

### Fledge

Penny Greenhorn

Fledge

By Penny Greenhorn

Smashwords Edition

FLEDGE. Copyright © 2012 by Penny Greenhorn

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

**This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.**

For Steve, my first fan.

# Chapter 1

I always thought I had accepted my situation, made the best of things. Alright, perhaps a bit begrudgingly, but accepted all the same. Now that circumstances have changed, I know that that was not quite true. Deep down, inside some hidden compartment of my mind that I never wanted to investigate, I had hoped that I would find my niche, some place that I fit. Some place I positively belonged. But as I said, things have changed... As for now, well, now it's a little too late for hope.

The springs are bunched inside my mattress all wrong, I can feel the coils pressing through the fabric and into my thighs. At least this small problem is easily fixed. There must be more than fifty spares in this tiny hovel of a shed. At the far end, just ten paces from where I sit, they are stacked upright. Flopped together, the only obstruction to their storage is a few bunk beds, dusty, twisted redmetal parts that have been casually strewn about. This place has a stale smell, and more than its fair share of grime. The one tiny window's pane is crusted over on the outside with the reddust's residue, and only the barest light of sunset can penetrate my new home. Just enough to write by.

_Strange, you wouldn't think a soldier would need a journal, now would you? But they gave it to me. Not that I'm an actual soldier, more like a soldier in training. A fledge they tell me, short for fledgling. What they don't tell me is why I'm here. And hostile take me, I can't help but wonder every second of the day, why? Why am I here? What I_ can _tell you is the how of it._

And this is how it started...

It was early in the day and Colum Almberg had just spoken the very words I had dreaded hearing. He said, "I'll gladly take your maize, but not until after I've traded with the Buttons."

We stood beside the rough, cracked ceramic counter which lined the front of his shop, Berg Trading and Goods. Before Colum had come up from the storage cellar, I had let my eyes wander. Heavy tools and unwieldy equipment were pressed along the walls, with buckets of nails in various shapes and sizes stacked up in the corner. Pots and pans were on display, candlesticks and knickknacks all around. The more expensive things were kept out of reach behind the counter, a barrier of sorts. The only thing I couldn't find here was another farmer. It appeared I was the first to arrive, a fact I was prepared to use to my advantage.

Mrs. Almberg bustled around nearby, sorting and folding lengths of fabric. Mostly she pretended to pay me no mind, but I caught her watching us every once and again. Colum's wife traded gossip twice as often as her husband traded goods. I had no doubt every townswoman and farmer's wife would hear about this visit. Typically a trade would be considered a useless, boring piece of information. But nothing about me was considered boring, and today I was out for the first time, trading on my own.

"What have the Buttons to do with our business, Mr. Almberg?" I asked calmly, though I already knew his answer.

I'll admit, he was good. He didn't lose the polite smile that had been sitting on his lips ever since I'd arrived, even while stonewalling me. "I've a room and a half allotted below stairs for maize stores. I'm sure that's enough space for the both of you. But all the same, I'd rather wait until I've accepted the Buttons' first."

Oh, I understood what he was and _wasn't_ saying.

Years ago, when the first farmers were shipped from Earth, land was given out based on the amount of men available to work it. If a father brought his two sons and they were able, then he'd be given three shares of land. Since the surplus was based on the share, the more land a man was given, the more surplus he got. The system was intended to make surplus proportionate to the family's size, but as they soon realized it was not proportionate, nor was it fair. A man with many sons had the advantage over a single man's farm, and a man with many daughters was typically miserable.

So Mr. Buttons and his five sons had a six share farm, six shares of surplus in comparison to my father's two. What Colum Almberg was trying to avoid was offending the Buttons and losing their business. He only had a certain amount of room to store each crop, and whatever he couldn't fit, he didn't accept. And it was clear he'd much rather turn us away than the Buttons, because we didn't bring in nearly as much business. And although we needed the trade more than the Buttons ever would, I didn't blame Colum for being careful.

"Rudolph Buttons was deep into the cups last night. Am I to wait while he sleeps?" I asked evenly.

Colum briefly pictured Rudolph asleep while the rest of the farmers were rising to work. He was a hardworking man himself, and I knew the image wouldn't sit well with him. But in the end I saw his face tighten and knew it wasn't enough. He shrugged slightly, saying, "I have to do what's best for business. Now don't fret, I'm sure I'll have enough space for you both."

My shoulders stiffened ever so slightly when he told me not to fret, disliking his attempt to comfort me as if I were a fussy child. I would not fret, and neither would I give in and wait. I had learned from observing Colum Almberg in the past that asking nicely wasn't enough, and begging certainly wouldn't make him soften.

"Are you afraid that the Buttons will hold a grudge? Perhaps Mr. Buttons wouldn't be happy that you turned away a small portion of his corn, but I don't think it would be _you_ that he was unhappy with. Rudolph's da will set into him, and perhaps that's not a bad thing. Perhaps he'd come out more responsible from the whole experience."

Colum's smile grew sincerely broad, eating up his whole face. "You're a clever girl, Fiona, and I agree with everything you said, just not enough to change my mind."

I let out a sigh, resolved to try my last form of argument, though I was extremely reluctant to do so. "Mr. Almberg, what would the farmers think if they found out that you were putting off small farms in favor of big ones?"

His face lost its smile, his eyes narrowing. We both ignored his wife, who'd gasped and promptly dropped what she was doing to stare at me. Colum said, "Are you pretending you'd start talk, slander my name, if I don't trade with you now? You won't, I don't believe it."

Perhaps I'd get what I wanted if I threatened him, but I wasn't capable of lying, at least not about this. I said, "No, you're right. I wouldn't do that, and I wasn't trying to convince you that I might. But by your reaction, and that of your wife's, I gather you wouldn't want it common knowledge that you hold off on small trades if you have a larger one coming in. And while you're well within your rights, you must know it's wrong or you wouldn't care if I told everyone on Little Red. So my point is—you aren't being fair. And before you turn me down and tell me to wait again," I continued, "I want you to admit it. Tell me you know it's not fair, but that you don't care, that you'll do what's best for your business anyway. Tell me that and I'll go sit down over there and wait until after Rudolph Buttons decides he's ready to trade."

For the first time in my life I saw Colum Almberg lose his composure. I knew asking him to admit he wasn't being fair was a stab at his pride, but I felt little remorse. I'd done nothing more than be honest and ask for honesty in return. Perhaps I'd been a bit forward, but I recognized that that was the only way to get what I wanted from Colum Almberg. Begging and pleading did little when compared with cutthroat logic.

He said nothing at first, and a pregnant moment passed, increasingly awkward because his wife had lost all sense of propriety and was openly gaping at the two of us. Her head swung back and forth, an expression of shock etched on her face. Finally, brows drawn, mouth thin, Colum managed to grunt, "Bring your wagon 'round back."

Mrs. Almberg sucked in her breath audibly. Never before had she seen her husband capitulate on anything he'd set his mind to, perfectly sure before this moment that he was incapable of doing so. Mr. Almberg wasn't around to witness his wife's reaction of amazed disbelief. He'd already stormed out through the back door, preparing to make a count of my stores.

As you might expect, the transaction between me and Colum Almberg didn't go smoothly after that. I asked him to make his count aloud as we unloaded the wagon. He did so, but not before he gave me a look so full of menace it surprised his wife who was peeking through the shutters. Then I went on to insist that he inspect each and every sack of corn. Mr. Almberg, who was quite at his limit, responded sharply that he only inspected crops that he suspected of being tainted. He added that he never felt the need to check a Frost's surplus, and although the statement was true, he couldn't help himself from saying it sarcastically.

I was unperturbed by his attitude, and replied that I would not be satisfied until he'd checked every sack. I had no desire for him to claim upon further examination, later down the road, that our crop was bad and demand repayment. By the time my corn was stored in the lower levels, Mr. Almberg was muttering, sure he'd never been so put out in all his life. He was cursing the day I had been considered an able hand, and given my share of land. It was an event everyone near and far had heard of and remembered simply because it was so strange.

My parents, Mr. and Mrs. Frost, like so many others, had wanted to be a part of the utopias. As a young couple they'd little money between them and had been struggling for some time, so when places on the new planet were offered, my parents hurried to apply.

Some years before, Earth had discovered a small pocket of space that contained a group of thriving planets. Earth was stunned to discover these planets contained intelligent beings that rivaled humans with their superior technology. And even more stunning, Earth found a planet that was uninhabited, although it had signs of life—a weed here, a drop of dew there. And so Earth did what its people do best—it laid claim.

# Chapter 2

The new planet was named Providence, and as my father always pointed out, it was an apt name. According to him, the governments and institutions of Earth presided over Providence as if they were gods, acting as though they had created the planet themselves. But I suppose, in a way, they had.

As soon as Providence was discovered, those governments and corporations banded together, creating the Union. With self-proclaimed ownership in place they began working on a technology that could force the planet into a more habitable state through terraforming. But once the technology existed, the Union had to ask itself, what next? That was when they decided to use this untouched land to build the perfect civilization upon.

So the brightest and best from various fields of study were paid to combine forces and think up a societal system that would, in theory, be perfect. The goal was a community without crime. A place where everyone contributed, everyone had what they needed, and no one was hungry or sick. This was to be a place that provided for itself in every way, no need to trade with outside sources. In the end the Union chose six different theories, all with the same objective, but each with a different approach. They were named utopias.

At first the Union only terraformed a small section of Providence, a triangular patch, though the planet, full of redrock and sand, resisted the effort. It was through sheer determination that the Union managed to make soil on Little Red (a nickname fondly given by her affectionate occupants). But to maintain it, the planet had to be continually controlled with the landscaping technology. My father explained how this was just another method Earth used to keep control over Little Red, thusly ensuring we remained dependant upon the Union, that we never rebelled against their hold.

After the Triangle Patch was landscaped, utopias were installed. The Union felt they needed protection for their projects, especially since a few of their ships had been found floating in space, the entire crew dead. Military districts were placed within the patch, scattered around the utopias which lined the outer edge. Of course if you had a military, you had to have the food to feed them. So the Union established the farming sector within the triangle's center.

My parents wanted to belong to a utopia, they'd dreamed of being a part of the perfect civilization. But for reasons they were never told, they didn't qualify, but were instead offered a share of farmland.

I was born on Little Red, and to be fair, the first few years of my life were normal. I was my parents' first child, and they were delighted to have me. But as the years passed, they soon discovered the disadvantage of not having a son, so they tried for a second child. It took five years of trying before Mum had a successful pregnancy, and needless to say, they desperately hoped for a boy. Instead, my sister Elizabeth was born, and Mum nearly died during her birth. To make matters worse, my mum soon learned that she would not be able to have anymore children. She was devastated, feeling as if she'd failed my da.

I suppose my da saw his miserable wife, delicate and ill, and that was why he decided to make the promise. He promised he'd never love a child more than he would love Elizabeth, then he bent and kissed my baby sister tenderly on the head. From that moment on Elizabeth was cosseted and pampered by both my parents to prove they loved her just as much as they could love any son.

But no amount of love could lessen the fact that there existed four mouths to feed and only one share of farmland to provide the surplus to do so. After Lizzie's birth my da decided he needed a second pair of hands to help on the farm. He could have asked the farmers' council to give him the third or fourth son of another man, that would have been typical, but my da hesitated because that would mean that a stranger would run the farm when he was dead, and that his wife and daughters (if we had not married) would be entirely dependant upon a stranger. So Da went against tradition, doing what no man had ever done. He petitioned that I, his eldest daughter, might be considered an able pair of hands, that I might be given a share of land. It was not a popular idea amongst the farmers, and the council was appalled that he should ask. My da nearly earned a reputation for being heartless, and my mum avoided town for a good length of time.

