Time passed, I don’t know how much, but the longer I sat there the worse I felt. The adrenaline leaked out of me, and I felt weak and shaky. For some reason I kept thinking of my family, especially my parents, and how distressed they would be if they ever found out about what had just transpired. I often felt apart from them, even when I’d lived in the same house, no, especially when I lived in the same house, but even so, I knew they cared. The thought left me close to tears, and I blinked rapidly, trying to keep them at bay, but they spilled over, making twin paths down each cheek. I dashed them away roughly, hating my visible weakness. I hadn’t cried since the beginning of camp, not even when I overheard Winslow and Samona together. Stubbornly I rubbed my face, sniffing quietly as I tried to remove any evidence that Gridleigh’s visit had upset me. That was when I heard someone approaching and stilled, listening to the tell-tale crunch of moving feet. The door swung open with an ominous creak that I swear it had never made before.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Only one soldier this time. I didn’t move a muscle as he paced. “Frost?” Winslow beckoned gently.
“I’m here,” I croaked. And only then did I let myself feel the flood of relief, taking the time to wipe my face once more before shoving the dirty mattress aside to stand.
Winslow waited in the midst of chaos. The shed looked much worse than usual. Mattresses and bed frames lay strewn about, overlapping to cover every inch of the floor. In addition, my personal belongings were scattered all over.
“No!” I said, spotting my mirror amongst the clutter. I scratched up my leg and nearly twisted an ankle as I hurried for it. Pieces of bed frame sprouted from the mess, gouging at me as I went. I reached it, collapsing into the mess of my shed when I saw the crack. The frame was intact, but the mirror itself had been split. A line that resembled a bolt of lightening ran down its center. “I hate him,” I whispered, thinking of how easily he could break something that I had treasured for so long.
Winslow knelt beside me, gently rubbing my back. “For this, I hate him too,” he agreed, not having to ask who. “Are you alright?”
“No.”
He tried to pull me to him, his arm wrapped possessively around my waist as he tugged me in close. But I resisted. “You shouldn’t,” I said, thinking of Samona.
“You’re right,” he agreed on a sigh, letting me go. We sat there for a while. I had no desire to move. Eventually his thoughts caught up with him, and Winslow wondered aloud, “Why now? Why did he wait months to suddenly lash out at you?”
“I saw him,” I answered dully. “A few days ago, before Samona left, I saw him talking to her.” Winslow nodded. I watched him and his perfect profile, miserable and jealous. I couldn’t think of a single reason to keep my mouth shut, so I added, “I heard you too, you know, you and Samona talking in the convene.”
I thought he might look away or have the decency to be even a little ashamed, but he held my look, carefully watching. Finally he said, “I should have told you about Samona.”
“Yes you should have!” I agreed angrily.
He continued to watch me, seeming to piece together a puzzle. “I cared about Samona, so when she said she’d wait while I was at training camp, I said okay. But the first few weeks here were so tough, and I wanted to be our format’s first. I felt it then, the Bardzecki ambition. I realized for the first time how much devotion the military would require. So I wrote home and told her not to wait for me, knowing it wouldn’t be fair to her.
“She came here hoping enough time had passed, that I’d missed her and changed my mind. I do still care for her,” he admitted. “But it’s over between us, even if she refuses to see it, because even if the military weren’t an obstacle, my perspective has changed. Meeting you has changed what I thought I wanted.”
“You and Samona aren’t together?”
He shook his head, an amused smile playing faintly across his lips. “I told her that I would always care about her, but that I would never marry her. I told her to move on.” He frowned. “But perhaps I should have told her about you, because she didn’t take me seriously. She still thinks I’ll change my mind.”
“You can hug me then,” I said, sniffing slightly. “Since you and Samona aren’t together.”
“I don’t think—”
I considered releasing the tears, knowing he’d hug me then for sure. But that seemed like something Lizzie would do, so I forwent the dramatics. I leaned into him instead, removing him from the decision. I wrapped my arms around his waist, and then even though I didn’t mean to, I cried. Winslow finally gave in, pressing close as he picked up my hand and laced our fingers together.
“Is Edwards okay?” I asked, feeling like a sandcreeper for not thinking of it sooner.
“He didn’t look good when I saw him,” Winslow admitted, voice soft and deadly. I knew he hated Gridleigh for that too. “But I’m sure he’s at the infirmary by now. I sent the first soldier I found for help while I came to find you.”
“Why were you coming in the first place?”
He shifted as if the mattress underneath of us was uncomfortable. “I knew Edwards planned to tell you about the hostile attack, and when he didn’t return straight away—”
“You were jealous!” I accused, cutting him off. Again he shifted, and it became obvious what was truly making him uncomfortable. “Admit it,” I pressed.
He ignored that, instead saying, “I bet you let him into the shed.”
