Текст книги "The Star Dwellers"

Автор книги: David Estes

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter Eleven

Adele

Everything seems so close. The good, the bad, the neutral, the evil, the happy, the sad. It’s as if the world is a thin line, everything in a row. There is no wrong, no right: only actions. These are my thoughts as I leave my mom in her office. Nothing is the same as it was before—probably never will be. After all, there’s a gun tucked in a holster in the small of my back beneath my tunic. The holster is another gift from my mom. She offered Tawni a gun, too, but Tawni politely declined. I suppose I could’ve done that, too, but that’s not me.

Trevor is leading us again, following my mom’s orders to escort us to the star dweller training grounds. She said if I want to be part of the rebellion, I have to be trained like a soldier. I like that she said that—it means she respects me. Tawni will just be watching, and won’t be a fighter. My mom said that on the record, Tawni will be considered one of her private aides, but really she’ll just be with me like she has been since the start of all this.

We exit the fortress-like building, this time out the back, away from the claustrophobic city streets. The area behind is cold, not temperature-wise, but stark, uncaring, a barren wasteland of empty stone slabs and craggy gray boulders. Everything is in black and white, or a mix of the two. It makes the Moon Realm look like a paradise.

The expansive area is surrounded by a towering brown rock wall. Whether its primary goal is to keep rubberneckers out or the soldiers in, I do not know. “What is this place for, the gladiators?” I say, making a bad joke. I remember learning in school during history class about the Roman gladiators, forced to fight each other and professional warriors to earn their right of survival.

“Something like that,” Trevor mumbles, not looking back. I can’t tell if he’s serious.

Across the grounds is a platoon of soldiers, engaged in some sort of training—it appears to be hand-to-hand combat. They’re wearing blue training tunics, which don’t look that much different from their standard-issue fatigues, complete with a faded patch of the star dweller symbol on the shoulders, although they seem slightly more worn-out. They’re separated into pairs, each pair battling within the confines of circles designated by red tape on the ground. There aren’t any patterns to the pairings: males fight females, big battles small, tall locks horns with short. I can’t expect special treatment here, and I don’t.

Only two people aren’t participating, a man and a woman who are set off from the fighters, watching and shouting things like, “Keep your head up, Lewis!” or “Don’t let him back you into a corner, Matthews!”

As we approach, I see a smallish woman get flipped over the back of the ogre she’s fighting. Her body hits the stone with a sickening thud, and I can’t help but to cringe. Tawni visibly stiffens beside me and I glance at her. She’s not even looking at the woman’s prostrate body lying on the ground; rather, she’s watching as another guy takes blow after to blow to the head, twisting and turning, until his legs wobble and he collapses, blood oozing from his nose and mouth.

“So brutal,” she whispers.

My heart is in my throat. I’m well-trained, too, but these guys are serious, professional warriors. I take a deep breath and try to remember my father’s lessons. Never show your fear, Adele. Gritting my teeth, I firm up my expression and try to turn the horror on my face into a believable scowl.

Trevor turns suddenly, a wicked grin on his face. “Good luck, soldier,” he says, motioning me forward.

Ignoring him, I stride past and up to the woman supervising the training. She’s tall and muscular, wearing a tight black tank top, camo pants, and sturdy, black boots. She’s looking past me, almost as if she’s looking through me, but I ignore that too. “Adele Rose, reporting for training under the orders of General Rose,” I say, keeping my voice as firm as possible. I extend my hand and she finally looks at me, and then down at my hand.

“Get that limp fish out of my damn way,” she says, one edge of her upper lip raised in a sneer. Her eyes are dark and steely and look like they could kill. Her face isn’t ugly—even with the sneer—but it’s not pretty either. It’s just a face.

Dumbstruck, I drop my hand back to my side, unsure what to do or say next. Luckily, the guy next to her says, “Sergeant Buxton, where are your manners?” He lifts an open hand and I take it, following his arm up to his face, which wears a casual smile and kind, blue-green eyes. “I’m Sergeant Sean Brody, but you can just call me Brody,” he says, shaking my hand firmly, but not crushing my fingers.