Da explained that Little Red was something like the Old West of Earth, a wild and dangerous frontier. Just getting aboard the ship and surviving transfer was something of a gamble. With that in mind, the Union established a simple structure to life. Outside of the utopias, men on Providence had one of two jobs: military (dangerous) or farming (laborious). Women, well they adopted a more supportive role. Having gone against the grain and turned farmer early on, I couldn't say what it was they did with much confidence. Cooking and the like, I suppose. And that would have been my lot in life if the council hadn't taken pity on Da and eventually approved his proposal. So when I was nearly six my father began to teach me everything he'd learned about farming.

And Colum Almberg cursed the whole affair, wishing my mum had given birth to a dozen boys just so he never had to set eyes on me again. He signed his name hastily to the receipt and pushed it across the counter. I looked it over thoroughly, inquiring about the worth of my corn in comparison to other crops I knew my mum would want. Colum looked fit to scream after my seventh question. Perhaps he would have if not for Tim Rawlins, who'd just come through the front door. Colum hurried away from the counter to greet Tim, and if he spared a moment to glance back, I was already gone.

I drove the wagon home, feeling the felicity of having one's burden lifted. I, Fiona Frost, had traded in my family's surplus all on my own, and was currently carrying the receipt to prove it. The job should have been my father's, but as circumstances culminated, the task fell on me. You see, two days earlier Da discovered Teensy, our milk cow, lying down weak and sickly. He'd announced that he didn't intend to leave her at such a delicate time, a proclamation which sent Mum into a fit. Her exact words: 'I'm not satisfied to miss the Surplus Festival for an unfeeling beast that cares nothing for my happiness if it chooses a time like this to be struck ill.' Elizabeth had cried, and I'd quickly left the house, suddenly remembering a long list of work I needed to complete. Da had yielded quickly, promising to drive my family to the festival.

The Surplus Festival always took place after the military had collected the food stores owed, which was the majority of a farmer's crop. Anything the farmer had left after that was considered his surplus. This was a time anticipated by all, for every farmer and his family wanted to trade goods. Farmers who grew corn wanted potatoes, farmers who grew potatoes wanted beans, and so on, but every farmer's wife wanted sugar. Trading was a renewal of fine things only got but once a growing season. Folks tried to ration, but most couldn't make it last. So those who grew corn ended up eating corn. Those who grew potatoes were sick of potatoes. And those who had beans, well, they weren't much pleased either.

Everyone gathered to town for the Surplus Fest, wanting to let their hair down after a long growing season, prepared to celebrate the trades to come. There was singing and dancing, set to an odd compilation of musical instruments. Things always turned twice as rowdy halfway through the night. The children turned crazed so long after their bedtimes. And the adults were equally undone after indulging in too much ciderbeer. Hence, Rudolph Buttons deep in the cups, a hard celebration for which he would earn a serious dressing down when his da learned I'd beaten them to Berg's Trading and Goods the morning after. The thought made me smile, the only form of celebration I'd partaken in since harvesting our crop.

Truth be told, I loathed the Harvest Fest, unlike Mum and Lizzie who began to primp days in advance, counting down the hours, the minutes, until it was time to leave for town. But there was never a place for me at such events. Girls my age were being courted, but I would never be one of them. I would never marry. My mother blamed the wardrobe. Much to her distress, I gave up wearing a dress some years before, finding them unpractical for hard labor. This only made me more conspicuous (if that was at all possible), being the only female on Little Red who walked around in trous and a tunic. So I knew why I stood out. I just couldn't quite grasp why I didn't fit in.

After years of skirting such events alone, I'd grown somewhat used to my situation. But once, when I was Lizzie's age, I had chafed at the isolation. It was no longer humiliating for me to remember the Harvest Fest when I was twelve. I had sidled up next to Doug Chambers (he'd had very long eye lashes if I recalled rightly) and tried to strike up a conversation. He'd blanched and hurried off, practically running, as if he could erase what had happened if he just got away fast enough. Doug was gone now, fulfilling his military duty. He'd get married when he came back, they always did.

Doug's attitude was common, as if everyone on Little Red had secretly agreed to avoid me. I got that the girls and I had nothing in common, as I didn't cook or clean. I got that the boys didn't know what to make of me. Yes, I dressed like them, did the same work, but there was no denying that I was a woman, just one they had no desire to flirt with. I didn't blame them for that. Admittedly, I'd make a terrible wife. But why should all that make me an outcast?

It had even driven a wedge between me and my family, though we never spoke of it. But the truth existed without words, making itself known at events like the Harvest Fest. When Da spent the evening with the farmers, Mum with the wives, Lizzie with her friends, and I was left alone. They would not have told me to go away if I'd tagged along, but I knew that they were relieved when I did not, and my parents doubly guilty for feeling so.

My parents' guilt began when they petitioned that I be given a share of land. They never admitted this, but I could see it. While my father and I were very similar of mind and temperament, this fact did not put me in his favor. He preferred a less serious attitude, enjoying the light nature and silliness of my mother and Elizabeth. Mum didn't seem to understand me, which she blamed on my being a farmer, which she blamed on herself. They both did. So they distanced themselves, while lavishing Lizzie with easy and untroubled affection.

I don't mean to complain or instill pity. This was the way of things, the result of a situation brought on by chance. Who could've said that my father would never have a son? Or that having a son could make such a difference in so many lives? How were they to know? To prepare?

But I've strayed from the story...

Teensy was sick and Da didn't want to leave her to attend the Harvest Festival, but saying as much sent Mum and Lizzie into hysterics. The result was a compromise. He'd take the family to the fest, but wouldn't leave the farm to trade the day after. So that was how the task fell to me.

I'd watched my da trade with a critical eye, taking note of his mistakes and the mistakes of others, as was my habit. If I was ignorant of something, then I was not satisfied until I had learned all there was to learn about the topic. I suppose you could say I was dedicated to being insightful, even if it didn't come naturally.

Thinking of mistakes put me in mind of my business transaction with Colum. I might have argued about the amount of corn it took to get a decent portion of salt, but the rest of his proportions hadn't been unfair, so I'd let it pass. My task was done and I felt like celebrating, though I hadn't the means to do it. So I settled in for the long ride ahead, completely content.

It wasn't until I was nearly home that I noticed something was off. A gust of wind whipped past and I choked and coughed as my mouth and nose filled with reddust. The horses screamed indignantly, dancing as much as their harnesses would allow. Pulling the tunic over my nose, I struggled to keep them calm. I squinted towards the barn where the wind was stirring restlessly, causing large billows of dust to float outward. I then turned toward the horizon where all was calm. Whatever was behind the barn, it was causing the dust to stir violently. I felt uneasy, yet excited by the thought.

Just then Elizabeth came running to meet me. "It's a Scarlet! They've brought a Scarlet!"

I jumped from the driver's bench and began to unhitch the team as quickly as I could. Without pausing from the straps, I asked, "Who? Lizzie, who has come?"

Elizabeth shook her head, sending her golden curls flying around her flushed cheeks. "It must be the military, only the military's got the Red Fleet. Hurry! Hurry, Fiona! You must come and see!"

I wanted nothing more than to run and investigate, but I couldn't leave the horses until they had been rubbed down and fed. I said as much to my sister, but Lizzie wouldn't wait, scampering off to gaze at the Scarlet.

When the horses were shut up in their stalls, happy and relaxed, munching away, I was finally done. I rinsed my hands in a bucket of water and rushed forward to leave, but before reaching the door my father stepped through. At first I thought he looked serious as usual, but as I jogged to a stop, I noticed he wasn't serious, but subdued. In my eagerness to see a Scarlet, my thoughts hadn't lingered on why it had landed on our farm. Seeing my father's face, I knew the reason was not a good one. All of my earlier excitement abandoned me, and in its place was dread.

# Chapter 3

"Fiona, come to the house. We need to speak with you." Without waiting for a response, my father turned on his heel and exited the horse shed.

I wondered who the 'we' included, but bit back asking. If my da wanted to impart any information, he would have. So I obediently followed him to the house where I found my mum bent over the kitchen table, weeping softly. Seated across from her was a man I had never seen before. It was obvious he was not a farmer.

His hair was cut short, unlike most farmers who had shaggy, long locks. His face was clean shaven and his clothes strange, a uniform of stiff neat lines. I couldn't make out his size, unable to gauge it while he was sitting. But overall I thought him very severe looking.

The man was studying me just as closely as I studied him, but I didn't look away or feel embarrassed. My mum was crying and he must be the reason for it. I decided that that gave me some right to stare.

Mum looked up shortly after I entered the kitchen, her soft weeping turned into a keening wail. I did not run to her side as Elizabeth would have. Instead I asked my father, "What's happened?"

Mum interrupted before he could properly answer. Saying, "They're... you're going to..."

Da went to Mum, stopping her broken attempt to explain by laying his hand on her shoulder. He bent, whispering softly into her ear. Tears leaked out of her eyes as she held back the racking noises that had been escaping her. Nodding, she stood and left through the front door without looking at me once.

Having dismissed my mother, Da sat in the chair she'd just vacated. "Fiona, sit," he instructed.

Waiting for the worst, dread souring my stomach, I slowly complied. Da cleared his throat, saying, "This is Commander Clarke. He arrived a quarter of an hour past, and has come to escort you back to the military."

I felt as if water was rushing behind my ears, the situation taking on a surreal quality. They were silent, both waiting for a reaction, a response, for which I was momentarily unable to supply. Eventually I managed to brokenly confess, "I— I don't understand."

Commander Clarke turned to explain, his voice rich, but lacking emotion. "You are required to attend military training."

Every seventeen your old male on Providence was required to spend a year at basic training. Should the worse happen and the hostiles attack directly, then even the farmers would have some experience if they were drafted to help the cause.

"I'm not a boy," I muttered, feeling deeply humiliated for the first time in a long while.

"Yes, I am aware of that," the commander said in a deliberate fashion. "But it doesn't matter. You are still obligated to complete a year of basic training."

"Why?"

"I cannot give a reason, nor can I offer an explanation."

"Have women joined the military? Will other girls be serving their year of training too?" I questioned.

"Women have not joined the military, and there will be no other females among the fledgling soldiers. With the exception of you," he added with finality.

I could not understand why, if women were still restricted from military service, that I would be required to fulfill a year of training. And I could hardly wrap my mind around the fact that I had to go—it was too unreal. Apart from the rising panic, it all felt like a far off dream. I tried to picture this unlikely future and blurted the first thing that came to mind. "I'm a farmer. I know nothing of the military."

"That is not atypical of a fledgling soldier from the farming sector. You will learn."

A thought struck, and I was ashamed I had not wondered sooner. "What will happen to our farm? My da needs a second pair of hands, who will help him?"

"The situation will be handled in the typical fashion. In your absence, a third or fourth son of another farmer will take your place until you return. Your father will not lose his shares."

I turned to my father, barely recognizing him. His usually sober face was swimming with emotion. Mostly he looked defeated and bitter. I desperately wanted to speak with him, but now was not the time. I'd wait until we could speak privately, away from the commander's overwhelming presence.

"There's no way to avoid this, is there? I must go." It wasn't really a question, it was a statement, but I couldn't help hoping that I would be given the opportunity to refuse.

"I don't leave without you." His words were crushing, and quickly extinguished any hope that might've remained.

Commander Clarke waited a moment, and when neither I nor my father spoke, he stood slowly. "Everything you need will be provided, though you may bring a few personal items and a change of clothing to wear during your free time. I'll wait outside while you gather your things and say goodbye."

