His cat came first, the harbinger of his arrival. The creature had more moods than my mother; I was as likely to incite a scratch as a purr with my petting. It sat down directly in front of me, sparing a bored look before twitching its tail in a somewhat intimidating manner. Thankfully, Fitallion arrived moments later. I followed him to the armory where he signed out an array of small handguns and the ammunition for each.
We were halfway through free time, and I was feeling more confident having handled a few guns, when Fitallion finally spoke about something off topic. His voice was oddly hollow, accent careful and lilting as the words dripped from his tongue. “Are you angry?” he asked.
“What?” My outstretched hands dipped as I turned to look at him.
“I did not remain in your vicinity as of late, and I would like to know if you are angry. Perhaps if I had continued to linger, you would not have been harmed.” He gently tapped my wrists up, forcing me to look straight ahead where I was aiming a Boom 230 at the target.
Of course I had noticed his withdraw, how for the past few weeks he’d ceased fighting Edwards to sit beside me, no longer a constant in my periphery. I had noticed and I had done my best not to think about it, but I’d been curious and maybe a little hurt. “Looking after me was never your responsibility,” I said at last.
“But it was my responsibility,” he contradicted after I’d finished the round. “It was the entire format’s responsibility, and seeing you get hurt has made it plain what a failure they have been at it.”
“They don’t owe me anything and neither do you, so if you don’t want the chore of coddling me any longer, I understand.”
He switched to Shetheerie, the echo in his voice becoming more pronounced. “It was never a chore, Frost. I have enjoyed your company.”
My next shot went wide, not even touching the target. Embarrassed, I gently set down the firearm before responding. I switched to his native tongue as well. “Then why did you stop?”
“I wanted our mates to know you, and I thought if I stepped aside, perhaps another would take my place.”
“That backfired,” I noted dryly, thinking of how Mar and Ram had taken advantage.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Humans are unpredictable.”
I was a little startled by that, my head jerking ‘round to look at him. I had, on some level, forgotten that he was alien.
He was staring up at the sky, his face blank as a sheet. Without turning he said, “The clouds do not move so quickly on Shether, and the sky is blue.”
Above us the clouds were making haste across the sky, boiling with unrest as if pushed by invisible hands. It would be days until another storm was scheduled, so they were being drawn off, away from camp, to dissipate over the hot sands. “My parents say it’s the same on Earth.”
“Earthens who visit Shether for the first time often remark that we live in the clouds.”
“Why do they think that?” I replied. Wondering, “What is it like on Shether?”
“Nothing there is flat. The entire surface is scarred with high peaks and plunging valleys.”
“Like the mountains on Earth?”
“The highest mountain on Earth would be considered a mere foothill on Shether. We prefer high altitudes, seeking thin air, so our homes and cities are built on the tallest cliffs, taller than you can imagine.”
“Tell me more,” I pressed, completely fascinated.
“Shether is made up of many small tectonic plates, and their constant shifting means the mountains are either receding or advancing. So our foundations are constantly under stress, sometimes crumbling, forcing us to continually rebuild. Everything is always changing on Shether, and everything is beautiful and new. And mysterious,” he added. “The clouds shroud everything in mist, delivering a damp kiss.”
“You miss it,” I said, noting the way he watched the sky as he talked, as if he could find his home by looking hard enough.
“Of course,” he agreed, finally glancing down at me. “The atmosphere here does not agree with me. But visiting the desert planet was an opportunity I didn’t want to pass up.”
“Why are you here? On Little Red, I mean. I’ve been curious since the first time I saw you,” I admitted, busying my hands with reloading so I didn’t have to look at him.
“Then why did you never ask?”
“I didn’t want to appear meddlesome.”
“Or maybe interested,” he countered.
“That’s why I didn’t ask the others.”
He nearly smiled. “I am the first phase of an exchange program our planets are creating, details are still pending. After I have completed my year of service, I will give a report, and they will make adjustments based on my experience.”
