

  I came awake slowly, thickly, as if I was being pulled from syrup. I knew only that the spot above my right eye ached ferociously. The nattering voices from all around were only aggravating the pain. I lay very still, trying to find my bearings as the memories rolled back in. I squeezed the trigger and... and I had no idea.

  “Is she dead?” I didn’t have to open my eyes to know it was Pumphrey speaking. I’d recognize that nasal tone anywhere. I could easily picture his round, protruding eyes as he continued, “Convenient that, we could win trials if she offed herself.”

  “Don’t be daft,” replied Roth in his deep, rumbling voice. “It was just a bump to the head.”

  “A bump to the head?” scoffed Martinez. “She sent herself sprawling.”

  “Should have put some action on that,” added Ramirez.

  These were the two dark soldiers who had watched me vomit my first day, but I’d learned to tell them apart since then. Though they shared the same smooth, liquid voice, similar coloring and hotheaded tempers, Martinez was more animated, always the first to speak while the less energetic Ramirez was known as the bookie. He collected all manner of bets and wagers, keeping record on a tattered palm-size notebook which he tucked out of sight and only produced when Winslow wasn’t looking. I suspected he didn’t need the book at all. He had a memory to rival mine, the memory of an elephant my father would say.

  I was less than fond of Martinez and Ramirez, having learned that they often bet on me. How long it would take before I could finally do a push-up, before I vomited, before I cried... you get the idea. And soldiers from all over the convene would stake whatever they had available, be it a small luxury from home, food hoarded from past meals, or even their pillows if they were desperate enough for the sport of gambling.

  “Maybe I should get Doctor Pruitt,” suggested Edwards nervously.

  “I think you’ve done enough already,” answered someone waspishly. Swanson or Steward I’d guess, both too smart for their own good. They excelled at everything, too clever to be challenged. As a result they often looked for creative ways to entertain themselves, and when that failed, they settled for distressing the status quo.

  They enjoyed a good torment, and as if to prove my point the other chimed, “If you’d just done a little studying, Edwards, then she wouldn’t be lying here with a smashed face.”

  Smashed face? Surely he must be exaggerating.

  “That’s enough,” barked Bardzecki. I heard the redrock crunch under his boots as he made his way over. The muscles in my stomach went taut, the anxiety ringing through me, making me wish I could sink beneath the earth. “Lift her legs, got to get the blood back in her brain.”

  Should I pretend to wake up? I meant to, but didn’t, couldn’t. In fact, I might have pretended to sleep indefinitely except the slap took me by surprise, making me wince as my face scrunched up, pulling on the tender skin above my eye. “Ugh,” I moaned, nothing feigned about it. Bardzecki was looming over me, blotting out the sun, and behind him Winslow. I briefly locked eyes with my first, and somehow I just knew I hadn’t fooled him. I felt childish to have been caught pretending to be unconscious, and that made me irrationally angry. Huffing, I pushed myself upright, the powdery reddust clinging to my uniform like chalk.

  Instructor Bardzecki took this recovery as his cue, standing up to deliver the rest of his lesson. “Edwards, what did you learn from Frost’s poor handling of the Kodiak?”

  “Uh,” he hesitated for a moment, shooting me an apologetic glance before continuing. “Her grip wasn’t quite right, and though she had the proper stance, she leaned back at the last second, putting her weight all wrong, so she wasn’t prepared for the recoil.”

  “Correct,” agreed Bardzecki roughly, looking at Edwards through belligerent slit eyes. “But as usual, you’ve missed the point!” he barked, his voice growing louder with each word. “The point is,” he emphasized, glaring at me for good measure, “that a book can’t teach you everything you need to know. A book,” he spit,” won’t help you shoot a hostile.”

  I’d been prepared for a scathing speech. However, I was surprised when Bardzecki called Pumphrey forward. “Load and fire,” he commanded.