The instant he was gone I turned to Da and breathlessly asked, "What's going on?"

My father would not look at me, and when he spoke it was quietly, as if to himself. "Should never have come here, something like this would never have happened to us back on Earth."

I didn't like where this was going. I enjoyed hearing my parents speak of Earth, but Earth was not home. Little Red was home. And I felt a certain loyalty, which was childish, but sincerely felt all the same.

I tried to raise my voice, it was unnatural and odd for me to speak so, but I had to get his attention. "Da, did the commander tell you anything more? Do you understand what is going on? Why I must go?"

He looked at me as if just waking up, his eyes slowly focusing on my face. "He told us as little as he told you. Your mum cried and I argued, but he was immovable. We have no choice but to comply." I could see acceptance dwelling within the lines of his face. "I'm sorry, Fiona, but I don't understand either."

Throughout the seventeen years of my life, my father had always been a fount of information. He always seemed to grasp political matters between Earth and Little Red, even so far away from the happenings and with so little news. That he did not understand my current situation left me feeling confused and afraid.

Da stood abruptly, nearly overturning his chair. "I'll go fetch Lizzie and your mum." He left so quickly and without a backward glance that I couldn't help but wonder if he felt ashamed for his ignorance and helplessness.

Having no desire to wait for my family, I climbed the narrow stairs and wandered to my bedroom. I stood in the doorway for a moment, just looking, finding it difficult to believe that I would not be sleeping in my own bed tonight.

The bright colored stones my sister collected winked at me from the window's ledge where she'd set them to bask in the sun. I went to them and lightly drew my finger across each one. They were worthless, but pretty enough that my sister had washed them up and kept them like treasure. So like Lizzie, I would miss her.

Movement from outside caught my eye. It was my family down below, come to say goodbye. With so little time, I felt a sudden urgency, like I needed to do something. But I didn't know what. Impulsive and quick, I reached for the hand mirror my mother had given me. It was small, fitting perfectly into the palm of my hand, but it was also beautiful. A rectangle of black lacquered wood framed the oval shaped mirror, with a decoration of pearl inlay and gold filigree. It was the nicest thing the Frost family owned—and it was all mine. I think that was what I liked about it best. Not that it was beautiful and expensive, or even the fact that it was a family heirloom, though it was all of those things. What I liked best was that Mum and Da had given it to me when I was small, before Elizabeth was born. She often squirreled it away when I wasn't looking, fondling the thing with pious intensity. Sure, it was petty, but I liked knowing that my parents had given me something they hadn't given to her. Even knowing they most likely regretted it, I was comforted by the knowledge. And I wasn't about to give it up. The mirror was coming with me, a reminder that some things couldn't be taken away. My place would exist when I returned, I exhaled, nothing would change. I had to believe that.

Moving quickly I continued gathering my things. I threw open the wooden chest that sat at the end of our bed. It was a precious piece of furniture, not only because it had made the journey from Earth, but because it was wood, a valuable commodity on Little Red. I rummaged through the clothes, ignoring Lizzie's numerous skirts until I found what I was looking for stuffed at the bottom. It was my most comfortable trous, soft but sturdy leather in the warmest shade of brown. I hurriedly gathered a few other garments, unsure exactly what I would need.

I was in the middle of packing my things into an empty flour sack when the door burst open and my sister ran in, tears streaming down her face. I suppose Lizzie had intended to fling herself into my open arms, but since they were full, she flung herself upon our bed instead. "You can't go. I won't let you!" she cried, sobbing into the blankets.

I was much too worried over my own situation to muster up the small sympathy I would typically feel on behalf of her discomfort. So it was with a slightly sarcastic tongue that I evenly replied, "Please, Lizzie, if you can prevent me from going I will be forever in your debt."

The sarcasm, like all subtle things, was lost on Elizabeth. She continued to sob, repeating herself over and over again. It was not long before I was feeling a rise in pity which warred with my overall irritation. I knew the commander was waiting for me, and I had nothing left to do but say goodbye. Now that it seemed my future was sealed, I wanted nothing more than to be gone. I had no patience for lingering and the additional sorrow it would bring.

I turned to my sister, knowing just what would cheer her up. "Lizzie, I want you to promise me something."

"Anything," vowed Elizabeth.

"I want you to wait until I return to be married. I want to see your wedding." It was an empty promise, I knew, for my sister wouldn't come of age for a few more years, long after my return. But it was the drama of keeping a promise that pleased my sister, and the mention of a wedding held its own appeal as well.

Elizabeth pulled herself up to kneel on the bed, nodding emphatically. "I _will_ wait, I swear it."

"Good, now let's go downstairs and say farewell."

I said goodbye to my family at the front door. I silently swore I would not cry, but Mum made no effort to refrain, which brought on a new round from Lizzie. Da insisted on walking me to the ship alone, which made Elizabeth cry all the harder because she had wanted one last look at the Scarlet. But he was adamant, and so with one last wave, I left my mother and sister behind.

For just the barest of moments I forgot everything I felt, forgot the roiling tempest of emotions and knew only the thrill of rounding the barn's corner where I would see my first Scarlet. Da's hand descended heavily on my shoulder, pulling me back to the present and halting me in my tracks. We'd passed the wagon, obstructing our view of home and rendering us invisible to Mum and Lizzie, who I imagined were watching from the threshold. We were alone, but I didn't feel like I was alone with my father. Instead, it felt like I was standing next to the impenetrable Mr. Frost, watching him look down at his eldest daughter. I couldn't know for sure that he was intensely sifting through all the things he wanted to say for only the most useful advice. But I guessed as much when he said, "There will be no one to look out for you, so don't be afraid or feel ashamed of doing whatever it is you must do to take care of yourself."

I frowned, but he was waiting for a response, so I reluctantly nodded, not quite understanding. He gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze and then pushed me forward, saying only, "Go."

# Chapter 4

I went, less enthusiastic than before, rounding the corner and getting my first glimpse of the famous Red Fleet.

My parents had described places on Earth that I could never really picture. The nothingness of yellow sands that stretched past all horizons, massive chunks of ice that moved, forests and jungles and such... But the most difficult of all to imagine was the ocean—until the moment I saw my first Scarlet.

It felt as though I was staring into an endless body of water. Its smooth metallic surface reflected everything like a mirror, and when the sunbeams touched the surface they danced, shimmering and glistening, winking white at me. The underside of the ship lived up to its title, reflecting the reddust terrain. But the actual metal was pale pink, the darker shades of reddish-orange appearing where the planes shifted, metallic edges standing out. I would have laughed, nearly tempted to do so, but my mood killed all light feelings before they could be expressed.

I hadn't glimpsed a lot of redantium, the Union tended to hoard the stuff. It was an element found only on Little Red. Lightweight and strong, it ran like a thick vein through the redrock that made up most of Providence's density. The rock was everywhere and it often broke apart, becoming crumpled dirt or the fine, powdery reddust that plagued the inhabitants of Little Red. Redrock seemed to churn and boil from deep within the planet, moving towards the surface in such an irregular way that scientists still had yet to explain it. They _had_ discovered that if you removed the ore from redrock and smelted it down, it became a brilliant red-orange metal. To hold it in your hand you would suspect it was nothing more than a light, colorful substance. But when the metal fell, its alien qualities became evident, for it dropped at a slightly slower rate than anything else, defying gravity as Earth knew it.

The Union reacted quickly, using the metal to create superior space transportation, the redantium being ideal for aircrafts. The ships were named Scarlets, and called the Red Fleet.

Admittedly, it was not the large and mighty spacecraft I'd imagined. And much to my dismay, it didn't quite reach the peak of our two story barn, rather slinking beneath it. And that was the impression I got—slinking. Not large and mighty, but rather long, sleek, smooth, and probably fast.

After a moment or two of gawking I finally noticed Commander Clarke. He was tucked away in shadow, his figure standing tall beneath the ship, alongside a ramp which led up into the underbelly. Conscious of the fact that I'd been caught gaping, I picked up my feet, reluctantly setting off to meet him.

Moving closer, I got my first good look at the commander. His head nearly brushed the Scarlet's underside, proving a height to match his severity, but I must admit, he had very good boots. They were knee-length black leather and shined until glossy. I was still admiring them when he turned toward the ramp, but my curiosity overcame me and I stopped him with a question.

"Why is the ship pink?"

He reached up to touch the underside, sliding his hand over its slick surface. "This metal is fashioned differently than all the other redantium products. During the process it loses the traditional red-orange cast, becoming lighter and stronger."

I trailed after him, up the ramp and into a dimly lit space. It was strangely cavernous, our footsteps gently echoing through the cargo hold. A few crates had been tied to the floor, but otherwise the place was oddly cold, empty and sterile. Thick black netting lined the walls, hanging from the ceiling. With nothing to secure, the dark webs swayed uselessly back and forth.

Having found his answer rather lacking, I pressed, "Yes, but for _what purpose_ are the spacecrafts made lighter and stronger?" It was common knowledge that redantium was already the lightest and strongest material available to us in the _whole universe_ , reinforcing it seemed, well, redundant.

He stopped in front of the far wall, rungs springing from the bulkhead. "When our Scarlets encounter a hostile ship, the only way to survive is to outrun it. The metal is modified so that we might have even the smallest hope of doing so."

Commander Clarke swiveled back around, continuing his ascent. With his back turned, I took the opportunity to be unashamedly afraid. A farmer got his news in town, where any major event was posted at the local trading center or tavern. Each time a ship was found floating aimlessly, the news came and chilled everyone.

The Union had dubbed the people being transported to Providence during the planet's initial habitation: stock. It was during the transfer of stock that the Union was approached by Shetheerie, a race that occupied the neighboring planet Shether. They had a long history, vastly more ancient than the race of mankind. They imparted information freely and carried themselves with a peaceful demeanor. They soon became allies. It was from the Shetheerie that humans learned of the grindts, another neighboring race, though they lacked the peaceful demeanor.

The inhabitants of Braacktda had always been considered dangerous, and had, in the past, targeted the Shetheerie, their closest neighbors. But never had they attacked as ruthlessly as they did with humans. Human spacecrafts were always found damaged beyond repair after an encounter with the grindts, never to date had there been a survivor.

The losses were great during Providence's initial preparation, but with the warnings from Shether, a new route to and from Providence was created. Having to avoid the quickest path past Braacktda, the new route was longer, but it soon proved worthwhile. Human ships were no longer stalked so regularly, and fewer had perished since. It was as if humans had somehow incurred the wrath of the grindts unknowingly, and there was no hope for making amends. The best we could do was stay out of their space.

I knew that no human had ever set eyes on a grindt and lived to tell the tale, but that didn't stop wild speculation. One farmer's son had returned from his military service and claimed to have spoken with a visiting Shetheerie who had seen a grindt. The creature was supposedly taller than a tree, with black claws and pointed teeth. Such stories continuously circulated throughout the community. It was always by someone who met someone who had seen a grindt. The only bit of information that went unchanged was the common knowledge that grindts always ate small children who didn't do their chores. Having heard these gruesome tales from the cradle, I was no different than any other farmer—I feared the grindts of Braacktda.

I felt as if I were making myself vulnerable by leaving the farming sector. As if stepping onto the ship was somehow stepping into the grindts' line of vision. I knew we were only traveling the surface of Little Red, that we wouldn't be going into space, but it still felt like the hostiles could somehow reach me now.

The ladder spit us through an open portal just off a narrow walkway. The commander seemed to know his way through the maze of pinched halls, confident and sure, though I was already confused, finding each cramped corridor identical to the last. Small lights bleeped as we passed a few crew members, they opened camouflaged compartments, twisting dials here and there, making notes of their progress. The equipment I didn't recognize, but could guess that it was technology, though the word had little meaning to me.

