So let’s see, where to start? Edwards, I should think. His recovery must be marked down. He didn’t have a fractured rib, not even a little crack, though you would think he was dying to look at him. Bruises were still coming in days after the fight (though I doubt it was really much of a fight). But I will say in Edwards’ defense, he didn’t go down easy. After moving him from the infirmary to my format’s hut, he felt well enough to sit up and recount events. Apparently he’d done just as he had said he would, telling Gridleigh I wasn’t in my shed. However they didn’t believe Edwards because he refused to let them continue on, blocking their path and telling them to go back to camp. So they pushed him around a bit, and when he pushed back, they beat him ruthlessly, each taking a turn. I had to leave the hut at this point in his story, gulping down air and trying not to cry. I didn’t, but only just. Sure, I was mad at Gridleigh, seething really, but I was even angrier with myself. How could I have hid, crouching under that disgusting mattress, shaking like a leaf, while Edwards had been taking a beating on my behalf? How could I have behaved like such a coward? This question haunted me, still haunts me, but my format doesn’t hold me responsible. And though he should, Edwards doesn’t blame me either.
I did my best to make it up to him. It’s no secret that Edwards is abysmal in most subjects, but none more so than Shetheerie, so I took the time to tutor him. He’s always had trouble focusing in class. I thought to use his bedridden state to my advantage, hoping he’d be more receptive to my lessons. I was mistaken. At one point I resorted to shaking him by the shoulders just to keep his attention. And I worried, I can’t describe how much I worried, that he would do badly on the test.
My time seeped away that first week of written exams. In addition to Edwards, I somehow ended up tutoring the entire format. It seems I am my father’s daughter. He used to be a teacher on Earth, and for me the skill also comes naturally. Fitallion obviously didn’t need lessons in Shetheerie, he wouldn’t even be tested on the subject. There were others on my format, like Swan and Stew, who were as knowledgeable as I, but Winslow didn’t ask them to help the others. It was me that stayed up late each night, working by the thin, flickering light above my shed’s door. I sat on the steps until the morning light came dripping down, preparing notes and lessons, struggling to figure out how best to help my mates in whatever subject they were less than sure of. Take Pumphrey for instance, he was a crack shot, best at camp, but apart from pulling the trigger he didn’t know anything about the weapons he used or their history. “I can hit any pebble from here to the dunes,” he would brag. “I don’t care about carrying regulations!” Jackson thought land navigation was useless, and trying to get him to use a compass was like pulling hair from a lizard. Martinez was terrible when it came to first aid, and he didn’t believe anything I said about resuscitation. “Dead is dead!” was his mantra.
It was Winslow that knew all of these foibles. Attuned to each of us, he was easily able to direct me on how I should spend my time tutoring our format. So I told Pumphrey a fascinating story about the Hopsburg rifle to get him interested. For Jackson I just had to find a way to relate navigation to farming, and suddenly the subject was no longer elusive. With Mar, I’m ashamed to admit, I threw a fit when he didn’t take my lessons seriously, doing my best impression of Lizzie. That seemed to cow him, but truthfully, I’m not sure why.
When the written tests ended, things didn’t get easier. Following in their wake was a series of individual exams with each instructor. They didn’t warn us, and gave us little time to prepare, wanting to know what we had learned, not what we had managed to cram in the night before. But I did cram, relentlessly forcing my mates to prepare. Word got out around camp that I was tutoring, and a few firsts requested that their mates be allowed to sit in. Of course my mates hated the idea, but Winslow allowed it, wanting not only the forty-fourth to do their best, but every soldier.
Winslow. Now there’s a natural born leader for you. Sometimes I almost understand Gridleigh’s mean-spirited, petty attitude. Growing up next to Winslow would mean growing up in a shadow, and anyone would feel inferior under such circumstances. But I said almost. All I have to do is remember Edwards’ injuries and I no longer feel for Gridleigh’s plight.