“I’m—”

“General Rose’s daughter—I know. We’ve heard all about your strange appearance in the tunnels. In any case, the General told us yesterday that you’d be joining us.”

My heart stops. “She did?”

“Yes—is that a problem?”

My mom is just full of surprises. She really did expect me to join the star dweller rebellion. Proud heat rises in my chest. “No—not at all,” I say.

Brody releases my hand and runs his fingers through his dark bangs, pushing them away from his eyes. “Are you ready to start?” he asks.

“I, uh, I guess,” I say, my confidence waning as I hear the grunts and groans of combat from behind me.

“Are you or aren’t you!” Sergeant Buxton shouts, directly into my ear.

I cringe and turn away from her. “I’m ready,” I say through clenched teeth.

Tawni has moved off to the side with Trevor, and I can see the two of them chatting, flashing smiles, and occasionally laughing. Traitor, I think.

“Han! You’re up!” Buxton yells. Evidently she has difficulty controlling the volume of her voice, because she’s always about a hundred decibels louder than necessary.

A dark, Asian-looking girl’s head pops up from where she’s got another girl pinned to the ground. She releases the girl and trots over, not even looking winded from her fight. “Yes, Sergeant,” she says.

“Rose, get in the circle,” Buxton growls.

My heart hammers as I walk across the hard stone, wondering what it will feel like to get slammed against it. The girl whom Han was fighting rolls out of the circle, face bloodied, apparently unable to stand up.

“At ease, soldiers!” Buxton shouts from behind us. “Feel free to watch the show!”

Great, I think. The last thing I want is an audience for my first fight.

The other soldiers pull themselves up from various levels of peer-inflicted injuries and make their way over to our circle. Out of the corner of my eye I see Tawni and Trevor move closer. Tawni’s no longer laughing, her mouth a tight line. She’s worried about me. Serves her right, I think.

Instinct and training kicks in. I settle my heart and lungs by taking deep breaths through my nose, exhaling from my mouth. All of my father’s mottos ring through my head: hit first and hit hard; a quick fight is a good fight; there’s no such thing as a fair fight; play to your strengths.

But all my thoughts vanish when the taunting begins. “You smell like a moon dweller, chickie,” a guy with a black eye says. “You a moon dweller?”

My mouth is tight as I nod.

“We’ve been looking for some moon dwellers with balls to join us, but you don’t look like you’ve even fought a cold before.” I grit my teeth and try to ignore him, focusing on my opponent, who has just stepped into the ring, her fists clenched at her side. She looks ready; I hope I am.

“We need moon dwellers who can fight,” a butch woman with no neck cries.

I stare at her sharply and say, “I can fight.”

The original heckler chimes in again. “Bah! You’re just a scared little girl, not a fighter.” He got the scared part right. But not scared of fighting. Scared of losing those closest to me; scared of failing my parents, my people; scared of not fighting well enough for everything that is important to me.

“I’ll prove it,” I say.

“Fight!” Buxton shouts, even louder than she has yet. Her voice echoes through my ears, and I don’t think I’ll ever hear well again.

Han is like a flash of light, faster and more agile than anyone I’ve ever fought before. But I’ve got a few inches on her, am built slightly bigger, and I have the advantage of not underestimating her. My father taught me to use any advantage I can in a fight.

She moves in fast, feinting left and right, left and right, trying to lull me into a rhythm. She whips a lightning-quick kick at my head and I duck sharply, narrowly avoiding it, but realizing too late that it was a combo move. Her other leg is already in motion, sweeping the ground and cutting toward my feet. I try to jump, but all my force is pushing down and I can’t get my feet off the ground. A sharp pain jolts through my ankles and I go down hard on my right shoulder, wincing as I feel it start to throb.

My training kicks in and I know the fight is moments away from being over if I don’t get out of the vulnerable position I’m in.

I roll hard to the side, away from Han, and hear her boot clomp down hard on the rock, just where I was a second earlier. My mind is machine, thinking like my opponent, anticipating her next move.