My father had always told me that when he became a farmer on Little Red, it was like he'd traveled back through time a few hundred years. He'd said it was because the Union wanted to keep the inhabitants of Providence ignorant and dependant so there would be no rebellion. The Union would not risk losing its Providence. Unlike the people of the utopias, farmers were not given time-saving technology, which meant we spent all of ours working, leaving none to cause trouble.

The commander paused to address a crewman who did not look much older than myself. He had a thin green band wrapped around his bicep, the color combined with his age denoting his status as new, fresh from training. I tried to follow the conversation between them. Commander Clarke was making enquiries, wanting to know the status of our impending flight. But I was frustrated to find myself a little confused, not quite grasping their ship speak and lingo. After a moment more, the commander bade Featherstone, the young man, to seat Frost.

I was so startled by the loss of my first name that I was slow to follow Featherstone. He led me back the way we had come, retracing our steps down a corridor or two before I was once again lost. I was beginning to think that the height of the Scarlet was deceptive, because within her bowels was a network of narrow, low slung halls that seemed to go on for an eternity. I couldn't help but wonder where the components meant to keep the ship afloat were stored, having seen a good bit of the Scarlet already. The hall opened up into a fairly wide area, rows of chairs facing inward, attached to each wall. My guide pulled a harness from above the nearest seat before motioning me to sit and clipping me in.

I was not used to having anyone so close, but his movements were brisk and impersonal. He hadn't said a word and was doing his best to pretend that I didn't exist. That was fine by me. It kept me from doing something stupid, like blushing. He was gone the moment his chore was complete, and five minutes after his departure I was thoroughly bored.

It was strange to think that a few hours ago I had been content, pleased even, with my performance at Berg's Trading and Goods. It didn't matter now, not one whit. I would never taste the sweets Mum would procure, or anything resulting from my trade.

Thinking of Mum caused me to cringe a little, she was probably still crying, kicking up a fit, worrying about what people would think. And what would they think? A farm girl hauled off to serve in the military—it was too strange, unheard of. It would never be forgotten, and neither would I. I wished I could creep out of my own skin and leave the humiliation behind. Was I so boyish? Was that what brought me here, to this seat, on this ship? I hated myself a little bit then, disgusted at some nameless quality that lived within me, whatever it was that kept me displaced.

A slight movement from beneath distracted my thoughts, just a little nudge as the Scarlet lifted up off the ground. As the spacecraft took to the air, the momentum pushing me back, I wished a mute goodbye to the place that had been my home.

Flying in a ship was not the thrilling experience my sister and I had always imagined. It was subtle, as if I was not really moving at all, nothing like a bumpy cart ride over redrock. My boredom grew in leaps and bounds. Very few crewmen passed by, disappointing, as when they did it was a distraction of sorts, even if none of them deigned to notice me. They were all men of course, varying in ages, but none seemed as old as Commander Clarke. With his hair graying at the temples, I put him in his fifties. They all wore uniforms as well, beautiful sapphire blue, with boots and belt in sturdy brown leather. But their footwear didn't even compare to the commander's, only going mid-calf and lacking any sort of shine. I wondered if there was a more formal way to display rank, or if I was going to have to look at everyone's feet to guess their status.

The entire trip must have taken only a few hours, but when the Scarlet finally tapped down, it felt as if a lifetime had passed. Honestly, I was terrified. My heart picked up the moment the spacecraft stopped, thrumming furiously in my chest. It was the not-knowing that made me quietly frantic. During the ride over I'd discovered I had a great many nervous habits I'd never realized. Tapping my foot, flicking my fingers, the worst was when I bit through the fleshy inside of my cheek. While it hadn't hurt at the time, it was beginning to smart now.

Commander Clarke came to fetch me himself. We were the only ones to go; the rest of the crew remained aboard, moving purposefully about with work to do. Leaving the cargo hold felt something like being born, the dark quiet opening up into a bright flurry of activity.

Constant terraforming meant that our weather was planned, rain or shine scheduled accordingly, one always knowing what the temperature would be. The strangest side effect of this atmospheric control occurred in the sky, which turned a pale green. It appeared natural to me, but not my parents.

Today the minty sky was chock full of downy clouds, each reflecting the soft green atmosphere. The sun's glare beat down on the ruby earth, creating the illusion of dancing vapors against the horizon. I could not tell if the distant rolling peaks were real or just a trick of the sun, but I'd never seen anything like them. They disturbed the careful flatness that I had come to associate with Little Red.

Around us the crumbling redrock and dirt was overset by smooth red paths. I scuffed my boot over the surface, slightly shocked at its evenness. A variety of ships were settled around us, one gliding past, swift and silent. Curious, I couldn't help but ask the commander a number of questions regarding the landing strips. He refused to answer, his cool silence discouraging me from saying more.

I followed him away, putting the airfield behind my heels and striding along a seemingly endless path toward the distant peaks. Our destination was a place in-between, a place I could tell, even from afar, was crawling with soldiers.

Training camp.

# Chapter 5

The commander had taken me through camp, setting a brisk pace as we wove between clustered buildings and big open fields, some a shock of green like I'd never seen before. Eventually I'd been left to sit on a bench. It was wood, and I took the opportunity to rub my fingers over the grain while Commander Clarke disappeared behind a door situated a few feet from my shoulder. I struggled to make out the voices of a much muffled conversation until the door opened a few minutes later and I was beckoned inside. I expected the man standing behind the desk. I was somewhat taken off guard by the additional presence of a young man, as I hadn't heard him speak. He must be training, but seventeen? He looked older, or maybe just very mature.

"This is Soldier Frost. Frost, this is Instructor Bardzecki," the commander said, making no move to introduce the young man who stood quietly off to the side. "Instructor Bardzecki will oversee your training from here." And with that he left. I was so shocked, I gaped after him, feeling utterly bereft.

My reaction didn't make the least bit of sense—I didn't even _like_ the commander. But he'd replaced my parents, he'd taken me from my home and I thought... I suppose I thought he'd sort of... look after me. I released a deep, unsteady breath, the question breaking from my mouth without consideration. "Is he going to come back?"

Bardzecki the instructor seemed momentarily stunned. His head hitching back ever so slightly at my question. "Coming back?" he echoed. "He shouldn't have wasted time on you in the first place, he's a commander. Now, sit."

If I was stunned before, the world had just gone off-kilter. In one terse statement Instructor Bardzecki had shown me my place, and it wasn't a good one. I had been ignored and ostracized, but I'd never been commanded or inconsequential. I didn't put up a fight. Nope, I eased myself into the chair facing his and waited.

"You too, Winslow," the instructor said, addressing the stiff soldier.

They both sat, Winslow moving quietly into the chair next to mine. He seemed larger the closer he came, but it was nothing to Instructor Bardzecki, who wafted his presence like an unavoidable odor. As he lowered himself into the chair, his face coming level with mine, I felt the air shrink away.

He said nothing at first, giving his attention entirely to the drawer in his desk where he removed a waxy paper envelope. He opened it carefully, his fingers steady as he separated a few crumbled leaves from the rest and began crushing them with the blunt of his thumb. I took this time to study him, comparing him to Commander Clarke. While they were both imposing, the instructor made the commander look downright elegant, all tall and straight. Instructor Bardzecki had a round, heart-shaped face, with deep-set icy eyes. His arms and chest were thick with muscle, unable to hide even behind a shapeless uniform. With a thick, bull-like neck his head didn't sit far up off his rounded shoulders. He was old, not as old as the commander (his hair hadn't yet started to gray, still a trim, mousy brown) but he had a few decades on me, and how he managed to stay so fit, I could only guess.

Having crushed the plant into little pieces, Instructor Bardzecki licked his thumb before pressing it into the tiny pile. The flecks, caught by his saliva, stuck to his finger. I watched, a little curious, as he rubbed the dried plant crumbs over the bottom of his tongue. It was only then that I knew it was birdbane, a weedy plant indigenous to Little Red. I would have liked to ask him about the plant's many uses, but I knew better.

"You're late!"

I had been so preoccupied with watching him in silence that I was unready for the sudden accusation. I nearly asked what he meant, but thought better of it and stayed silent.

That was apparently the right thing to do because he continued. "The other soldiers have been here for two seasons. How the hell do you plan to catch up?"

He was staring at me, his naturally narrow eyes watching me from beneath a heavy brow. I still wasn't sure if I was meant to answer. I wanted to say that I couldn't be blamed for being late. That I'd never volunteered for this. That I hadn't had a choice and didn't know what was going on. But I was learning, and I already knew better. So instead I tentatively said, "I'll do my best, sir."

He watched me for a moment, expression unreadable, something I found terribly intimidating. I could tell by the jut of his jaw that he was rubbing his tongue over the floor of his mouth, hurrying along the effects. Birdbane was a stimulant and he would feel an invigorating burst of energy soon.

The moments ticked by and I thought maybe, just maybe, the birdbane would put him in a better frame of mind. Knowing I might not have another chance, I asked the question I most wanted to know, while knowing I shouldn't bother. "It doesn't seem logical to force a female into the military, especially so late in the year. I thought... well, I just want to know why I'm here."

Birdbane be damned, the instructor wasn't happy. "You don't speak until you are spoken to!" he thundered. "And when you do speak, you will address me properly!" He eased back into his chair, eyes watchful as he released what I thought was an ominous sigh. "Did you ever think you'd see a fledge this green?" It was obvious the question was directed at Winslow, though his eyes remained fixed on me. I liked his calm tone even less than his angry one, at least then I knew where things stood.

"No, Instructor Bardzecki, I did not." He didn't even look at me! Invisible again, I might as well have been at home.

I forgot Winslow the moment our instructor spoke. "If Commander Clarke did not disclose the reason for your being here, then you aren't meant to know." But for a moment I saw something on his face, and when coupled with his watchful gaze, I knew that he was curious. So his comment encompassed the both of us, though that was also something I wasn't meant to know.

He rummaged through the desk's drawer again, giving us only partial notice. "I'll give you the same speech I give to all the fledglings," he said, not pausing from his search. "It's not easy to live on a half-dead planet with hostiles nipping at our heels, but we do it, and every day we live on Providence is just another day we've survived. It is vital we train every pair of hands to hold a weapon, so if the worst should come, we'll be ready."

I wanted to ask if when he said 'every pair of hands' that included the people from utopias. Did they train to protect themselves? I was always curious to know more about them. But mostly I just wanted to know where I fit into all of this. I wanted to scream: _Why am I here?_

Instructor Bardzecki was not interested in what I wanted—that much had become obvious. When he pulled a sheet of paper from his desk it was triumphantly, having finally found what he was looking for. He held it across the desk to Winslow, saying, "Here is her schedule and rank, she's your problem now." And with that, we were dismissed. And once again, I was thrust from one person to another, only this time I felt a hairsbreadth of relief.

# Chapter 6

"That back there is the West Field," Winslow said, pointing over his shoulder to a flat expanse I could barely see behind all the buildings. He'd named them too, explaining where I would take each lesson. Winslow continued my cursory tour while I struggled to keep up, two quicksteps to every one of his long-legged strides. "That's the armory, and behind it is the range. We do our weapons training there. This is the North Field," he said, indicating the lush green stretch of land we were now skirting on a red walkway. They snaked throughout training camp, perfect flat paths, connecting each destination.

Our own destination was still unknown to me, aside from his terse tour, Winslow had said nothing. I fell back a step, surreptitiously scanning him from the corner of my eye.

