A Soldier and a Liar

by Caitlin Lochner

  The atmosphere changes as I move away from Central Headquarters. The quaint shops and restaurants and cozy homes fitted into their respective high-rise buildings are gradually replaced by blocky concrete skyscrapers and apartments. The first four or five floors are solidly made. Past that, they’re hastily constructed, sometimes of brick, sometimes of cement blocks or even wood. The platforms that connect them look precarious at best. But as the population within the sector continues to grow, new residences have to be built quickly to accommodate it.

  The “usual place” is a used bookstore located in one of the tall, narrow buildings in the south of Central’s fringes. It’s where the Order first used to meet, back when it was still just nine of us and the small space could hold us all. The street it’s on is nearly deserted, but warm golden light pools out from the windows of the shop.

  A small bell rattles when I open the door, and an older man briefly looks at me over the tops of his glasses before returning to his book. “Welcome. They’re waiting for you in the back room.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Clemente.”

  I have to walk sideways at some points to make it through the mazelike stacks of books, but eventually I’m able to slip through a small door and into a room just big enough to comfortably fit a table and four chairs.

  In the past, we used to take out the furniture and sit in a tight circle. Our laughs would reverberate around the room and echo back at us and we’d be so close I could feel the warmth of my friends sitting all around me. The sudden nostalgia of it is like a punch to the chest.

  Now, there is no laughter. Fiona and Trist sit in two of the chairs. They had obviously been deep in conversation, but they fall silent when I enter the room.

  My spirits pick up at the sight of them—solid, real, here. Not everyone is gone. I haven’t lost everything yet.

  “You’re late,” Fiona says flatly, killing my small joy. As usual. Her eyes narrow a fraction as she flicks back a loose strand of short, wavy black hair. Her golden-brown hands clasp together in front of her. She’s only a year older than I am, but she likes to act so much older and more experienced.

  Trist stands, all height and broad shoulders and muscles pulling at taut, midnight-black skin, but his wide smile is disarming as ever. Even though he actually is about five years older than me, he doesn’t flaunt it. “I am glad to see you well. When Fiona said you called an urgent meeting with us, I worried.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, ignoring Fiona’s earlier remark as I give Trist a quick hug and sit next to him. Just being near his warm, solid presence helps anchor me. “I thought it would be better to talk about this in person.”

  I tell them about General Austin’s offer, omit Kitahara’s visit, report on Ellis’s increased number of messengers, and finish by saying that I’ve decided to go back to the military.

  “The military wants to use the all-Nyte team as a quick but effective strike against the rebels,” I say. “It sounds suspicious to me, but I really think we can use this as a chance to gain more info from within the military—and keep an eye on them at the same time.”

  After a pause, Trist is the first to speak. “There will be more danger for you, yes? You will be fighting on the front lines.”

  “I can handle myself,” I say. “Who knows, I might even be able to save a few soldiers along the way.”

  “Your arrogance is showing,” Fiona remarks.

  “Was it hidden before? My bad.”

  She throws a scowl at me while Trist hides a smile.

  “When are you going to start taking things seriously?” Fiona asks. “The rebels are a serious threat, and you’d do well to start treating them as such.”

  “When have I ever treated this as anything but serious?” I snap.

  “Friends, friends,” Trist says. “Focus. There is much to discuss.” His hands are raised in peace, both the words and gesture incredibly familiar. Even after five years of knowing each other, Fiona and I can’t hold a conversation for ten seconds without getting under each other’s skin. Not that either of us really try not to. If it weren’t for Trist, we probably would’ve ripped each other’s throats out a long time ago.

  “It’s true this plan is dangerous, but I think it’s well worth the risks,” I say with a final, grudging glare at Fiona.

  She returns the look in kind. “Well, having an eye on the military certainly wouldn’t hurt.”