She’ll expect me to try to get to my feet.

So I don’t.

Instead, I roll back the other way.

My surprise works, as I feel my turning shoulder bash into her legs, which are moving in the opposite direction of my roll. She was rushing to stop me from getting to my feet, trying to maintain her advantage. The joke’s on her as she tumbles over me, sprawling head first. More pain lances through my shoulder and I realize it’s the same one that hit the ground. Bad luck, but I can’t worry about that. Not now.

Gritting my teeth, I will my body to ignore the pain and move faster than I’ve ever moved before. I finish the roll and use the momentum to push up with my legs and one arm, regaining my feet. In the back of my mind I know there are people watching and that they’re making a lot of noise, but my head is a void, focused on only one thing: winning the fight.

Using my heel, I stop myself and charge back the other way, where Han went down. She’s scrambling to her feet, but I can tell from her wide eyes and slightly parted lips that I’ve surprised her. I see fear. Another advantage I can use.

I scream something that sounds like “Arrarararara!”—part roar, part battle cry, perhaps?—and lower my shoulder, watching her eyes widen further before I crash into her chest, flattening her with the power of a miner’s sledgehammer. Not graceful—but effective.

Another one of my father’s nuggets of wisdom pops into my head at that moment—don’t stop until it’s over—and I make him proud by continuing to drive forward after the initial impact, crushing Han into the stone and landing with my full weight on top of her. She half grunts, half screams, and I can feel the air go out of her lungs with a whoosh of breath on my face.

I know it’s over—there’s no way her smaller frame could get up from the power of the smack that I just laid on her—so I roll off her and stand up, looking around.

Initially, I worry I really have lost my hearing from Buxton’s incessant yelling, because there’s no sound. But then I realize that it’s just because everyone’s quiet, staring at me like I’ve just grown a third arm and started juggling hunks of limestone. I scan the crowd, searching for a familiar face. I see Buxton, who’s scowling, but with an eyebrow raised; Brody, who’s wearing a big grin, as if he planned the whole thing himself; Tawni, standing out with a smile of her own, like a sparkling diamond amongst ashy hunks of coal; and finally, Trevor, who looks half amused and half like he wants to kill me.

Ten seconds pass in silence, and then: a clap rings out through the seemingly impenetrable silence, sounding like the hollow ring of a dinner bell in the caves. I jerk my head to the side and see that it’s the short, black-eyed guy. The heckler. He claps again and then shouts, “WoooOOO!” getting louder as he yells. The next thirty seconds are a bit awkward as some of the other soldiers join in, some applauding, some shouting encouragement, and others just staring at me. I focus on Tawni, who is laughing, until the noise dies down.

I hear a strange sound behind me, like an old person trying to breathe through a ventilator, and turn to see Han on her hands and knees, wheezing through her mouth. She was my enemy, but now she’s my comrade, and so I stride to her and help her to her feet, lifting her by her elbows. Leaning on me, she manages to walk to the edge of the circle, whispering, “Thank you,” in my ear, like I’ve just done her a huge service, rather than crushing her sternum.

Brody approaches us. “Nice fight, soldiers,” he says. “Zarra, take Han to medical to get her, uh, her ribs and her…chest, and, well, whatever else hurts looked at.” A girl no more than twenty-one, with short-cut black hair and thick black eyebrows, steps forward and takes Han from me.

I turn back to face Brody, and Buxton, who has once more moved to his side. “Well done,” he says, grinning again.

“It’s just one fight and I didn’t mean to hurt her so bad,” I say. I’m not proud of having sent a girl to the medic, especially because it’s just training, and she’s supposed to be on my side.

“Damn right,” Buxton says. “It was just one fight and Han is a small fry compared to a lot of the soldiers, so don’t get a big head.”

I don’t know what her problem is, but I’m getting tired of it. “Don’t worry, I won’t,” I say, glaring at her.