“Is there a human soldier serving in the Shether military then?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “But I have never met him.”
“You seem older than everyone here. Did you serve in your military before volunteering for the exchange program?”
For just an instant he seemed startled, but when I looked more closely his face was the same. A moment passed, and when it became apparent he wouldn’t answer, I spoke to smooth things over. “I’m sorry, I am being meddlesome.”
He was unperturbed throughout the remainder of my lesson, and I wanted to forget that there had ever been that awkward moment. But I couldn’t help recalling the strange reaction he’d had over a seemingly innocent question. Was it my inquiry over his age, or his previous experience in the Shether military that had surprised him? And more importantly, why had he refused to answer?
Chapter 24
I have been beyond busy these last few months. Fitallion still tutors me in weapons, though I have long since caught up to the soldiers at camp, and soon he says Pumphrey will have to take over because I’m ready for sharp shooting. Lee has been working with me four days a week on my hand to hand combat skills, though mostly it’s defensive, delving into how to break a hold. I even spent my free time with Dutton once, watching him give pointers at the wrestling rings. I had intended to give it a try, but after seeing the soldiers do it, I refused. Dutton didn’t care. He was having a hard time trying to find me a suitable partner. Edwards had offered, and since he was one of the smaller mates on my format, it was a logical choice. Winslow forbid it though, and even seemed slightly relieved when I said I didn’t want to participate. Too much touching, my mum would have gone into hysterics.
So my free time is always full, my entire format contributing in one way or another to make me a better soldier. And though I suspect Lee is going easy on me, I’m often covered in bruises anyway. It’s like that first week of camp all over again. But I don’t mind, in fact, I’m sort of... happy. I mean, I fit in here about as well as I fit in at home—so not at all. But the thing is, here I have room to grow, some way to stimulate my mind. There are books and classes, and help in subjects I’d never thought to learn. And most importantly, a goal: trials. But as my mates prepare for the future, planning their careers, I can’t help but wonder what I will do, haunted by the question: Why am I here?
* * *
The moment Instructor Shubert called time, I collapsed to the ground, a heap of rubbery muscles. I allowed myself a few moments of rest. The rise and fall of my chest was my body’s only motion as I sucked in air. PT was brutal as ever, but I was keeping up. My arms and legs (which’d always been lean) had grown solid and firm. My stomach was still flat, but it too had turned hard, along with my back, which currently ached, the result of doing deadlifts. Slowly I peeled myself up off the ground, lumbering to the sidelines where the rest of my format currently toddled about, gathering stripped-off tunics and gulping from their waterskins.
I had just taken the first sip of my own waterskin, letting it glug glug glug into my mouth when someone stepped up beside me from behind.
“About the birdbane,” Mar said, slapping me on the back.
> I spewed water out, more from his statement than anything.
“Yes, we know you took it,” he said, noticing my rigid posture. He’d left his hand on my shoulder after his initial greeting, and he pulled me closer now, tucking me under his arm so that he could lean down and speak quietly into my ear. “We also know that you don’t have it. Swan and Stew are in possession, so we’ll likely never see it again. But therein lies the problem—we need it.”
“Nobody needs birdbane,” I said, trying to shrug out of his grip, but he held fast. “And whatever you’re up to, count me out.”
“You see,” Mar continued, as if I hadn’t said a word, “Ram had it all figured out. The birdbane was meant to be incentive for a soldier named Packer. He has a soft spot for two things, one of them being birdbane. You don’t by any chance know who Packer’s father is, do you?” He didn’t wait for me to respond, plowing on unperturbed. “His father is Robert Packer, the man in charge of admissions at Hamilton. And Ram and I have to go to Hamilton. Anyone who is anyone in military politics did their specialty training there. But since the birdbane is now gone, we have no way to get Packer to write home to his dear old dad, saying he wants his two good friends, Ram and Mar, to go to Hamilton with him. And now that I’ve got my less than stellar marks from Bardzecki, I need a recommendation more than ever. Lucky for us,” he said, speaking as though I cared, “Packer has two soft spots, the other being fracas.”