Winslow was really something to look at, that much was plain. He was very befitting of all my sister's princely fantasies. She would be in raptures over his rounded, strong shoulders. His height caused them to blot his face from my view. No matter, I'd already noticed the tiny dip in his chin and the symmetrical dents—almost but not quite dimples—on either side of his face that separated square jaw from sharp cheek. Something less obvious than his handsome features were his emotions, they were absent from his face, and from his voice. I was naturally reserved, but he, he was cold, moving forward like a machine, purposeful, but without feeling. This aspect of Winslow intimidated me far more than Commander Clarke or Instructor Bardzecki ever could, because I knew he was more capable of making my daily life a living hell. And if there was one thing that managed to ooze through his stiff exterior, one thing I felt, it was unwelcome.

I got the impression we'd reached the hub of camp when we came upon a large, squat building. It was a compilation of smooth adobe and patterned brick, very red and imposing. The exterior seemed to stretch forever, interrupted only by the tall, narrow deep-set windows. There were stairs leading up to a large set of double doors, both propped open, a gaping maw to the dark cavern within. Winslow passed by, saying, "During first-year training, soldiers are split into manageable camp sites, they're spread all over the Triangle Patch. This is the largest central building in camp," he said, pointing at the broad structure we walked beside. "It's called the convene, and it's where you will eat and get supplies. There are approximately 600 soldiers per convene, and those are split into groups of twelve called formats." He rounded a corner and disappeared down a flight of stairs that had been carved from the earth, our destination the convene basement.

"You are Soldier Frost from the forty-fourth format in the seventh convene of first years, that is your official position in the military. Repeat it back to me," he commanded.

"Soldier Frost from the forty-fourth format in the seventh convene of first years," I rattled off, following him inside. There was certainly nothing wrong with my memory, that was what my da always said, his dry tone conveying a subtle compliment. I'd liked hearing him say so. It was not something he could've attributed to Lizzie, who had once come back from the chicken coup, having forgotten why I sent her in the first place. _As if there were that many reasons to go to a chicken coup..._ Thinking of Lizzie brought a sudden pang to my gut, a reminder of what I was already missing.

It was darker indoors, the cool adobe walls eating up all the light. Our footsteps shushed across carmine colored tiles, everything seemingly quiet and still except for the penetrating laughter that echoed down the halls. Winslow followed the noise to where it emanated from a group of women who stood together, chatting and smiling on the other side of a window set in the wall. Winslow rapped on the glass twice with his knuckles, breaking the moment to get their attention.

I had an aversion to gossipy women. Old habits die hard and my reaction to them bustling forward was to turn away, studying a crack in the wall. The glass partition slid open with a resisting squeak, and still I didn't look.

"Is this the new miss then?"

"She's a soldier now, not a miss," Winslow contradicted. Continuing, "Instructor Bardzecki said you would have her things."

"Oh, aye we do. Bring her back so we can check the fit." I looked up then, straight into a pair of hooded brown eyes. A few women were clustered around the sliding glass, but this one was clearly in charge as she'd done most of the talking. Her voice was surprisingly high and girlish, not matching her short, thick figure. "Edna," she said, "go and get the bundle. Susan, go with her. It's heavy and she'll need help." No one moved right away. She glanced at Edna and Susan, then me and Winslow. "What are you all waiting for, get moving!"

Winslow seemed unable to ignore an order. He turned on his heel and marched to the closest door. I, of course, followed. We were ushered into the room, now standing on the other side of the glass. Long tables were pushed side by side, leaving only a narrow gap for the women to squeeze into. Two stood there, a pile of uniforms and faded white sheets in front of them which they pretended to fold. The remaining women didn't make any effort to look busy. Instead they hovered near the brown-eyed woman who seemed to know what she was about.

"Taller than I expected," she said, giving me the eye, for which I was all too familiar. "May have to go one size up on the uniforms."

Edna and Susan returned, pushing through a set of swinging doors, grappling a large sheet bundle between them. It was dropped unceremoniously at Winslow's feet. Together, he and the brown-eyed woman pulled the knot apart and began to root through.

What followed made me feel somewhat uncomfortable, though I'm not entirely sure why. The brown-eyed woman, they called her Mave, began to hold the uniforms against my frame. I didn't like her being so close, it felt invasive. Winslow didn't notice (I suppose I should be grateful) because he was too busy throwing things out of the bundle, claiming they were unnecessary. A few of the women who had gathered around to watch (what was slowly becoming a spectacle) _tsk_ ed, arguing that I would _need_ hair cream or whatever else...

"Not the journal," Mave said, just before Winslow tossed it aside. "She's meant to keep that, he specifically said so." Winslow dropped it back into the bundle and Mave's attention settled back on me. "A female fledge," she said, shaking her head in disapproval as she held a pair of trous to my waist. "Well don't worry, deary, even if the soldiers aren't fledglings anymore, they were all just as miserable in the beginning."

_Thanks_ , I thought, _that makes me feel_ so _much better._ Luckily Winslow had gathered up my uniforms, shoving them into the bundle and tying it closed. The women eyed the pile of discarded items, looking sympathetic and forlorn on my behalf. It was ironic because I didn't even care. The truth was I _didn't_ need hair cream or any of the other luxury items I didn't recognize.

"Here," Winslow said, thrusting the off-white bundle into my arms. It was large and surprisingly heavy. I lurched under the unexpected weight, my hands reaching to get a grip.

"Careful!" one of the women said, indignant on my behalf. I wasn't sure who it was, I could barely see over my new things.

Someone else said, "Oughtn't make the miss do it, not with your arms carrying nothing but air."

"She's a soldier, not a miss," Winslow repeated. He said this to Mave, which I thought was odd. Her look seemed to chastise, but she hadn't actually reproached him aloud. I would have recognized her high, childish tone.

To me he said, "Come on," before striding towards the door. I struggled to keep up, walking at an angle to see over my awkward armful.

"Winslow," Mave called at our backs, "don't cut her hair."

I don't know if he heard, but his steps didn't falter as he stalked out the door.

Winslow snatched my flour-sack-luggage from the hall as he passed, with me bumbling after. Just moments after leaving the convene he said, "You are not to seek out the laundry women for any reason."

"Why would I?" I asked, surprised into speaking.

"Special treatment will not be tolerated," he curtly replied.

I was offended. It didn't happen very often, I tended to be pretty thick-skinned, but Winslow had managed, and in the first hour of our acquaintance no less. Impressive. Implying that I would go hunting for handouts... Just thinking about it made me want to, well, put him in his place. I was about to say something I'd probably regret, but he spoke first, totally ruining the moment. I felt myself deflate a bit.

"This is the infirmary. You have to see a medic."

"Why? I feel fine."

"Don't question me, just do as I say."

I was annoyed by the commands, but not surprised. I was starting to notice that Winslow didn't look at me when he issued them. What did it say when someone could order you about, but not meet your eye while doing so?

The infirmary doors opened into a small foyer with closed rooms off to either side, but ahead was the main area. It was long and rectangular with neatly spaced beds along each wall. Rolling cloth divides and hanging curtains divvied the large space into smaller, more private sections, though they were useless at the moment. None of the beds were occupied, for which I was grateful.

I had yet to see another soldier, something I thought was strange. During my walk down from the airfield I had seen them at a distance, lots, apparently 600, moving along the pathways like a bunch of busy bugs. But since leaving the instructor's office I hadn't seen a one, not that I minded in the least. No, as I said, I was relieved.

As if the thought extended to my fingers, I relaxed, letting the bundle in my arms drop to the ground.

"Pick it up," Winslow immediately said.

I picked it up.

"Stay here."

I stayed while he went back into the foyer. I heard him knocking on one of the doors, and then muffled voices. Winslow returned shortly with an older gentleman. He didn't look at all like a hardened man of the military.

"This is the medic, Doctor Pruitt," explained Winslow. "Doctor Pruitt, this is Soldier Frost."

"Pleasure to meet you," the doctor said, extending his hand.

I stared at it, then at Winslow.

"Set down your things."

After dropping the bundle and shaking his hand, the doctor suggested we walk back to the far end of the room. He pulled a curtain closed, effectively banishing Winslow from my sight. I settled on one of the beds, sitting sideways with my legs dangling over while Doctor Pruitt went to fetch a rolling chair.

The first thing he wanted to know was how I spelled my name. The question seemed innocuous enough, so I answered. He then wanted to know the date of my birth, which I again answered. Things got trickier after that, question after question about the previous state of my health.

"Why is this important," I finally asked.

"It's just in case you have a problem while here at camp. Treating patients is easier if I have their medical history."

So I told him about the few hurts I'd experienced over the years. He wanted to know what medications I'd been given and if I remembered the physicians who'd treated me. I remembered them all by name—their occupation had made an impression. You see, doctors were recruited from Earth, men _and_ women, and they had a rare privilege on Providence. They could treat people in the farming sector and military districts; on occasion they were even given access to the utopias. That kind of freedom was hard to come by on Little Red, and as I said, the occupation left an impression.

Doctor Pruitt jotted down the last of his thoughts before flipping the notebook closed and setting his clipboard aside. "Alright, time for your physical."

We left the cloister of our partitioned area, Doctor Pruitt leading me to the scale where he could record my height and weight. From my peripheral vision I could see Winslow waiting by the foyer, but I ignored him the best I could, refusing to turn my head in his direction. After that we returned to the curtained cubby where he took my blood pressure, temperature, and checked my reflexes.

Doctor Pruitt hovered around, examining my ears and eyes. I tried to be helpful, holding very still and saying very little while watching the doctor work. He had an overlarge head, extremely round, and when he flashed a penlight into my eyes his crown tilted backward, chin thrust up, revealing a prominent Adam's apple. But overall I thought he had a kind face to match his gentle nature.

He clicked the penlight off and stepped back. "Healthy as a horse," he declared. "I'll just go and get your first."

"My what?"

He'd been reviewing his notes, but at my question he looked up distractedly. "Your first," he repeated. "You know... your format leader—Winslow." At my blank look he waved it all away with one vague hand gesture. "Don't worry, you'll catch on. It won't be long before you find your place."

The problem was I believed him. I just worried what that place might be.

Doctor Pruitt wasn't even gone for a whole minute before Winslow pulled the curtain aside, stepping through and filling the tiny space with his empty presence. "Put this on," he demanded, tossing a uniform into my lap.

The dictates I could manage, but I wouldn't tolerate much more of the throwing. I glanced down at the cloth heap in my lap, thinking the uniform was not entirely unpleasant. It was comprised of a pair of tan trous, cotton white undershirt, and a tunic of rich blue. Embroidered across the breast was a picture of Providence, the Triangle Patch prominent and enlarged with a star of hope to represent each of the six utopias. I rubbed at the stitching, waiting for Winslow to leave so I could change. Only he didn't.

Our eyes locked and I continued to wait, wondering why he didn't go... until it finally dawned on me. He saw that I understood, couldn't have missed that I'd just flushed red from head to toe. But still I didn't move—I couldn't. My mum would die if she ever found out, but she'd kill me and everyone in the military first. I couldn't do it. I just couldn't.

Winslow must've sensed this because he faltered. "The instructors check to make sure no contraband is brought in, unauthorized weapons, that sort of thing. I just searched your bag, this is procedure."

I don't think I had ever been truly embarrassed before that moment. I thought that embarrassment was what I'd hardened myself to avoid, but I was wrong. It must've been something else, something other than this overwhelming mortification. My experience with the opposite sex was limited, leaving me utterly unprepared. Perhaps that was why I didn't do anything, not a thing, not even breathe. We just stared, our bodies frozen.

Finally Winslow exhaled. "If I find out you snuck something in..." The threat trailed off as he spun on his heel, nose nearly touching the curtain.