Brody pats me on my injured shoulder and I clench my teeth so I don’t show how much it hurts. “At ease, soldier,” he says, and I realize my hands are fisted and my arms are tight, like I’m straining against a heavy weight. He probably thinks I’m about to hit the other sergeant. Maybe I am—I dunno. Sometimes when the adrenaline gets pumping and I’m in fight-mode, it’s like I lose a bit of control, which scares me a little.

I force my hands to open, flexing the soreness out of them a few times. Then I relax my shoulders, allowing them to droop just a little. “What’s next?” I ask, trying to keep my voice pleasant.

“Have you ever even fired a gun?” Buxton asks, with a note of sarcasm in her voice.

“I only learned how to fight with staffs and bows and slingshots,” I say. “But mostly we focused on hand-to-hand combat.”

“Yeah, we noticed,” Brody says, winking. I wonder why he’s being so nice to me. Maybe he’s just a nice guy. I wish Buxton were more like him.

“You trained with your mother?” Buxton asks, sounding relatively interested in me for the first time since I met her.

“No—my father.”

Her head jerks back in surprise. “That’s interesting,” is all she says, and I want to ask her why, but I don’t, knowing she won’t give me a straight answer. “All right, soldiers, time for target practice!” she announces, once more deafening anyone within earshot.

I follow the stampede of uniformed men and women as they move further down the gray ore slab. A few of them slap me on the back and nod encouragingly, but no one tries to talk to me, and most just ignore me.

I hang back, letting Tawni and Trevor catch up. “Took you long enough to finish her off,” Tawni says.

I laugh, feeling all the pent-up tension slip away upon hearing my friend’s sarcasm. “Yeah, I paid for it, too,” I reply, rubbing my shoulder.

“You got lucky, kid,” Trevor says, smirking.

“Whatever you say,” I reply, desperately wanting to smack the smirk off his face. “But don’t call me kid.”

“Whatever you say,” he mimics, “kid.” Now I really want to punch him, but I’m sure it will land me some sort of undesirable army punishment, so I manage to just flash a fake smile.

Tawni doesn’t let it go, though. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Trevor,” she says. I give her a real smile, and finally I think maybe she sees why I hate this guy so much.

“Oh yeah? Then educate me.”

“Just let it go, Tawns,” I say.

“No, really, I want to know,” Trevor insists. “Why do I not know what I’m talking about?”

“No, Tawni,” I say, warning her off with my eyes.

“Because she doesn’t look so tough,” Trevor continues, raking a hand through his chestnut curls. “Hell, I wouldn’t trust her to cover my as—”

“Adele killed Rivet, Trevor,” Tawni blurts out, her eyes brimming with tears.

I look away and swallow hard, trying to choke down the bad memories that well up every time I think of Rivet. Because when I think of Rivet I can’t help but think of Cole. Cole. No. No. No! God, no! Why did it have to be him? I ask in my mind. No one ever answers me.

Blinking furiously, I fight off the tears and try to think of something else, anything else. It’s harder than fighting Han, but I manage to win the battle.

I glance back at Trevor, whose face is ashen, as if dusted with chalk powder. Luckily, we arrive at target practice and he and Tawni are forced to move to the side, out of the line of fire. There are six guns, three handguns and three rifles. Each black, each foreign to me. My weapons are fists and rocks and sticks and feet. Hot metal bullets are used by Enforcers and prison guards. Bad people. Not me.

But I know I have to do this if I want to be a part of the rebellion.

“Line up, even numbers in each line!” Buxton barks.

The platoon moves somewhat haphazardly into relatively equal, straight lines. The soldiers don’t seem to be the most disciplined—not like the sun dweller troops we saw anyway—but they get the job done. I choose a line on one end that seems to have fewer people than the others.

Brody raises a hand in the air, his thumb and forefinger extended in the shape of a gun. Not surprisingly, it’s Buxton who shouts, “Fire!”

Pop, pop, pop! The first rounds are fired by the front soldiers in the lines on my half, the ones with the handguns. They are smaller and lighter and presumably quicker to prepare and aim.

Crack, crack, crack! The rifle fire thunders through the low-ceilinged cavern, echoing off the walls and roof.