He’s been lurking around. I see him at the convene often enough, but he hasn’t tried to approach me. Then again, it would do him little good because I am never left alone, not since Edwards was beaten. My mates have taken to watching me. Winslow has them escort me everywhere, even to the latrine on the southwestern side of camp (embarrassing). I go along with this, though none of us are convinced Gridleigh is going to try anything, not yet at least. He’s going to wait, and we all know when.
I’m just grateful Gridleigh isn’t in any of my classes. I couldn’t concentrate if that was the case. But he’s not, and I am free to enter into every exam clearheaded and calm.
The oral exam with Instructor McMoore was easy, though the rest of camp groaned about it. He called each student into his office one by one, starting a spontaneous conversation in Shetheerie to see how well we could follow along. I quite enjoyed it. Something I didn’t enjoy was Bardzecki’s performance exam. Since there was no reason for it to be separate, we all trudged over to the range together, watching one another take aim and fire. The weapons we used were supposedly chosen at random, but I had my doubts... When it was my turn Bardzecki gave me a thin, toothless smile and handed over the Kodiak, waiting for me to squeeze off a round. My mates called encouragement from the background, but the sound seemed to fade away. I remember thinking I was going to save one bullet and shoot myself if I didn’t hit the target every time. I didn’t mean it of course. Well, I guess that’s easy to say now, knowing I did well. Bardzecki was surprised. I could see it in his face when I turned around. My target was filled with a tight cluster of holes all within the inner ring, right where the heart would be. My mates’ cheering grew louder as they passed me around for a proper congratulations.
That was how it was, the weeks passing by in a flurry of tests, choking fear and anxiety, not wanting to fail or let your mates down, and then the relief, the happiness, the cheering when you did well. Camp’s been alive like it’s never been before, and we’ve all been swept away in it, feeling the events forming and shaping around us, inevitably looming. My time at camp is ending, the days passing by like a tick of time, but I can’t help but be happy.
Just two days ago we’d taken the first aid exam. As I’d waited for my mates to finish, I’d especially worried over how Mar would do. He’d remained resistant to the idea that a person could be revived after apparent death, so of course I was worried. I imagined him staring down at the fake body they’d brought in specifically for the test, and telling the instructor to put on something black because it was too late. But when he walked out he was smiling triumphantly, his dark eyes bright with excitement as he yelled, “My dummy’s alive!”
It was hard not to be happy at times like that.
But all exams are over now, written or otherwise, and the only thing left is the war games. I am less than thrilled now that my part is over. I may have been a necessary cog when it came to the academic end of things, but I have nothing else to offer. And now that’s my biggest fear—being the weak link.
* * *
Lee smacked the tops of my hands, telling me with his tilted, cryptic eyes that I hadn’t been fast enough. We were playing a child’s game. He had insisted it would quicken my reflexes. I had been skeptic at first, but he’d stared at me quietly, with endless patience until I had gone along. Now my hands hovered over his open palms, almost, but not quite touching as I waited for him to strike. He’d reach around to slap the backs of my hands with shocking speed before I could pull away. As I said, the exercise had always seemed futile and juvenile, well, until I’d noticed it was actually working. I was getting faster, my reactions turning swift.
Shifting
on Lee’s bunk, I settled in to wait until he tried to slap me again. The rest of my format was gathered in the hut as well, waiting for Winslow to return from yet another firsts’ meeting. Unlike the last time, my mates were hushed and still. It was the calm before the storm. The war games were two days away, and three days after that my life at camp would come to a grinding halt. The swamping reality had splashed over everyone, our lives were about to change—it was sobering.
On the next bunk over Ram was telling Dutton, Edwards, Roth and Jackson about the time his brother had been at camp, and how the war games had been then. Everyone knew the rules changed from year to year, but that didn’t stop them from planning, idly offering up winning strategies to occupy their minds and fill the time until Winslow arrived.
When he finally did step through the open portal and into our hut, I got slapped, but the sting hardly registered. Winslow always managed to trap my attention and it was getting harder to look away, to pretend he was just another soldier. We’d both been causally indifferent toward one another since our last kiss that day Edwards got hurt. But it was harder now, knowing that we only had so much time, days until we’d be separated, perhaps forever.