  Pumphrey didn’t hesitate, and to be honest, he looked quite natural with a gun. I was confused when he pulled some small black thing from the gun’s container, but its purpose dawned on me as I watched him use it—a magazine loader. While I’d been abusing my thumbs, pressing against the spring’s high pressure, he wielded the device simply, filling the clip in no time at all. I watched his stance, his breathing, and the way he didn’t flinch at the gun’s report. He certainly didn’t let the gun’s kick fly back and hit him in the face... unfortunately. I didn’t have to watch the target (I couldn’t see it from where I was sitting on the ground anyway) to know that he had been dead on. Shooting was his strength, and he had a reputation around the convene as a crack shot. As Martinez or Ramirez could tell you, the odds were always in his favor.

  Satisfied that he’d made his point, Instructor Bardzecki dismissed us after that. Soldiers from the twenty-fourth format who shared our class dispersed, leaving behind only my mates. Edwards rushed forward, wanting to help me to my feet, while the ever silent Fitallion took my other arm. Roth patted the dust from my back as they pulled me upright.

  Winslow stood, knuckles to hip, an oddly grim pose, watching as I gingerly touched my forehead. “It doesn’t look serious, though you might have a concussion. Dr. Pruitt will want to see you at the infirmary.”

  “No, I’m fine. I don’t need to go to the infirmary.”

  He stared, the look so hard I almost recanted and agreed to go. But then he said, “Someone take her to her shed. I’ve got a firsts’ meeting to attend.”

  Roth would have taken me, even Edwards and Fitallion seemed willing, but Martinez shooed them away, insisting he and Ramirez would help me. I thought it odd, but didn’t resist.

  I should have.

  “Bardzecki is a real hardass,” said Martinez, explaining as we walked, “big believer in ‘everyone’s got a place, and everyone in their place.’”

  We’d left the hub of camp behind, the activity and noise receding as we stepped from the paved walkway, a demarcation of sorts, showing the boundaries of our convene. The soft red sand shushed beneath our boots as we crossed the nothingness to my shed.

  “He’s old school, formal, strict about ranks and titles. See, as soldiers, we’re bottom of the barrel. And you—a fledge—well, showing off didn’t do you any good.”

  “Showing off?”

  “Yeah,” Martinez answered, “reciting the book.”

  “Forgive me,” I said dispassionately, “I was under the impression that instructors wanted their students to learn.”

  “Th
at’s not what set him off,” added Ramirez. “Helping Edwards is what really burned him up.”

  “Why?”

  “It was a liberty, and fledglings don’t take liberties,” Ramirez answered. “You overstepped, and everything after that was him showing you your place.”

  Once, while sitting around the table for supper, Lizzie had blithely admitted that she shouldn’t mind marrying a soldier instead of a farmer because they had so many commendable qualities. Loyalty, honor, integrity, and courage were just a few of those qualities which she had proceeded to list for us. Da had contradicted her, saying that a soldier didn’t have to be courageous, or even particularly loyal, the only true quality a soldier required was obedience.

  I saw now that Da was right, and Martinez and Ramirez for that matter. While I thought I was helping Edwards, saving him from disgrace, Instructor Bardzecki interpreted my actions as defiance. Slowly I was beginning to understand that things worked differently here. But I didn’t like it. In fact, I was angry. I’d like to blame the concussion, but I think it was that—the anger—more than anything that made me agree to their proposal. So when Martinez next said, “We could help, you know,” I let his warm, fluid voice pull me in.

  Chapter 13

  “Why don’t I just go steal it now?” I asked.

  “Don’t be dense,” Martinez replied derisively. “We don’t know his schedule yet, he may not show up. And the whole point is for you to get caught.”

  “That doesn’t explain why we’re waiting here,” I said, unable to keep the distaste from my voice. I shifted and there was a loud wet noise as my heel was sucked deeper into the runny clay.

  Martinez, Ramirez and I were huddled together outside the convene. The wall had a deep recess where a water spigot stood; it was one of the few places that vegetation grew of its own accord at camp. Soldiers would come here throughout the day to fill their waterskins. Someone must have been particularly careless this morning because when we arrived a trickle was leaking out of the spout, leaving the ground a sodden nightmare that even the weeds couldn’t sop up.