“Hold your fire,” Brody says sternly. “Dom—check ’em.”

One of the soldiers in my line breaks away and jogs to the other end of the slab, where a row of canvas targets are set up. He checks each target, and then pulls the canvas upwards, removing the old target and revealing a fresh target underneath. They must have a big old roll of targets strung behind.

The guy named Dom lopes back, calling, “One, three, five, six—out! Two, four—in!” as he approaches.

“Brady, Wong, Henderson, and Raine—bad luck,” Brody says. Four soldiers—three girls, one guy—step out of line and sit on big stone benches erected to the side, near where Tawni and Trevor are standing. The two who apparently had the best aim move to the back of their respective lines, to wait their turn again.

The cycle continues on, as more and more soldiers are defeated and forced off to the side, and the lines get shorter and shorter. As I slowly move up the line, my legs stiffen and I can feel my shoulder bruising under the sleeve of my tunic.

The guy in front of me is up and I watch him carefully, trying to memorize his every movement. He places his feet shoulder-width apart, steadies them, holds the gun at approximately shoulder-height using both hands, his elbows locked but not tightly. He stares down the barrel and—

Pop! I see a flash in the dim cavern and then a finger of smoke curls from the gun. The bullet is invisible, but I see the canvas visibly flutter near the edge about the same time as I heard the gunshot.

They check the results and the guy is out, trotting off to the side to join his comrades.

It’s my turn. I’ve never held a gun until that morning, when my mom handed one to me, and I’ve certainly never fired one, but I hope it’s like shooting a bow and arrow, or a slingshot. You know, point, aim, shoot. Simple.

I step up and grasp the gun and feel all eyes on me as I stare at it, trying to position it right. The handle—is that what it’s called?—is cool to the touch, but also a little moist from the previous shooter’s sweaty hands. There’s something weird about the gun, but I can’t figure out what and I don’t have time to think about it. I mimic my predecessor’s positioning, although maybe I shouldn’t because apparently he didn’t do very well. I take aim, trying to get the end of the gun even with the target, while I wait for the command.

One second—I’m too high. Two seconds—I’m aimed dead center. Three seconds—“Fire!” Buxton yells.

I squeeze the trigger with my finger, surprised at how easily it pushes in. Dangerous, if you ask me. The gun explodes back into my palm, and, despite my locked arms, my elbows bend and it bucks upwards, forcing me to take a step back and out of my shooter’s stance. The target doesn’t flutter, but I hear a zing! as the bullet ricochets off the wall behind, sending splinters of rock in every direction.

“Oops,” I mutter.

“Pathetic,” Buxton scoffs. “No need to check that one. Rose—out!”

Staring at the ground the whole way, I walk over to the rest of the eliminated soldiers, taking a seat without looking at anyone. I feel a tap on the shoulder from behind. I’m not in the mood to be ridiculed, so I don’t turn around.

Tap, tap. The fool isn’t giving up, so I raise my shoulder sharply like I’m trying to get a pesky fly off of it.

Tap, tap. I whirl around. “What?” I hiss.

A young guy is looking at me, mouth open. He looks around my age, with thin black stubble, full lips, and swirling gray eyes. His brown eyebrows are arched in surprise. He’s not bad looking, but I’m not interested in that right now. “What do you want?” I ask again.

“I was just going to say that I missed on my first attempt, too.”

My shoulders droop and I feel bad right away. The poor guy was trying to make me feel better, was probably one of the ones clapping when I defeated Han, and yet I was so rude to him. I can’t let even a tough situation like this turn me into one of the bad guys. “Oh. Thanks.” I manage a crooked smile although I know it’s not very believable. I turn back around, trying to calm down.

Soon target practice is over and the winner is announced. It’s the dude named Dom, a sturdy guy with athletic arms and legs who’s about two heads taller than me.

This is meant to be training, but with only getting to take one shot, I don’t feel like I’ve learned anything. I stand up, take a breath, and promise myself I’ll do better on the next challenge.