“No,” I said, thoroughly appalled. “No way.”
I tried to squirm away, but I was weak from PT and he easily kept me pinned to his side. “This isn’t another trick,” he said, trying to sound conciliatory. “We’re just concerned about our future and we want your help. Have we done anything to earn your reproach these last few months?”
He had a point. Ever since the fight that had sent me to the infirmary, they had been... nice. But I was no fool, and could promise only so much accommodation. “You can finish your pitch, but I’m telling you now, whatever it is, I won’t do it.”
“Now,” he said, smiling as he shook my shoulders with enthusiasm, “down to business. You wouldn’t be in harms way, though I know you might find that hard to believe considering we want you to play one game of fracas—”
“Martinez,” Winslow barked, cutting him off. “Release Frost,” he ordered while rounding on us.
Winslow had been a bear the last few months. After my spell at the infirmary he had been very protective, so much so in fact, that I began to imagine it as tender consideration... until it got annoying. He disliked me mixing with other formats. None of my mates liked it for that matter, but only Winslow frightened the soldiers away, growling and glaring until the entire convene knew better than to approach me. After that he started in on my mates, growing intolerant of Swan and Stew’s open affection. He had even taken to watching Roth, who’d been thumping me on the back from day one. The worst, by far, was when he announced one day during lunch that Edwards was forbidden from entering my shed unaccompanied. Poor Edwards had grown bright red. Even I had flushed at the implication, but it was anger that I felt as the whole table snickered, not mortification. Towards me, Winslow remained cold and withdrawn, but it was his habit of acting like a father and not a first that I couldn’t stand.
“Frost is not participating in fracas,” he said.
“Excuse me?” I’d had enough. I was putting my foot down.
“You aren’t playing fracas,” he repeated. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Aren’t you supposed to treat me like every other soldier at camp?” I asked. Continuing, “They play, even if it is dangerous.”
Martinez, knowing an opportunity when he saw it, spoke up. “So you’ll do it?”
I stared up at Winslow as he glared back at me. “Sure,” I said.
* * *
Ram and Mar planned another neat little trap, only this time I wouldn’t be the victim. Or so I hoped. They had happened upon Packer and his mates (not the coincidence it’d seemed) a few days before the big fracas game. I didn’t follow the sport, but even I knew that the forty-seventh and eighteenth formats were going toe to toe. They’d been duking it out all year on the field, smashing each other to pieces, and they were ready for another match.
Mar had casually said that the forty-seventh was sure to win, knowing full well that Packer favored the eighteenth. As planned, Packer argued in that format’s favor. Mar didn’t disagree outright after that, preferring to stir the gathered soldiers into a debate with a few provocative remarks. The whole lot of them were going at it when Ram spoke up. Until then he had been silent, and that, coupled with the little book he carried, gave his words weight. Everyone hushed to hear as he said, “Mar’s right. It’ll be the forty-seventh, they’d win even with a handicap.”
“The eighteenth doesn’t need the help of a handicap,” someone protested.
“That would be an interesting match though,” another soldier remarked. “Imagine if the forty-seventh won. Everyone would have to admit that they were the superior format at fracas after that.”
“The eighteenth doesn’t need a handicap!”
“But what handicap?” They began to conjecture, ignoring the soldier who persisted in the eighteenth’s favor.
Just then I casually walked through the huts, passing them on my way to the latrine. My seemingly spontaneous presence was as tailored as the entire conversation had been, plotted out and planned for just this moment.
“The girl!” someone called out, pointing in my direction.
And that was it. Ram and Mar had just succeeded with half their plan.