  I get the feeling we’re both thinking of Luke. I could focus in on her thoughts and confirm it, but it’s rare that I ever pry that way with her or Trist anymore. Strange though our friendship may be, we are still friends. I guess.

  Trist, with his way of noticing everything, instantly picks up on Fiona’s gloom. “If the military starts being suspicious, we will be able to know beforehand,” he says. “But let us not worry about that now.”

  “Trist is right,” I say. “Let’s focus on the more immediate future.” I tap a single finger against the tabletop, thinking. “I’m not going to be able to do as much for the Order after this.”

  Fiona and Trist share a glance. They communicate silently back and forth, calculating, weighing options. I can read the looks as easily as if I were reading their thoughts. They’re ones we’ve all shared countless times.

  Finally, they turn back to me. “We can divide your work among us and the captains,” Fiona says. “Save for the things only you can do.”

  “Of which there happen to be quite a few,” I say.

  “Are you trying to make this work or aren’t you?” Fiona asks.

  “All I’m saying is there’s a lot I do for the Order.”

  “It’s not just you. That’s why we have the captains and the rest of us. You think the Order depends on you alone to run? Don’t be so conceited.”

  “Friends,” Trist says.

  “You think the Order would just continue to run perfectly smooth without me and my gift?” I ask. “How do you think it even got this far to begin with?”

  “You act as if the rest of us haven’t done anything all this time. You seriously think everything’s been down to you?”

  “I’m just saying I’ve done a lot to build—”

  “FRIENDS,” Trist rumbles. Fiona and I both freeze. Trist never raises his voice unless he thinks things are really getting out of hand. With a last glare at each other, we both reluctantly sit down. I hadn’t even realized either of us had stood up.

  Trist takes a deep breath before he speaks again. “Plans must be made. Details must be decided. We do not have time for your disagreements. Now. The divisions of jobs?”

  Guilt sparks in my chest. Trist is just trying to get things done, and meanwhile, Fiona and I are having a go at each other. Again. How many times has he had to put up with this same thing? His levels of patience are unfathomable.

  Fiona and I share a conciliatory glance—a temporary truce, but a truce all the same—and I say, “I’m not going to be able to pull Nytes from my prison anymore, so we’re going to be losing potential members there.”

  One of the reasons I’d requested going to this specific prison was its high number of incarcerated Nytes. Their crimes ranged from insulting an Etiole to being in the wrong place at the wrong time—light things, unproven charges that didn’t warrant being thrown in a more severe prison. I’d seek them out, see what kind of person they were, and if I deemed them fit, I’d offer them a place in the Order to go to once they were released.

  Although, there haven’t been many Nytes coming in recently. Lately they’re being put in more high-security facilities even for minor crimes. Tensions with the rebels have been scaring the Etioles into trying to incapacitate Nytes in any way possible—anything to stop us from joining the rebels.

  “We will find other ways,” Trist says. “Can you still meet with our backers?”

  I shake my head. “There’s too much I need to prioritize over that. Peter and Paul are good at talking with people. Could they go in my place?”

  We go through each of my usual tasks
, prioritize assignments, and rationalize what I can feasibly continue to do from within the military. Fiona pulls out a small notebook to write everything down. And we talk, too, about how to minimize putting the Order at risk of discovery. It’s been hard work keeping our organization secret over the past few years, and I don’t intend to be the one to blow that. The answer we reach is not one I like, but the only rational one.

  “You’re going to have to choose your visits to the Order carefully from now on,” Fiona says. “Only after you’ve discovered important information that can’t be relayed telepathically. That is, unless something big happens.”

  “Understood,” I grumble. Going back to the military really is going to be a pain. “I’ll report back to base at Regail Hall after our first mission has been completed, then choose my timing carefully from there on out.”

  “I have been thinking on this, but could you make a power crystal for the Order to use when you are in absence?” Trist asks. “It could be very useful for the scouts.”