“Well?” Pumphrey demanded impatiently.
Winslow walked to his bunk, peeling off his vest as he went before tossing it aside. Sitting on the edge of his mattress he took the time to roll up his sleeves, ignoring the twelve of us. I knew he wasn’t intentionally tormenting my mates, it was blaringly hot out, and he probably just wanted to cool down and relax after walking all the way from his meeting at the northern tip of camp, but my mates didn’t seem to agree.
“Come on!” Stew urged, teetering over the top bunk.
“We’ll have an audience,” Winslow said, shucking his boots. “And I got the impression that the war games will be more for the benefit of the spectators than the soldiers sweating in them,” he said, sounding distinctly displeased.
“Spectators?” Roth rumbled. “From where?”
“All around,” Winslow sighed. “The air base will be closed down, it’ll be like a holiday for them. And I’m sure there will be plenty of drinking and betting,” he added throwing Ram and Mar a look. Then he turned to me. “Commander Clarke is supposed to be there with a few diplomats in tow, probably some other high-ranking sycophants.”
“The commander!” Edwards yelped.
Winslow nodded. “He’s going to congratulate the winning format personally.”
“That’s nice and all,” Mar said, sounding less than impressed. “But I’d prefer a good word in the right ear over a handshake.”
“If we win then you won’t have to worry about that,” Swan said. “You’ll be given first pick of where you want to take your specialty training.”
Mar turned to Winslow, seeking confirmation.
“The instructors haven’t promised anything,” Winslow replied. “But yes, it is an established tradition that the winning format has a say in their future, first pick and all that...”
For the first time I started to think of how winning could apply to me. Would I have a say in my future? And if I did, what would I choose? Return home or stay on? Farmers did, on occasion, choose to pursue a military career, though they were usually the third or fourth son of a large family. What would I do? What would I be allowed to do? Was the commander going to escort me home, leaving me as little say in the matter as he had before? My mind swirled with questions, but suddenly I thought the outcome of trials was very important.
“Tell us about the rules,” Pumphrey urged.
“I’ll give you every instruction they gave me,” Winslow assured. “We are to dress in typical combat uniform and be ready for transport directly after breakfast in two days time. We’ll be lifted to the site, and though the instructors refused to disclose much information, I inferred that it will be a large arena with obstacles to provide cover.
“Formats will be stationed at an isolated location ringing the gaming site,” Winslow continued, “where we wait until the starting signal. We’ll carry nothing but two white surrender flags which we clip to our belts. If and when you cross paths with another soldier you may choose to run or fight—” Here Winslow was forced to give up his speech. My mates had forcefully cut him off in their haste to adamantly express that they would never run. Winslow indulged them for a moment before resuming his instructions. “When one opponent bests another, the loser forfeits one of his surrender flags. The other he will hold above his head as he leaves the field. This signifies he is no longer in play, so to speak.”
“So we just pick off the other soldiers until we’re the last team on the field?” Swan asked.
“That doesn’t seem so hard,” Martinez agreed.
Winslow shook his head. “No, there’s more. Each format will also be given one red victory flag. It can stay clipped to one mate or be passed around, but only to members still in play. And if the soldier holding the victory flag surrenders, so does his entire format.
“Instructors will be communicating with one another while patrolling from both on the field and off. They’ll keep track of any soldiers walking out with both the surrender and victory flag so they can announce the format number, signaling all mates of that format to leave the field immediately, even if they’re in the middle of a fight.
“They’re also patrolling to make sure everything’s fair. If your opponent has you in a hold you cannot escape for more than ten seconds, then you surrender even if the words don’t leave your mouth. If you admit surrender, but don’t quit the field, they will make you. Any sign of cheating or dishonest conduct will result in punishment for the entire format.
“Since the point of this is to test our combat strength and skill, the fights are one on one. They don’t want to watch a sloppy brawl with unfair numbers,” Winslow said, his eyes briefly flickering to Edwards. “They want to see strategy and planning.