Then it was my turn to exhale, rushing to change and managing in record time. I didn't tell him I was finished, just scrambled past, hurrying through the curtain to escape an area that now felt stiflingly small.

While I stuffed my recently shucked farm clothes into the flour sack, Winslow spoke to Doctor Pruitt. "Is she fit for service?" he asked.

He didn't fool me. The question might have been delivered in deadpan tones, but it was loaded nonetheless. I already knew he was going to be disappointed, and so was I.

As if to prove my point, Doctor Pruitt said, "She is."

# Chapter 7

"You'll sleep here," Winslow said. He'd led me south through camp, away from the convene and infirmary, away from the big buildings and flat fields. The distant airfield and landing strips faded from sight, obscured behind a grid of adobe huts. They were identical, rows and rows of format housing, little squares of red. Above each doorless entry was a carved number, but luckily we passed by forty-four, and for this I was tremendously grateful. A knot had formed in my stomach, and the muscles only unknit when Winslow took me to the very edge of camp. The pathways had ended, the nicely manicured grass (a shock of green like I'd never seen) had long since petered out and we seemed to be walking nowhere, boots crunching over crumbled rock and slippery red sand. And that was exactly where my new abode was located. It teetered on the edge of camp, not a perfect square hut, but a pinched rectangular dwelling, narrow and long. It seemed to be facing away, entrance looking off into the nothingness, giving its back to camp.

"The southeastern fields used to be bigger," Winslow explained. "This was a recreational storage shed, but now they just keep extra beds here."

I glanced behind my new home where training camp loomed, like everything on Providence it was red on red, a smudge of crimson buildings and pathways in contrast with the forced grass that grew naturally nowhere on this dusty planet. I tried to imagine the southeastern fields, situated off to the right, and how they must have stretched all the way to my new home's doorstep. But I couldn't, the space between was now so utterly barren.

I continued to relax, bit by bit, the tension leaving my body as I realized that this storage shed was mine and mine alone. I'd never had my own space, having slept in the same room, the same bed even, as Elizabeth since I was a small child. To be honest, it was kind of wretched looking. It seemed to spring up from the dirt, the once smooth adobe surface now cracking under the evening sun. But at least there was a door, wood even, with thin graying planks hanging crooked and framed by gaps. Nestled beside it was a tiny window, the corners crusted over and collecting grit and grime. The structure's shoddy condition didn't bother me though and I wanted to go inside and poke around. But I couldn't without Winslow giving me the say-so, and since he hadn't even given me permission to set down my things, I knew better than to ask.

As if he knew what I wanted, Winslow withheld it. If for a single moment I thought I was going to set down the bundle and relax into my private new home, then I was dead wrong. Instead I was given an introductory lesson of everything military.

First I was informed that I was late (which was no longer news to me) and apparently I'd missed the vital first stage—the fledgling period. This was when a fledge had every aspect of their life dictated to them by an instructor, and as I inferred from Winslow's description, it was rather unpleasant. After the first stage was complete, soldiers had shed their ego (or had it beaten out of them) and learned discipline, along with their routine and what would be expected of them.

"Because of your gender certain exceptions must be made," Winslow said, and I knew he was thinking of earlier.

Before leaving the infirmary, Dr. Pruitt had asked Winslow if he should fetch someone to cut my hair, a standard practice for the newly arrived. Winslow had stared at my hair, a thick braid that flopped to one side and hung over my shoulder, before shaking his head. Dr. Pruitt seemed to agree that it didn't feel right, a statement which Winslow hadn't appreciated. I didn't care one way or another about saving my hair. I would have cut it long ago out of convenience if I'd thought for one moment my mum would have let me. But if my gender got me a shed all to myself, then I ought to be grateful, even if I didn't feel like it.

Our lesson skimmed over rankings, and by this time my arms began to ache from holding the bundle. My upper muscles seemed to burn while my hands shook from exertion, but I refused to be distracted. I paid attention as Winslow outlined the military rankings, for which could be applied to even office jobs. I remembered everything, filing it away and focusing only on pertinent details. For example, most of my interaction would be with other soldiers of my rank, the exception being firsts, the next highest rank. Firsts were chosen and appointed by their instructor after the fledgling period came to an end, at which point firsts assumed responsibility and authority over their format. Instructors ranged in rank, most having once been soldiers themselves, but switched to a less physically demanding job because they were either injured or getting on in years. Although rank was signified by patches on the uniform, and outside of camp one was expected to recognize and address each person properly in accordance with said rank, here instructors were given the same deference and title. I surmised that most of this rank information was only important for those who wished to pursue a career in the military, but I made a point to remember every detail nonetheless.

"Set your things down over there," Winslow said, pointing to the spot where he'd dropped my flour sack. I hurried to comply, sighing in satisfaction when my arms were free. It was a mistake to relax. "Drop to the ground and do as many push-ups as you can manage."

"Uh..."

"Drop to the ground and do as many push-ups as you can manage," Winslow repeated, his voice taking on a slightly louder and more forceful tone.

I sank to my knees and lurched forward, holding myself above the ground. Winslow's booted feet shifted around me, moving out of sight as I relaxed, letting my body descend to the warm earth.

"Slower," Winslow said, interrupting my progress. "Don't just let yourself drop, lower yourself. It'll work the muscles better."

I did the best I could with my arms as weak as they were, stopping when my face hovered just inches over the dust, elbows jutting sideways.

"Straighten out," Winslow commanded, "you're sagging. Go on, straighten out and push up." He hadn't yet realized I _was_ pushing up, unfortunately nothing was happening. "Your back should be flat." Something moved against my waist, a tap tap as he used the tip of his boot to push my middle up into place. I was startled by the gesture and instantly collapsed into a heap at his feet. I glanced up, unable to see him as he was backlit by the beating sun. "A new low for the forty-fourth format," his darkened outline proclaimed. "Now let's see if you fare any better with sit-ups."

Things continued on like that. He stood on my shoes while I did sit-ups, considerably less humiliating than the push-ups, and then he showed me how I should stand at attention during flag ceremony. The way he casually moved me into place, nudging my shoulders back, tapping my chin up, it was... Well I don't know what it was, because I can't remember a time when anyone, let alone a male, ever casually touched me. It was unsettling, but I can't help reliving the memory, as if hoping to experience it all over again. My mother would die. I can't ever let her read this journal... I feel silly even writing these things, like I'm Lizzie and not Fiona, but I can't stop. It helps to write. It provides clarity in this uncertain situation. Even if I don't know why I'm here and what tomorrow brings, at least I can figure out how I feel. And I feel... I feel like I've done something wrong and I can't figure out what. But I must have, because being here feels like a punishment, a terrible punishment. I've never felt this low. I've been crying and I can't remember ever crying before. Strange, but I really can't. Lizzie is the crier. I'm turning into Lizzie—soft. At least I can cry in private. Winslow left after teaching me the basics. He brought me a dinner tray but quickly went away again, saying he'd fetch me in the morning. So I have until morning, and then... who knows.

I can hear them, the other soldiers, and I've never heard so much noise in all my life. Their bursts of laughter, their echoing arguments—I'd say these are the sounds of my loneliness, except being alone has never been this frightening.

# Chapter 8

Once upon a time I was little and clumsy, just beginning to understand what it meant to be a farmer, the care it entailed. But my hands hadn't yet caught up with my brain, my muscle memory still developing, and as I said, I was clumsy. So one day I set aside a long-handled hoe, propping it haphazardly against the wall before turning my attention elsewhere. It fell of course, the noise startling me backward, right into an open sack of horse feed. The feed spilled everywhere, mixing in with the reddust and straw.

" _What starts with a bang, ends in a groan." It was my father, his voice giving me more of a scare than the hoe had managed. I'd hoped to clean it up before he noticed. I was always afraid to disappoint him. He never seemed to laugh off my folly like he did with Lizzie and Mum. To me he was always sober, withdrawn. But I liked that saying of his. It managed to put things in perspective and somehow smooth over my mistakes. It was just an expression, the meaning almost meaningless. I was too little to know truer words had never been spoken._

What starts with a bang, ends in a groan.

Bang, bang, bang.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

I woke up disoriented, the hammering sound feeding me a sense of urgency as I scrambled upright, glancing around wildly, trying to put the pieces together. Ah, camp, that was it. I was serving a year, or what was left of a year, learning what it meant to be a soldier. I followed the noise to my door. It rattled on its hinges, fluttering like a leaf in the wind. I pulled it open to find Winslow on my step, large and imposing as ever in the weak, thready morning light.

"You have to shower before the others wake."

I nodded, not caring to argue. "I'll just put on my uniform," I said, gesturing behind me lamely.

"Don't bother, just bring it to change into."

* * *

My morning routine was firmly established. I was expected to wake up early and sneak in a shower before sunrise. It was still dark and brisk out as I hunched over, hugging the wadded uniform for warmth as Winslow led me through camp. I had no more than fifteen minutes to wash and groom, he'd said, along with a cryptic statement about the chain and how it only goes for seven minutes. He mentioned it like I should know what he was going on about, though we both knew I didn't. I pretended anyway, nodding before I dashed inside the latrine.

There had been a single light above the outside entry, a buzzing greenish-yellow lamp that flickered as if slowly dying. The lighting inside was no better, shadowy and dim. But the smell was heavier than the shadows, pungent from years of male sweat and musk. Along one wall was a bank of sinks, the other side a series of open chambers done in russet tile. When my face puckered it was not from the smell, but the realization that I would not have a private stall to shower in. I checked to make sure, thinking surely one of the stalls in the back was a shower, but it wasn't so. Leading me to another discovery—the chain Winslow spoke of. Each nozzle had one and I simply had to give it a tug to start the water. So with that I began and endured the most uncomfortable shower of my entire life. There was no curtain to conceal me, and though I chose the furthest chamber from the door, if Winslow was so inclined, he could march in and get an eyeful, which was why I suppose he was standing guard. I ought to be grateful, but I just couldn't manage. So I kept one eye trained on the door while I shivered through a quick seven minute shower and hurried to towel off and dress.

Winslow looked me up and down when I stepped out to meet him. My uniform was new, my skin freshly scrubbed, and my hair pulled back into a thick damp braid, but I didn't look sharp and well put-together like him. No, I looked raw, my face too pale, my clothes not fitting quite right. The seams were made in lines that would never shape to my body. His face gave nothing away, but I was sure he agreed and found me lacking. But he only said, "Go back to your shed and wait for me."

Camp came to life while I did just that, the noise drifting to meet me. It made me terribly nervous, the anticipation. I had an entire day ahead of me, and no idea what to expect. I began to chew at the inside of my mouth, biting the already tender skin as I paced back and forth. When Winslow came he had damp hair of his own, the short cut glistening wetly. "Come on," he said. "It's time to meet your format."

Soldiers milled about, most wandering to and from the latrine, preparing for the day. It was the first time I'd passed them while trekking through camp, and I was relieved to garner little attention. It was the uniform, I realized. It made me blend.

When we reached the forty-fourth hut Winslow called out, "Is everyone decent?"

I heard a few snickers from inside, and one outright laugh. Someone called back, "What's the matter, Winslow, did you turn shy?"

"Suit yourselves," Winslow muttered, ushering me in.

Stepping from the dawning light of day into a windowless enclosure forced me to blink, squinting through shadows while my vision adjusted. Meanwhile the hut had grown silent. "As I explained earlier, for reasons unknown, we're gaining a thirteenth format member. This is that member, and her name is Soldier Frost."