I smiled through the waning tears. “I did. But don’t be a dummy, you have no reason to be jealous of Edwards.” To prove my point I leaned over and kissed him. He resisted at first, holding himself stiff, but I think the taste of my salty tears made him soften. We got carried away after that, the mattress on the floor proving too convenient. I ended up pressing Winslow down as I draped myself across him. It wasn’t until my tears had all dried, long since forgotten, replaced by something burning and needy, that we finally slowed down. Winslow regained his head first, hands pausing to a stop as he lifted me away. I thought he’d say something, sing the same tune about mistakes and things that could never happen again. But much to my surprise, he only said, “Let’s go see Edwards. The whole format will be waiting by now.”
I straightened my tunic and vest, hurrying to rebraid my hair before we left my shed. Winslow watched. His face was devoid of expression, but he couldn’t erase the heat from his eyes, and I knew what he was thinking.
We marched toward camp together, side by side, but not touching. I wanted to take his hand, but I didn’t. What he wanted, I had no idea. He was wearing that impenetrable mask again. The mask of a leader, of a military man, and now even his eyes gave nothing away.
Chapter 29
Edwards did not look good, and seeing him all bruised and bandaged made me feel terrible. Dr. Pruitt had removed his tunic, vest and belt, though most of his waist was wrapped tight with white gauze. My mates, who typically took every opportunity to rib each other, were somber and quiet as they stood circled around the curtained-off bed. Edwards himself was unconscious, having been given a heavy dose of meds to dull the pain.
“How bad is it?” Winslow asked from behind me.
“We’re waiting to hear if his ribs are cracked,” Swan answered.
“I can’t believe they did this,” I said, slumping into the vacant chair at Edwards’ bedside. I was utterly shocked. The damage to him was far beyond what Ram and Mar regularly inflicted on each other. It was hard to accept.
“Who?” demanded Martinez, his eyes practically glowing with malice.
“Didn’t he tell you?” I asked, looking at each of them.
“He wouldn’t admit to anything in front of the doctor, kept insisting he tripped,” Pumphrey said with a cynical snort.
I turned to look at Winslow over my shoulder. “Why would he lie?”
“Well who was it, Frost?” Stew pressed.
; “Gridleigh,” I answered. “And two of his mates.” I leaned forward to gently touch Edwards’ right hand. His knuckles were raw. “Looks like one of them will be wearing a bruise too.”
“Three to one. I can’t believe he kept quiet about it,” Stew said while shaking his head. But there was admiration there, and no doubt he would have crowed over such a fight.
“I know why he kept quiet,” Winslow said.
“Why?” Roth asked, stepping up beside me, a hand on my shoulder. He’d been standing back, a solemn shadow, but I was glad when he moved closer. I always found his presence reassuring.
“At first I wasn’t sure why Gridleigh would act out now, it didn’t make sense,” Winslow explained.
“I told you I he—”
He shook his head, cutting me off. “It’s more than that,” he said to me. Turning to address the format, he continued, “He’s getting desperate.”
“It’s true,” I huffed. “He told his mates he wasn’t going to let me get the edge over them at trials.”
“It’s no secret that you’ve been helping our format on the academic end of things. You’ll significantly raise our overall average and he doesn’t like that. He’s terrified of losing, so he took the easy way out,” Winslow explained.
“I don’t understand,” I admitted.
“Gridleigh is a first, so he knew the severity of Edwards’ wounds would get him punished, maybe even stripped of his title. The whole situation would look bad, especially right before trials. He’d lose all hope of winning, but in his mind it wouldn’t be losing either. He’d always be able to say that if his cousin’s mate hadn’t whined about a little fight, he could have won.”
“What a bunch of cowards,” Jackson spit.
“I don’t think he told his mates his plan, they wouldn’t have gone for it. I also don’t think Edwards was the intended target,” Winslow added, giving me a significant look.
“So let me get this straight,” Mar said. “Edwards kept quiet so we’d beat Gridleigh fair and square?”
Winslow shrugged. “That would be my guess, though I’ll urge him to speak up when he’s awake. I’ve listened to Gridleigh complain my entire life, trying to spare me is useless. He’ll always find a new reason.”
“What a baby,” Pumphrey sneered.
I couldn’t withhold the look of irony. When it came to petty words, Pumphrey was not one to point fingers.
“If Edwards chose to remain silent on the matter, then you should respect that,” Fitallion told Winslow.
I often found Fitallion unsettlingly mature and wise, but in this instance I couldn’t agree with him. “They beat him up for nothing,” I argued. “You want to let them get away with it?”
“Beating them at trials would be punishment,” Ram said quietly.
I noticed Dutton had been following the conversation, though I could tell his heartburn was acting up again. He wouldn’t stop rubbing his chest. I wasn’t surprised when he chimed in, though I hadn’t expected him to say, “I agree.”
“What? No!” I cried, gesturing to Edwards. “Look at him. Look at what they did!”
“Oh come on,” Stew urged. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it looks. And you should have heard him going on and on about you during his X-ray, asking if you were alright while extolling his efforts to protect you.”
Hearing this only made me feel worse. “It isn’t right,” I said quietly.
“No it isn’t,” Winslow agreed. We all turned to him, needing someone to pick up the reins. “Ultimately it’s Edwards’ decision, and he’s already made it.” I slumped in the chair, feeling defeated. Winslow’s eyes locked onto me. “But I promise either way—no matter what—Gridleigh will be paid in kind.”