“The rules are pretty simple. I think I covered them all.” He sat back, then forward, remembering, “Oh, and the flags must remain visible at all times, clipped to your belt where anyone can see. No hiding the red flag under your shirt.” He looked toward Swan and Stew when he said the last.
“I had hoped there would be weapons,” Pumphrey scowled.
“I think there might be,” Winslow admitted. “The instructors said we wouldn’t be given weapons, but the careful way they said it made me think they were intentionally misleading us.”
“Weapons were included the year my brother participated in the war games,” Mar offered. “They shot pellets. If you got marked you were out.”
“Could be something like that,” Winslow agreed. “Perhaps they’ll be hidden on site, or perhaps you can take them from soldiers you’ve bested. I can’t say, but what I do know is that we need to talk strategy.
“I can see the advantage of staying together as a group. But splitting up isn’t a bad idea either, everyone lying low while the other formats pick each other off. Both plans have merit and I’m open to suggestion.”
“Who’s going to carry the victory flag is what I want to know,” Stew said.
“Lee should do it,” Dutton grunted. “It’ll be safest with him.”
“I’m not invincible,” Lee said gently from beside me. “All fifty formats will be competing—this event may take hours. I’ll be a target even without the victory flag, and I’ll eventually tire under constant combat, so it’s not necessarily safe with me.”
“Roth could take it,” Jackson said. “He’s intimidating.”
“Or we could give it to Frost,” Swan countered.
I blanched. “You must be joking,” I replied sharply, afraid that he was not.
“Why not?” he pressed. “It’s not as if they’ll be seeking you out. Hell! Half of them dote on you like smitten swain, they’ll probably avoid you like the plague.”
“You’re daft,” I said, my voice rising with panic. “I’ll probably be t
he first to surrender, and I’ll consider myself lucky if it’s not Gridleigh that takes my flag!”
Winslow jerked forward. “She’s right, we know Gridleigh will seek her out.”
“You can’t give me the victory flag,” I said desperately. “We’d lose for sure.”
Roth ambled over, shoving me and Lee aside as he forced himself down onto the mattress beside me, unable to withhold a heavy back-patting. I believe it was meant to make me feel better, but it didn’t work.
“Don’t be dramatic,” Stew chastened. “You won’t make us lose.”
“Yeah, you’re the good luck charm, remember?” Mar always said that, he insisted betting was always better with me around.
“Some would say having thirteen mates on our format gives us the advantage,” Fitallion said. “Gridleigh certainly believes it is so.”
“I agree,” Winslow said, his voice instantly capturing my attention. “We can beat Gridleigh,” Winslow said with confidence. “In fact, I think he’ll hand us the victory when all is said and done.”
He sounded so sure, and I trusted him, I just didn’t trust myself.
Chapter 31
I stood amid my mates, stomach churning with unsettled nerves. I had refused to eat at breakfast, anticipating my own anxiety, but Winslow had insisted, so now I felt as if I might puke at any moment. I’d be sure to thank him later.
The instructors appeared after breakfast, not all at once, but one by one in a staggered effort to shuffle the soldiers in a steady stream north to the awaiting Scarlets. Bardzecki had always been our instructor—the one that Winslow turned to should something unexpected happen. Unfortunately Bardzecki was also Gridleigh’s instructor, and as he was the last to arrive, we all waited together, the air so tense you could cut it with a knife.
Instructors were assigned formats at random before camp started each year, two or three groups that they were responsible for. Stew had relished telling me all about the drama that ensued when Gridleigh found out that the forty-fourth format—Winslow’s format—had been assigned to his uncle by chance. Apparently he made a stink about it, going on about favoritism and such, to which Bardzecki supposedly offered to switch Winslow’s format for Gridleigh’s just to shut him up. But he didn’t shut up, instead he claimed that it would make him appear weak to report to his uncle. So that was how Bardzecki got saddled being in charge of both his nephews, something uncommon in Little Red’s military, because by then the other instructors had washed their hands of the whole situation. I wasn’t ready to swallow the whole story. I thought even Gridleigh couldn’t be that petty, but I made sure to keep my eyes averted as we waited to be escorted north. If not petty, he was a lot of other things.