“Attention Recruits! Officer on has the floor!” bellows one of the Imps guarding our corral.
The power of that voice snaps us all to attention. A tall woman, over six foot at least, strides into the room, flanked by two hulking males even taller. She stands a few feet in front of us, scanning us with twin cold slits passing for eyes. When she grins, her teeth look small and sharp, like the mouth of a predator savoring its next meal.
She licks her lips, as if she’s read my mind. “Welcome to Infiernos. I’m Sergeant Slade. I must say, in all my years of overseeing new Recruits, this has got to be the most pathetic collection that’s ever stood before me.” Her grin turns into a smirk. “Then again, I do so enjoy a challenge. And you’d better, too. Not that whatever pleases you makes one iota of difference to me.” She nudges her chin in the direction of the banks of monitors embedded in the wall. “In any event, should any of you entertain the notion of deserting your posts, I’d seriously rethink that strategy.”
As if on cue, the screens come to life with images of the giant pylons positioned around the entire perimeter of the base. The blinking green lights on them change to yellow, then red. Slade turns to the nearest display. “Infiernos is protected by a highly sophisticated defense grid which includes sensors that detect body-heat signatures. Anyone attempting to cross the barriers while the fences are active will trigger a sonic pulse powerful enough to implode the brain and make it leak out your ears.” She glances back at us and shrugs. “But you don’t have to take my word for it.”
The next thirty seconds are a grisly montage of prisoners being pushed and thrown into the armed barriers, complete with piercing screams of agony as their insides turn to mush. When the monitors finally, mercifully, go dark, Slade turns around to face us again. “Any questions?”
We all shake our heads.
“Who are we missing?” she barks.
I risk a glance down the line. Ophelia and her curly red hair are still a no-show.
That can’t be good.
The sergeant steps forward and stands nose-to-nose with Cypress. “Identify yourself, Recruit!”
“Cypress Goslin, ma’am.”
“Sir !” Slade barks.
A twitch exposes a chink in the armor of Cypress’s composure. “E-excuse me?”
Slade widens her stance and leans in, her forehead practically touching Cypress’s. “What’s the matter, does the Aggie in the group have crops growing out of her ears? You will address me as Sir, not Ma’am, not Miss, not whatever other term of endearment you so choose. Understood, Recruit?”
“Yes, Sir,” Cypress mutters.
“I can assure you, Recruit Goslin, that if you’re having trouble enunciating, I have a repertoire of techniques available at my disposal that will ensure you scream at the top of your lungs.”
“Yes, Sir!”
“Much better. Pity. I was so looking forward to motivating you.” She steps back. “I’m sure I’ll have that opportunity very shortly. You’re bound to make a stupid mistake. Don’t you agree, Goslin?”
“Yes … Sir!”
“Very good. You learn quickly. I can see the hatred burning in your eyes, but you’re capable of controlling it. Hold on to that emotion. Let it nurture you. Draw strength from it. It can prove quite useful as you prepare for the Trials.”
“I will, Sir!”
But Slade has already moved on, stationing herself in front of Digory. “Identity, Recruit?”
“Digory Tycho, Sir!”
“Tycho? Hmmm. I’ve heard a lot about you, Recruit. It seems you have quite the reputation, as one of the most promising candidates at your Instructional Facility.”
“Yes, Sir!”
Apparently Digory’s not about to make the same mistake Cypress did in her initial responses.
Slade eyes him up and down. “I see. Unfortunately, this isn’t some popularity contest where you can charm your way past instructors and your fellow students to the top of the class with the minimum effort you are used to.”
Digory’s face remains stoic. “Understood, Sir.”
Her eyes continue to appraise him. “You’re obviously quite strong, Tycho. But physical prowess alone is not enough to emerge triumphant during the Trials. A good Recruit will possess an exceptional acumen, acute cunning and guile which I’m not sure your all-star school-boy status has prepared you for.”
Gideon lowers his head and I can tell he’s holding back a chuckle, which makes me want to dissolve our newly born alliance before it’s taken its first steps-until I think it’s probably the first time he’s stood and watched while someone else was being bullied.
His attempt at subtlety doesn’t escape the eye in the back of Slade’s head. “Do you find me amusing, Recruit?” She strides over and plants herself smack-dab in his personal space.
His body stiffens. The familiar fear reappears in his eyes. “No, Sir!”
“Too bad. I’m known for possessing one of the keenest senses of humor in the entire battalion.” Her words are as dry as sun-baked sand. “So if you’re not laughing at my wit, you must be laughing at my person. Do you find me odd-looking, Recruit?”
“No, Sir!”
“Foolish then?”
“Not at all, Sir!”
“I see. Then you must be mad, Recruit. Simply laughing at things for no reason at all. Are you mentally deficient, Recruit?”
“Yes … I mean … no … Sir!” Sweat gathers on Gideon’s brow.
Despite his slight toward Digory, I can’t help feeling sorry for Gideon and angry at myself. I never stood up and defended him against his tormentors at school, and I can’t do it now.
Slade sucks in her cheeks. “You are just incapable of formulating your own thoughts and standing by the strength of your convictions, Recruit.”
“Yes, Sir!” Gideon squeals.
Slade claps her hands. “At last, an honest answer. How refreshing! And to whom do I owe this kernel of truth in this granary of deception?”
“Pardon me, Sir?”
She sighs. “You were doing so well for a moment. Your name, Recruit. What is it? Or should I just call you Recruit Dense?”
“Oh, Gideon Warrick, Sir! But you can call me whatever you please.”
“Recruit Dense it is, then. And nothing about you will ever please me.”
She moves away without another word. My heart goes into overdrive as she hovers into view, her shadow moving across me and eclipsing the overhead fluorescents.
“Lucian Spark, Sir!” I volunteer, figuring I’ll save her the trouble and speed up the ritual.
The frost in her eyes tells me I might have exercised a severe lapse in judgment.
Her brows stretch toward each other. “It surely has been a grueling day. I must be tired. There’s no other explanation for why I imagined this Recruit speaking to me without first being addressed.”
“I’m sorry, Sir!”
She palm-slaps her forehead. “It just happened again! I need to get myself checked out by Medical as soon as possible to ascertain whether or not I’m having some kind of breakdown.”
I’m about to respond, but my teeth decide to prevent my tongue from making the situation worse. Just relax, stare straight ahead but avoid eye contact. Breathe deeper, slower … imagine Cole’s face, not the visage of this scaly reptile in front of me ready to sink its fangs into my self-respect and spit it out.
“Actually, Recruit,” she drones on, “now that the voices in my head seem to have cleared, I see you aren’t really in need of an introduction after all, considering your memorable performance during the Induction Ceremony.”
Again my teeth come to my tongue’s rescue. I didn’t hear a question or a direct address, so I continue to stare past this moment to some imagined, undetermined future time when Cole and Mrs. Bledsoe are miraculously waiting for me at home.