At first there was silence, and still unable to see clearly I began to wonder if anyone was even there. But then someone said, "A girl?" And another soldier to the left scoffed, disbelief thick in the air. He asked, "Is this a joke?" The soldier next to him said that it must be. I continued to squint, trying to tie voices to the blooming figures. As my vision cleared the talking grew louder, a swirling storm of noise, a cacophony of voices all blending together. I expected Winslow to say something, to explain, or just make them be quiet, but he didn't do any of that. He stood in front of me and slightly to the right, his arms crossed over his chest, relaxed but firm. The fact that he refused to acknowledge their ongoing rants only made the format louder.

With my vision fully adjusted I could make out each and every format member. Bunk beds lined the wall with a few soldiers leaning against the frames, but most of my new format sat on their beds, no longer reclining as I imagined they had been, but strung tight with the news, leaning forward as they voiced their discontent.

It was intimidating to hear their rejection. A part of me wanted to run out the door. Another part of me would have settled for stepping just a little to the right and hiding behind Winslow's stalwart brawn. But I iced my face, making it an expressionless mask. I was trying to tune out my format when something twined around my legs, giving me a momentary fright. It was a cat, but not like any I'd ever seen, and definitely not a farm cat. It was large, coming to my knees. It appeared elongated and unnaturally thin. Its fur was short and sleek, the color of kidney beans, an odd shade of red. I found the cat's presence strange, but that didn't stop me from wanting to reach down and pet it. I might have too, but just then a voice broke out, startling me from my thoughts.

"Get rid of her!" A bug-eyed soldier was speaking. His voice was so laced with disgust that it stood apart from the others. "We'll never win trials with her on our format. Winslow, get rid of her!"

Disturbed by the soldier's obvious loathing, I shuffled back a step, realizing my unconscious move only when I bumped into something solid. I turned on reflex, knowing it was a person I'd accidently elbowed. And it was a person, only he wasn't human.

# Chapter 9

The soldier was so obviously not human and yet so similar, the oddities subtle. He stood just inside the doorframe, sunlight shining through from behind. The cartilage of his ears glowed blue instead of pinkish-red like a human's would. The skin around his eyes and neck, so thin and delicate, had a faint blue under-hue too. Elongated and unnaturally thin, he was just like the cat that was now rubbing against his shins. _His_ cat.

I had heard rumors of the Shetheerie and their pets but never imagined to see a pair in person. I was quite stunned. My attention was consumed, the noise around us fading to nothing, and I just _couldn't_ look away.

His hair was ginger-brown, his features exotic, and he stood extremely straight. On a human his stance would have been rigid, but somehow his stiff shoulders appeared graceful and elegant.

My trance was broken by a short, chubby fellow that roughly pushed past me, muttering about how he didn't care one way or another just so long as he didn't miss his breakfast. It was as if magic words had been spoken, because the rest of the format followed suit as if enchanted, grumbling as they swept out of the hut and off to eat. I was left standing there with Winslow, a giant seventeen year old, and an alien.

* * *

The giant fellow, his name was Roth. I found out he was actually eighteen, having already celebrated his birthday since arriving at camp. Eighteen—and even that was hard to believe. He was just _so_ gargantuan. His skin was very dark, eating up the light. When he shifted, his muscles moved and rippled under it, reminding me of Huron, our strongest workhorse. I felt certain Roth didn't hate me, which was a relief, because I didn't know what I'd do if someone that large was radiating anger at me. The Shetheerie didn't seem to mind me either, though apart from telling me his name—Fitallion—he didn't say anything. And I was too apprehensive of him and my mates to ask more.

I couldn't say what was worse, being ignored or being noticed. Here I got both. I trailed my format into the convene, Winslow leading the way while Roth and Fitallion flanked me. The room was large and pale, shiny tiles echoing the sound back at us as large, pillar-like arms lifted the ceiling up over our heads. It was like being inside of a hive, the soldiers busy little bees, flitting around long tables, some holding trays, others grouped together and laughing. But every soldier was present, pressed together, moving through the lines to get their meal, and I could no longer blend. Up close I was noticed, and I could tell the moment each and every soldier spotted me. First it was a casual glance, followed by a quick double take as heads swiveled 'round. After that it was a case of wildfire, a subtle nudge or elbow to the ribs as soldiers whispered to each other, directing attention my way. It was quite alarming to be honest. I'd had a lifetime's worth of being ignored, and while unpleasant, it was easy to manage. I just had to bear it, but this was different. My format wanted nothing to do with me. They stood in line, still grim and sober from the news, every one of them acting as though I didn't exist, while all around us the story of a female inside the convene—in a uniform, no less—swirled about, stirring curiosity. I could feel a hundred eyes or more, each pair weighing me down, making my movements heavy as molasses. My heart sped up, my face felt hot, and it took every ounce of pride I had to simply not fidget, to stand still and seemingly confident. Those were the slowest, most excruciating meals of my life. But even those couldn't compete with the horror and embarrassment that was physical training.

The soldiers moved toward the North Field after breakfast, a mass exodus of white and blue. Winslow stayed close enough to order me about, but mostly he ignored me too. Roth seemed to be of natural good humor, joking with everyone (even as they ignored him in their sour mood) and occasionally clapping me on the back in what I can only guess he intended as camaraderie. I found it disconcerting, much like Fitallion, who moved around, quiet and lithe. I couldn't tell if he was purposefully hovering near, or if it was merely a coincidence. Whatever the case, the three of them acted as a buffer, sort of insulating me from the rest.

Upon reaching the fields everyone fanned out, formats separating into lines an arm's width apart. Winslow told me to stand in front of him, something I did, but reluctantly. The instructors barked out, telling us what to do, though it seemed to be a routine everyone had already mastered. I followed along, a little behind, but for a moment I thought I might manage. I mean, I'd done hard labor for years, the result being a set of cables for arms when compared to Lizzie's string bean softness. It wasn't enough. I realized this when Instructor Shubert said stretches were over. We'd only been doing a warmup. Well, things just went downhill from there.

"Don't bother trying. You can't do it," Winslow said from behind me. I'd done seven push-ups before collapsing to the ground. Around me the format continued, but I hadn't the strength. Winslow's harsh words cut into my lame attempts to lift myself up off the ground, and I knew he was right. For the next forty-five minutes he corrected my poor posture and gave me more manageable forms of training. After that we jogged, though it felt more like trotting, everyone's feet drumming a beat. My breath came in great huffs, the noise reverberating in my ears. I had an ongoing dialogue in my head. _Just a little while longer_ , I repeated, sometimes counting in hopes of making time hurry along. When we came to a straight stretch of paved walkway, Instructor Shubert called out for us to cool down and walk the rest. That was it. I couldn't hold back any longer. I promptly lurched to the pretty grass and vomited.

Winslow squinted down at me, his face expressionless as ever. Roth bent over and slapped my back, saying, "We're all used to it now, but most soldiers puked their guts out at some point during drills."

Behind Winslow and Roth stood two other soldiers from our format. They looked similar, with golden skin, insolent eyes, and dark, shiny hair. They were a pair, both gazing down at me, one annoyed, the other smirking. Something changed hands before they lost interest and wandered away.

Vomiting did not dispel the nausea. The feeling followed, an uneasy churning in my gut. Luckily the second half of my day was much easier than the first. Roth explained that the two main subjects we learned were combat and field training, though there was no set schedule between lunch and dinner because our lessons could take place anywhere. Today we were in-classroom, something I could tell Roth and most of the other soldiers despised. But my body was ready for a rest. Lunch had been too uncomfortable to really relax, and after that I had to hurry and get my textbooks, literally running to my shed because it was so much farther from camp than the format huts. Sitting sounded nice, and if there was an instructor to shift attention from me, then that was even better.

* * *

_I survived my first day as a fledge, but only just. What's surprising is how much I enjoyed the classes. I guess it's not_ that _surprising, considering how much I enjoyed my father's lessons. But then, I always knew I was lucky to have a teacher for a father with Little Red's lax educational system. He'd told me that they don't rely on parents to teach children in utopias, that they have schools. That may be what made me so curious about the utopias in the first place, and perhaps a little jealous as well. Who knew I'd have a classroom of my own one day, and I only had to become a soldier to get it..._

This is hardly helping. I'm only spewing out my sour mood all over these pages. But I have nothing better to do. Dinner is over. Now it's free time. Camp became a noisy mess, so I hurried here to my shed, though it's not much of an escape. The Southeast Field is used for recreation and many of the soldiers are there playing some rough sport. I could watch if I cared to take a peek around the shed, but I don't. I've spent the first few hours of free time examining the textbooks. Roth says they can't teach combat classes too often because it is exhausting when coupled with physical training, so we're to study weapons and language to offset the strain. Today was a weapons class with Instructor Bardzecki. He was just as brutally trenchant as our last encounter. I took notes, determined to both catch up and keep my head down. I'm not the only one afraid to catch his ire. The entire class was on eggshells. But I survived unscathed, and I'm looking forward to the language class. It's an introductory course that teaches the basics of Shetheerie. Roth seemed uninterested in talking about it, let alone taking it. I gather most of the soldiers regard it as less than exciting. They enjoyed field training though, and so did I. Land navigation is fascinating, though my father already taught me how to use a compass. I've been reading over the chapters I missed, and truthfully, I don't think it will take me long to catch up, six months behind or not. That is, if I'm not distracted. And there was one distraction during class I couldn't ignore, a soldier. He wouldn't stop staring at me. I'm not sure of his name, and I'm not about to ask Roth either. I don't want him thinking I'm the least bit interested. But I should know who this member of my format is that won't stop staring. I wish I could talk to Lizzie. She'd ask all of the unimportant details, such as how he looks... I miss her and her almost endearing overreactions. She'd squeal if I told her he had light hair and soft eyes. She'd be determined that we should fall in love. Ah! There is no point in having an imaginary conversation with my sister. I'll write her soon enough. Winslow accepts letters to send home and hands out any he's received right after dinner. It takes them a few days to get through the Triangle Patch, so I shouldn't expect mail too soon. And I don't. I don't expect anything. If there is one thing that this whole debacle has taught me, it's that expectations are a waste of time. One can plan for the future, but there is no use in predicting it. All you can do is guess and wonder.

# Chapter 10

"Rot that! Dutton can beat anyone."

"I don't know. This guy from the twenty-ninth is pretty good. I watched him grapple Huston, he had him pinned in under a minute."

"Huston is nothing. Dutton's beat him too, and more than once."

"What do you think, Dut? Should we put money on it?"

The male sex had always been a mystery to me, but it seemed less so by the hour. The two dark soldiers who'd watched me puke the day before stood just behind the husky soldier, Dutton, and tried to coax him into conversation. He ignored them, more inclined to focus on his breakfast tray, shoveling a forkful of potatoes down his thick throat. It seemed to me that food was his greatest passion, though from overhearing talk at mealtimes, I'd learned that he was rather gifted when it came to wrestling, an odd thing considering his size. The two behind him, Martinez and Ramirez, mixed often with other formats. They were social creatures, always crowing about someone's triumph or failure. Winslow watched them like a hawk, and I figured them for troublemakers.

Beside me, Roth stood up, moving around the bench to empty his tray. I followed after, averse, yet resigned to the end of breakfast which meant PT (physical training) next. After tapping the tray's contents into the trash, I handed it off to a bored looking woman before returning to my format's table. Only I didn't quite make it.

A soldier stepped into my path, not unintentionally, so I was forced to stop, unable to ignore him. He wasn't intimidating in size, having an average height and build, but he had a fluid way about him, seeming to appear from nowhere smooth as a snake. I'll admit I didn't like the look of him. His only attractive feature was a nicely rounded cleft chin, but it was ruined when he spoke, revealing tiny teeth lined beneath a showy set of red gums. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Going to my table," I said before trying to pivot around him. He was quick, shifting his shoulder to block my path, the action communicating without words that he wasn't done with me yet. I didn't like it, didn't like him standing so close, his face inches from my ear. Feeling uneasy, I glanced over his shoulder toward my table, but no one had noticed my absence. Roth had his back turned to us, unaware that I'd failed to follow. Winslow was deep in conversation with two lanky soldiers from my format, partners in crime who required much of his attention.