* * *
I sat on Mar and Ram’s bunk while waiting for the format to gather. Winslow was at a firsts’ meeting. He was learning the particulars of what we were to expect at trials, and more importantly, the war games. Camp was even rowdier than usual, the soldiers loud, and in my opinion—obnoxious. The closer we came to the end of the year, the worse it got.
Swan and Stew sat primly on the next bunk over—I was immediately suspicious. “What are you doing?”
They turned, the glint of knives becoming visible. “Carving,” said Stew.
My brows knit together. “Where did you get the knives?”
Turning back to his work, Stew said, “We borrowed them.”
“No one would lend the two of you knives.”
“That’s why we borrowed them from the weapons shed,” explained Swan. “No one to say no.”
I often marveled at Winslow’s ability to outmaneuver Swan and Stew, because I knew from experience that I had no control over them, and had long since accepted the fact. So instead of lecturing them I asked, “What are you carving?”
Stew was pleased to elaborate. “We tried working with soap bars for a while. It sort of worked, but they’d sometimes crumble or flake, so we’re giving it a go with wood.”
We only grew scraggly brush on Providence. It was soft and useless, so we imported timber. It was either sent from Earth, a long and expensive trip, or Shether, passing Braacktda en route, a dangerous journey. This meant all wood was precious, and used sparingly for only things that could not be substituted with another material. So obviously I demanded, “Where did you get wood?”
“From the door of your shack,” Stew said without remorse.
I was not amused. “It’s not a shack, it’s a shed. And please don’t hack anymore chunks of wood from my door, I value my privacy.”
“The window you leave uncovered would suggest otherwise,” Swan replied.
Before I could respond, Stew added, “Don’t be angry. It’ll only make you seem ungrateful because we’re making these dolls for you and your sister.”
I leaned forward to peer at their work. “Dolls!” I shrilled, bewildered. “Those look like... like...”
“Chubby naked women,” Stew offered.
“They’re a symbol of fertility,” corrected Swan. He grinned at me, quietly confiding, “We found a book in Instructor McMoore’s office.”
I couldn’t help but stare at the small statues. Thick arms and legs tapered to tiny hands and feet, but the most obvious feature was a lewdly large pair of breasts. My mother would definitely not approve. “Was it a... an obscene book?”
They both laughed. Swan said, “No, it was an Earthen art history book.”
“Oh,” and then I came to my senses. “What would I want with a fertility doll? Or my sister for that matter? She’s twelve!”
Swan shrugged, but Stew was totally offended. “You’re the only girl I’ve ever met who doesn’t like getting gifts.”
I was saved from responding as Jackson and Dutton, the last of our format, trickled in, followed by Winslow. The hut seemed to shrink with everyone gathered, a hive of activity as my mates seemed to swarm over each other. Even Fitallion and Lee were animated, swept up in the fervor of the upcoming competition.
The moment Winslow started talking everyone hurried to shut up. “Instructor Bardzecki merely gave us a schedule. Look at it, then pass it along,” he said, handing a sheet of paper to Ramirez. “Trials will commence with a number of written exams. Instead of classes this week, we’ll be taking comprehensive tests in each subject. You’ll notice we don’t test in Shetheerie until the fifth day of the week, so we have time to prepare. I can’t stress how important it is for you to do well on that test—only soldiers fluent in the language are allowed aboard a trip to Shether. Testing well this early in your training will make you stand out. So devote your free time to preparing, Fitallion and Frost will be available to help you.” This was the first I’d heard of it, but I didn’t object. I’d contribute any way I could.
Winslow continued to give orders, focusing on each of our weak spots. He knew them all. But I tuned out, thinking of the war games to come. The soldiers relis
hed the idea of being pitted against one another in a life-like game of cat and mouse. Speculation over the rules were a constant topic at breakfast, lunch, and dinner these days. I thought it was a bit absurd, all the soldiers posturing like peacocks. The war games would bring attention to the winning format, but it was the academic tests that would decide much of our overall score, a fact that few seemed to remember.
Chapter 30
The demarcation between the military district and the farming sector has never been more apparent here at camp. As the year draws to a close, farmers like Jackson and me begin to think of home, while soldiers’ sons are preparing to embark on a lifelong career. Trials will not hold our fate in its hand, and so we move in a world apart from the others, breathing easier. That is not to say that we don’t care about the outcome. On the contrary, I can speak for all the farmers when I say we care very much. I have spent the last six months in the constant company of my format mates. Their interests are my interests, and I suppose Jackson (who has been here twice as long, living in close quarters with these soldiers) feels even more bound than I to make sure we do our part.
But I shouldn’t get ahead of myself! It has been weeks since I’ve made an entry in this journal. I’ll admit, I no longer rush to confide my every thought and feeling within these pages. That desire died when Gridleigh breached its cover. But I do feel as though I should record events as they transpired, especially the last two weeks of trials—tests, tests, and more tests. And now that they have come and gone, the war games are nearly upon us. But again, I shouldn’t get ahead of myself.