  It was something I had been considering, too. Power crystals are physical manifestations of a Nyte’s gift that can be given to others to use. So long as there is physical contact with the crystal and the user chooses to, the power of the Nyte who made it can be accessed—with limits. Nytes can make any number of power crystals, with any limits or specifications on their gift, but only the specific person they made the crystal for can use it. And the Nyte in question must be alive and currently in control of his or her gift.

  People in the Order exchange power crystals as they see fit. When Gabriel, one of the Order’s original nine members, left, he gave each of us a power crystal with his ability to cancel out other Nytes’ gifts. A power crystal I have found exceedingly useful. I also have Syon’s crystal, which creates energy, and Fiona’s crystal for illusions—the last of which I use only sparingly. I hate having to rely on Fiona any more than absolutely necessary.

  However, my particular gift comes with problems. For one, it’s dangerous. There are few people in the Order I’d trust with it, and even then, I’d worry. For another, my gift isn’t easily controlled. It wasn’t until I was nearly seven or eight that I was finally able to regulate it, to hear only the thoughts of the people I wanted to instead of everyone around me, to shut it off when I chose, to block out the cacophonies that had previously threatened to burst my skull. And even now, I still struggle sometimes.

  “No,” I say. “I don’t think that’s within my limits.”

  Neither Fiona nor Trist ask more. I’ve told them before of my difficulties with my gift, and even if I hadn’t, we don’t generally question each other’s judgments. Not on something like this.

  Fiona gives a small nod to herself and flicks her journal shut with a quick, precise snap. “That should be all the major things taken care of. You should head back before it gets too much later.”

  “Or earlier,” I muse.

  “Do you always have to—”

  “It will be lonely without you in Regail Hall, Lai,” Trist says. He hugs me, more tightly than before, and I know he’s thinking of the danger of fighting on the front lines against the rebels. He always has been a worrier.

  “Don’t worry, Trist, I’ll be back before you know it,” I say as I hug him back. I try not to think of when the next time I’ll be able to see him will be. Even just being near him cheers me up. Going back to the military might be a bigger blow than I originally thought.

  “Are you sure you’re not getting in over your head?” Fiona asks. I’m about to quip another comeback at her when I realize she’s being serious. “The work you do is indispensable. The Order needs you. We need you.”

  “I never thought the day would come when I’d hear you say that,” I say. “Did the words hurt on the way out?”

  “Cathwell.”

  I hate it when she calls me out. My eyes trail to the table as my feet kick back and forth against the chair legs. “I’m going to be in a position to access information from within the military. Their intel will be the Order’s intel. I know it’s dangerous to fight the rebels on the front lines, but I have no intention of dying, nor of losing an advantageous chance like this.” At her silence, I add, “I’ll be careful. I promise. I always am.”

  She snorts and crosses her arms, which is how I know she’s done being serious. “Since when have you ever been careful?”

  “I’m still alive, aren’t I?” I lean forward with my elbows on my knees, a knot inside my stomach that I hadn’t even known was there loosening. “Besides, I’m tougher than a four-fanged flying Feral.”

  “As if I need reminding of that. Just try not to get yourself killed or exposed.” She keeps her arms crossed and her gaze focused past my shoulder, but despite how we constantly rub each other the wrong way and pick at each other over everything, I know she’s just as worried as Trist. She’s a terrible actress.

  We might not get along, but we’d die for each other in a heartbeat if we deemed it necessary. And no amount of bickering can get between that or our mutual desire for the Order to succeed.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say as I stand up. “Just try not to miss me too much.”

  As I turn to head for the door, I catch Fiona mutter, “Yeah, that’ll be hard.”

  4

  JAY

  A FEW DAYS after my meeting with Lieutenant Cathwell, I wake up still tormented by guilt. Now, however, the feeling is accompanied by a sense of dread. Today is the day I meet my fellow members of the new all-Nyte team. The team everyone already has a bad impression of.