The fracas match took place on our one free day of the week. It was bone-dry and hot out, the sun beating down, creating an oily sheen that shimmered over the distant sands. The fracas field was shockingly green by comparison, the grass nicely trimmed and springy. Around it soldiers gathered, assembling just behind the sidelines, anticipation written all over their faces.
“Your team is this color,” Mar said, wrapping a blue sash around my waist and tying it off at the hip. “So remember what we told you, the red ditch is where you’ll go.”
“Don’t make it obvious,” Ram stressed. “Act as though you’re just nervous, hiding as far from the action as the field will allow.”
They’d told me the plan and then rehashed it a thousand times over; it was the game itself that I was unsure of. “So you can win points by getting the ball into your opponents’ ditch,” I clarified.
“Or tackling the other team as they move the ball to your team’s ditch,” Mar added. He was a bit preoccupied trying to fit me into the oversized shoulder pads. “Take off your vest for a second,” he said. “It’ll be easier.”
“Do I really need this?” I asked, shrugging my vest down. “I’m not tackling anyone.”
He laid the padding over my tunic where it rested on my shoulders, stretching thinly across the back of my neck. “You can’t play unless you wear all the protective gear,” Mar replied. He strapped it to me by the fluttering strings, tying them tight under my armpits.
“I know there are two ways to move the ball,” I continued. “It can either be kicked or carried.”
“If it’s carried, tackle from the waist up. If kicked, the waist down. If you do it wrong, you don’t get points and the team moving the ball switches,” Ram said as they finished cinching me in.
Mar was waiting impatiently for me to shut up. “You don’t need to worry about all that. You know what to do, it’s simple enough. Now open,” he said, gesturing to my mouth.
“Is that clean?” I asked skeptically, staring at the mouthguard.
“Sure,” he said, wiping it off on his pant leg for good measure before shoving it over my teeth. “How does it feel?”
I couldn’t talk around it, so I gave a halfhearted shrug which seemed to pacify him.
“Do you remember what Fisher looks like?” Ram asked for maybe the hundredth ti
me. I searched the crowd, easily finding the soldier they had indicated in its midst. He was now wearing a blue sash like mine.
I pointed to him, and Mar rushed to cover the gesture, hoping no one had seen. “We don’t want this to look planned, Frost, so don’t stare at him the whole time, alright?”
Fisher loved gambling as much as he loved fracas. And while he was good at one of those things, it didn’t help him with the other. He owed Mar and Ram a lot of favors... a lot. Packer had bet the eighteenth would win, additionally betting that I would never even touch the ball. That was where Fisher came in. They would expunge his debt if he helped ensure that Packer lost his bet.
“Last thing,” Ram said, lifting up a padded cap. He pulled it on, tucking my hair away as Mar strapped it under my chin. I knew how ridiculous I looked because I now matched the other players, each of us egg-headed. “Alright, that’s it. You’re all set.” He gave me a shove toward the field where the players were gathering.
“Good luck,” Ram said quietly as I drifted away.
“Don’t screw it up!” Mar added, yelling after me.
Chapter 25
Someone had brought a drum. I could hear its slow, steady beat from center field. I glanced along the sidelines while waiting for the game to start. They boiled with soldiers, even a few instructors, each jockeying for a better position.
My whole format was there, but that wasn’t a surprise—everyone was there. I avoided looking at Winslow, though I did note that no one pushed him to get a better position, and he stood front and center, a coveted spot.
Fisher sidled up next to me. Like many of the players, he’d already stripped off his tunic. I envied him. It was hot and I could feel the sweat gathering under my many layers and across my forehead.
“How do you want me to pass you the ball?” he said under his breath.
“Kick it to me,” I replied, knowing I’d never catch it. He began to saunter off, taking up his starting position with confidence, and I hurried to add, “Gently.”
I could not share in Fisher’s confidence. I knew that despite Mar and Ram’s claims, the forty-seventh and the eighteenth were evenly matched. And by replacing me with a contributing player, the forty-seventh would have to work that much harder to win.