“That’s it!” Dahlia snorts, giving Leander a wink and punching the mounds of his arm.
He snickers as if she’s merely tickled him and swallows her hand with his. “We’re the elite that can’t be beat!”
Then they’re roughhousing like Canid pups.
I suppress a sneer. This is all a game to them. They’re only a few years older than me, but I can already see that the Establishment has branded its mark into their souls. I wonder which one of their loved ones they were forced to send to their deaths in order to get here.
I wonder if they even care anymore.
When I first arrived here, I thought for sure Dahlia Bledsoe and I would reconnect. After all, our families used to be close back in the Parish. Her mother even acted as a surrogate parent for my brother Cole and me after Mom and Dad passed—before being killed by our so-called Honorable Prefect, Cassius Thorn, all for daring to care about us.
So I could understand Dahlia’s coldness and contempt and accept the blame, under normal circumstances. Her mother had been her only living family member, and she was dead now because of her involvement with me. Fine. I get that. But Dahlia had shunned her own mother as soon as she was recruited, even going as far as to deny her the privilege of living in the luxury camps at Haven, where all remaining “Incentives” from the Trials are sent for the rest of their lives—top-notch accommodations, plenty of food, fresh air, a virtual paradise. Instead, Dahlia condemned Mrs. Bledsoe to a life of squalor and disease. That’s what ultimately killed her. Not Cassius. Not me.
Rodrigo, who’s Third Tier, is still straddling the fence between immature bravado and cruel arrogance. He pauses now in mid push-up, backflips onto his feet, and spins to attention.
But Arrah, she’s… she’s still pliable, a piece of clay that hasn’t hardened yet. I can see it in her eyes, the one ingredient that’s missing from the rest: compassion. In another life, we might have been friends.
I stand and stretch, trying not to appear too eager as I saunter over to the window to get a look for myself.
Three transport vehicles are nesting on a landing platform that’s rising from the bottom of the canyon: a drifter-class Terrain Trampler with an exposed bed, a refueling air-escort Squawker, and the much larger Vulture-class transport. It’s this last one that twists the conduits of my nerves together, making them spark. Vultures are usually used for combat assaults on enemies of the state.
I walk over to Arrah, ignoring the others, who are too busy telling each other what badasses they are. “They wouldn’t have sent an envoy all the way to a trainee encampment in the Fringelands just to escort us back to the Parish, would they?” I ask. “The Ascension Ceremony’s not for another—”
“No.” She sighs. “Sorry to disappoint you, Sparkles, but I don’t think this has anything to do with a handful of trainees getting rank promotions.” Her voice drops. “Besides, rumor control has it that there was an incident at the pleasure pits last night.”
“Oh?”
She’s studying my face as if it were a map. “Not sure what happened, exactly, but one of the sentries let it slip to me that supposedly there were deaths involved.”
My eyes retreat from hers. “Sounds serious. But what does that have to do with our unit?”
She shakes her head. “That, I can’t help you with. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
I glance at the ships again. “Shouldn’t they have called an assembly and told us something by now? That’s been standard protocol since we’ve been assigned here. Why are they just sitting there? Something’s not right.”
“Maybe they’re trying to figure out just what type of classified intel we should be privy to. Who knows?” Her eyes narrow. “By the way, you wander around camp last night?”
I grab my crumpled tank top from the foot of the cot and pull it over the twilight bruise setting on the ridges of my abdomen. “No. Why do you ask?”
Her lips purse. “Thought I heard someone come in. Must have dreamt it.”
Does she somehow suspect me? Did any of them see me? Did I slip up? No. I’m just being paranoid.
“You should get dressed,” she says. “It’s visitor’s day, remember?”
I sigh. “Who could forget the one day a month we get to video chat with our surviving Incentives for ten whole minutes?” Although not in my case, since my surviving Incentive—my five-year-old brother Cole—hasn’t been sent to Haven yet. I just get to receive clinical status reports on how he’s holding up, from some stuffed-shirt bureaucrat. But Cole’s scheduled to be sent to Haven this week. So maybe today will be different.
Arrah knows this, and she grins at me. “Maybe you’ll get a nice surprise this morning.” She marches over to the chair I draped my uniform over last night and grabs my fatigue pants. I can hear the jingle of the two remaining concussion discs from inside one of the pockets.
I grab the pants from her and slip them on. “Thanks.”
I’m not sure if she heard the discs or if it’s just my anxiety getting the best of me, but all I can obsess about as we bustle out of the bunkhouse is the Citadel convoy nesting in our midst. Each second that goes by with nothing happening only convinces me that something is happening. Something big.
The com room is pretty stark. Curved gray metallic walls enclose a series of booths; inside each booth is a seat, which juts from the wall in front of a rectangular holopad that projects the caller’s image and voice and houses its own cam and mic to transmit. Once you’re inside the booth, an invisible soundproof shield is activated to maintain some semblance of privacy.
I’m the last to arrive, and I pass Leander, Rodrigo, and Arrah on my way to one of the end booths. Though I can’t hear a word they’re saying, I’m almost moved by the animated expressions on their faces. All that arrogance and Alpha-Canid posturing is replaced by warmth and flashes of genuine emotion that can only come from giving a damn about someone.
The irony is, that very same caring is what makes the Imps so ruthless. You’d think they’d be consumed with hatred toward the Establishment, since it put them in a situation, during the Trials, of likely being forced to choose which one of their Incentives would die a horrible death. And maybe they do hate it. But by rewarding the victorious Recruit’s loved ones with a life of relative ease at Haven, the Establishment also gives its elite soldiers something to be grateful for.
Not to mention, it retains hostages—which ensures fierce loyalty from the Imps.
I’ve sometimes wondered what would happen if the top-secret location of Haven was leaked and the Incentives were released. Would the Imposers really want to go back to their old lives? Could they?
And would their loyalties shift away from the Establishment, as a result?
I quickly avert my eyes from my fellow trainees. I can’t afford to humanize them—at least not Leander and Rodrigo. When it comes down to it, they’re the enemy and will be crushed along with Cassius and the rest of the Establishment if I have my way.
The only other person not teleconferencing with a family member is Dahlia, who’s busying herself with an extra set of morning calisthenics instead. No surprise, considering her dad perished as an Incentive during her trials and her mom died as a result of being my Incentive during my own ordeal. I wonder what keeps Dahlia in check? As I slip into the last booth, I can feel her eyes on me, burning through my uniform and into my skin.
In seconds, I’ve activated the privacy shield, submitted to the biometric scans, and placed my own call.
“Private Lucian Spark. Identity confirmed. Now connecting…” the synthesized computer voice announces.