  I’d reported my utter failure with Cathwell as soon as I’d arrived back at Central. I’d thought Austin would reprimand me, but he’d actually laughed.

  “I forgot to warn you, Lieutenant Cathwell has a way of getting under your skin,” he’d said. He’d smiled at me from across his desk. “She always seems to know exactly the thing to say to hurt you the most. I wouldn’t worry about it. From what you said, it sounds like you did perfectly.”

  I could only stare at him. “Perfectly? She wouldn’t listen to another word I had to say after that, even when I was trying to apologize.”

  “Which is how I know you did perfectly. Don’t worry, Major Kitahara. Everything is coming together.”

  Now, as I change into my uniform and prepare for today’s briefing on the new team, I wonder what the military decided to do about our fourth member. Were they able to find another Nyte willing to join? I can’t imagine we would’ve gotten the go-ahead with only three soldiers. It’s not as though the military doesn’t have other Nytes, but not everyone has gifts well-suited to battle.

  Out in the halls, it’s just early enough to be quiet. Before all the stomping of soldiers’ boots create a cacophony. Before doors continuously slam open and closed as a constant stream of people flow through meeting rooms, barracks, and the dining hall. This time of morning is the closest Central gets to feeling peaceful.

  I’m the first to arrive to the meeting room. The walls are so thin I can hear the low murmur of conversation from the next room over. The tiled floor hasn’t been cleaned in a long time. A table for six centers the room. The walls are a collage of messily overlapping maps—of Sector Eight, of regions of the Outside. They’re all covered in markings and notes and tacks. Other than that, the room is empty. I take a seat.

  I attempt piecing my thoughts together before everyone else arrives. I review my new teammates’ files in my head, but it’s difficult to turn numbers and military achievements into personalities. Particularly when I don’t know who our fourth member is. I hate missing data.

  Sergeant Major Al Johann arrives ten minutes later. He isn’t in uniform. His muscular frame slouches into the chair next to mine, black hands rubbing at his eyes. As far as I know, Johann is both the oldest at eighteen as well as the most experienced at nine years of service to two different militaries. When I check his presence on my internal grid, it’s a bleary shade of gray. Tired.

  “Good morning, Johann,” I say. “How h
ave you been?”

  “Fine,” he says. “Tired. You?”

  “Well, thank you. I hope your energy picks up.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see,” he says around a yawn.

  Corporal Erik Mendel, my new roommate, arrives next. Also not in uniform. Also a bleary gray in color.

  He sits across from me with a yawn and leans his ruffled blond head in pale, ivory-toned hands. His file was the shortest of everyone’s since he joined the military only three months ago. He’s the least experienced of our team, as well as the youngest at seventeen. Despite the fact that I’ve just moved in with him, I’ve barely seen him around.

  “Tired?” I ask.

  He nods without looking up.

  I wish I could think of something better to say to the both of them—and these are the two whose files I did get a chance to read beforehand. We’ve all spoken a handful of times before, but I’ve never walked away feeling as though I said anything substantial. Both Johann and Mendel have some sort of wall around them. I get the sense they say as much as they need to, and no more.

  And yet Austin said he wants me to lead this team. My first command as a permanent team leader, and it’s to a squad that’s already the base of rumors within the military, with people I don’t know how to talk to.

  Then, on top of it all, possibly the last person I expected to see walks in. Lieutenant Cathwell. I’m unable to wipe the shock from my face. When she glances my way, she smiles as though we have some private joke between us.

  I can’t believe it. After all that, after everything she said—after everything I said—she’s here. She actually came.

  I have to look away from her. The insensitive things I said before are still catapulting through my head.

  However, at the continued silence, I look back up. Cathwell is staring at Johann, who in turn is leveling the lieutenant a questioning look. Then Cathwell abruptly bursts into laughter.

  “You think there’s something funny about me?” Johann asks. His anger comes out through his typically subtle northern accent—he’s nearly bristling as he half stands.