"No, I mean what are you doing here," the repellant soldier gestured, "at camp?"

"I don't know." I tried to move back, but he only pressed himself closer, eyes intense.

"Are you being difficult on purpose?" he questioned. His voice became a soft, pillowy whisper, unfamiliar to me, but dangerous sounding nonetheless. I recognized that I should tread carefully, only I didn't know how. Our conversation was a dance of sorts, and I didn't know the steps, didn't know what to say to make him go away.

"First Gridleigh," Winslow cut in, saving me from my indecision, "I see you've met Soldier Frost, the newest member of my format."

Gridleigh set his pretty, and oddly familiar, jaw, eyes narrowing for an instant before he turned to address Winslow. "I heard the rumors, but thought I'd see for myself." He tacked on an affected laugh before continuing. "A girl. I must say that's bad luck for you. Now your format doesn't stand a chance, not that I ever saw you as a threat. So how did this come about?"

"You'd have to ask Bardzecki."

For some reason, for which I couldn't fathom, Winslow's comment displeased Gridleigh. I could see it in the profile of his face, a tightening that was quickly smothered as he tried to be a rock like Winslow, cool and aloof. They stared at each other, their history thick in the air, yet unknown to me. Finally Gridleigh said, "Bardzecki, eh? Well, enjoy babysitting." He strode off, cutting through the crowd with ease.

Winslow and I both stared after, watching him move away. "Avoid him," Winslow said quietly, and then he was gone as well. I was left standing alone, a creeping sense of unease my only companion. Suddenly I recalled my da's parting advice. He'd told me that I should do whatever was necessary to take care of myself. His words seemed ominous now, the real meaning fleshed out as I recognized a threat. First Gridleigh was no friend of mine.

* * *

It's been exactly one week since I wrote my family a letter. Well, it was hardly a letter, more like a few brief lines. I wasn't sure what to say. In the end, I said very little, only enough to reassure them that I was alright and settling in. I've tried to write a second, more detailed letter since then, but I just can't bring myself to do it. At first I was waiting for their reply, a reaction to these events, but it hasn't come, and until I know their feelings, I hesitate to share mine. But now I hesitate for another reason. I messed up, gave up, trusted the wrong people... and now, though I argue with myself about the stupidity of it, I feel guilty for what I've done. I ask myself, why should I feel guilty? I never wanted this! But it doesn't matter. I still feel as if I've let someone down. I'm just not sure who.

Yesterday things were, well, not good, but alright. For the past week I'd done nothing but study. I refused to let being half a year behind hold me back, and it didn't. You may very well doubt my ability to learn so much material in such a short amount of time, and rightly so, but when it came to learning, I could be quite stubborn.

At the age of nine I was introduced to the word _ambidextrous_. Da was teaching me, an evening ritual at the kitchen table. Mum moved around us like a hen, preoccupied with her nose down while she put the dishes up. I could remember with odd clarity her chapped hands as they slid the ceramic plates together, stubbed fingers steadily stacking away. This image was tied to the moment when I'd thought how much I might like to be ambidextrous. Would I stack plates differently then? I'd wondered.

The next day I tried to strengthen my weaker left arm by using it to do the bulk of my chores. I caught myself forgetting, relying on my dominant right arm more often than not. So, using a handkerchief, I tied my wrist behind my back, securing it to my belt. And for precision I switched to using only my left hand to write with. It was slow going and often frustrating, my letters turning out large and skewed. Mum discouraged me often, saying it was a useless skill. I knew she was right, but I also knew what she _really_ meant was that it was a useless skill for a wife. But I didn't stop, and as the weeks passed by my childish writing became less blocky, slowly shrinking in on itself until it matched my normal script. My father noted that I was the only ambidextrous person he knew, high praise, or at least that was how I was determined to take it. And that was really all I ever needed for anything—determination.

The most challenging subject I currently faced was Shetheerie. While my fellow soldiers were now stringing together sentences, I had a whole new lexicon to learn. I spent the first few days memorizing words, then sentence structure. After that I tackled Shetheerie the same way I'd tackled becoming ambidextrous. For every sentence that passed through my brain, every thought, I repeated it back in Shetheerie. I had to carry my book everywhere, constantly opening it up to check a word or phrase that I couldn't recall. I was saying _yal shut shilnoss_ in my sleep, Shetheerie for: I can't remember.

The other subjects were easy when compared with language class. I read through my textbooks, memorizing various weapons and facts. But there were some things for which I remained hopeless, physical training for one. While we ran through drills, I silently reviewed the chapters I'd read the night before. I was so overwhelmingly inept at PT, I doubted if Winslow even noticed my distraction.

But I knew my strengths and weaknesses. During physical training, surrounded by soldiers dropping to crunches, springing right and left, lunging, jumping... well, it was glaringly obvious that they were superior in strength and size. But that didn't give them an edge on intelligence, no, in that arena I could excel. And that was just what I set out to do, though my efforts didn't reap the rewards I had imagined. But it didn't start with Bardzecki's petty revenge, before that it was the incident at the latrine yesterday morning, just after breakfast.

On the southwestern tip of camp there was a private restroom attached behind the formats' shared latrine. It had been intended for instructors, but when their living quarters were moved to the northern part of camp some years before, the restroom was locked up. Winslow must have lost patience standing guard, because soon after my arrival he found it for me. And while I was grateful for the added privacy, it was hardly convenient. If I wasn't running to the far side of camp to fetch my books, then I was running there to use the bathroom. It was on one such occasion that I overheard two soldiers talking.

"The first from sixth said he talked to a guy who knew her from back home."

"Does he know why she's here?"

I was hidden from view, the private restroom situated at the back of the latrine. They stood just around the corner at its entrance. My hand was on the knob. _I should go in and ignore them_ , I thought to myself. Apparently I wasn't listening, because I didn't move.

"He said she was strange, did man's work. Figured her parents sent her to camp since they couldn't marry her off."

"Strange is right, I ain't never seen no girl in trous before."

"I don't mind the sight," the other replied, his tone conveying a less than polite meaning. They both began to laugh.

I yanked the bathroom door open and lurched inside, my cheeks burning hot. I stood there for a while, turning their words over in my mind. I knew my parents hadn't sent me away. They'd been opposed to the idea. But it was the truth, not the lies, that bothered me. I was strange, an outcast, and everyone knew it. It seemed speculation would never cease to follow me, an exhausting thought. What surprised me was their reference to my body. I had never been an object of admiration, well, not that I knew of. But I suppose that was to be expected. It was a well known fact that soldiers returned home girl-crazy after serving a year in male isolation. I was just a momentary distraction of sorts. I continued to rehash their conversation in my mind, so preoccupied that when I remembered the time I had to run off to PT, never getting a chance to use the restroom.

What a mistake.

# Chapter 11

The soldier to my left, one of the tall and lanky ones that had mischievous eyes, Swanson or Steward (I wasn't yet able to tell them apart) shuffled too close, his leg sweeping behind my ankle just as I displaced my weight. I went tumbling back, arms stretched out behind me in a lame attempt to break my fall. But the soldier who'd caused me to fall also caught me at the last second. I would be grateful, but this was the third time during PT that this had happened.

"Swanson," growled Winslow from behind us.

"Sorry, sorry," replied the wretched troublemaker, pretending to be chastened. This format mate of mine and his companion were puzzling, they seemed to find the strangest things amusing. Take for example, PT. I'd just arrived, flustered from overhearing the latest gossip, nearly late, only to be repeatedly harassed. Swanson never once laughed, but he seemed to find great pleasure in tripping or bumping into me, and then he would catch me at the last moment. Like I was a game of jacks and he would scoop me up to win.

I huffed out a breath, casting my gaze toward Instructor Shubert who oversaw our PT training, but he was unaware of my plight. Swanson's antics usually went unnoticed, it was uncanny. I was just inching away from him when things got worse. There was a slight rushing, slipping sensation that I knew all too well. If there was one thing that _proved_ I was undoubtedly female, it had just arrived.

I went still, my whole body stiff as a flush of panic washed through me. Swanson seemed to sense the change, I glimpsed him watching me as if he knew something had caused me great discomfort and was curious as to what had succeeded when he had failed.

I didn't want to draw attention to myself, but I _had_ to. Pivoting around, I hissed, "Winslow, I have to use the restroom."

"First Winslow," he corrected. I was the only one required to address him thus, the rest of the format called him by his surname with familiarity. At the moment I didn't care.

"I need to use the restroom," I repeated, allowing a little desperation to escape through my voice.

He continued to do the drills, not missing a beat or even breathing heavy. I just stared at him, growing annoyed at how difficult he always seemed to be. When he realized I wasn't going to turn back around, he replied, "You'll just have to wait until after."

We still had drills to finish, followed by a long jog. There was no way I was going to make it. I could feel our format starting to tune into the unfolding drama, but there was nothing I could do about that.

From next to me, Swanson said, "Don't be a hardass, Winslow, can't you tell she's having girl problems." As he intended, his statement had heads turning 'round.

Humiliation complete, I no longer waited for permission. "I'm going to the latrine," I muttered as I stalked off the field. I was sorely tempted to step on Swanson's boot as I passed, wanting to reciprocate, but then he would know he'd gotten to me. Winning wasn't one-upping, it was refusing to play the game.

* * *

If anything could distract me from that morning's humiliation, it was Instructor Bardzecki's class. He paced at the front of the room like a penned bull, agitated and ready to gore. It was incredible how he could keep a classroom full of soldiers, each in their prime physical condition, scared like little children, myself included.

"What is the name of the weapon designed to penetrate grindt flesh and bone?" our instructor asked, his eyes skimming the room. Everyone seemed to shrink back, and even knowing the answer, I didn't want to be called upon.

"Edwards."

I cringed, poor Edwards. Having paid attention through meals with my format, I'd long since learned all twelve of their names. Edwards was the doe-eyed soldier that I often caught staring. While his good looks might have made him popular among the farm girls back home, they did nothing for him here. He endured endless ribbing for his 'pretty face,' though it was his inability to retain information for which I pitied him. He had yet to provide our instructor with a correct answer, and if the look on his face was anything to go by, today would be no different.

Bardzecki knew Edwards was at a loss, and wanting to prolong the torture he paused at his desk to take a pinch of birdbane. Honestly, I haven't a clue why I did it, but the moment Instructor Bardzecki turned his back, I leaned forward over my desk and flicked Edwards on the shoulder. He lazily glanced behind, already resigned to this small failure and all that it entailed.

"Kodiak," I mouthed silently.

The word hadn't completely left my lips when Bardzecki spun around. I slouched into my seat just as Edwards jerked back to face front. Roth gave me an incredulous look, his eyebrows drawn together. He was usually so reliable and relaxed that the worry on his face was a warning, letting me know that I'd made a colossal mistake.

"Well, Edwards, do you know the answer?"

"Kodiak?" Edwards said, his tone more of a question than an answer.

"Kodiak," repeated Bardzecki, his cold, narrow eyes darkening down to shadows under his prominent brow. "And you came up with that all on your own?"

"And the book," Edwards lied.

Instructor Bardzecki grunted, turning his eyes from Edwards to me. I knew then that he'd seen me helping Edwards, and I knew that I was going to pay for it.

"Soldier Frost, can you tell me the number of Kodiaks required aboard a Scarlet during flight?"

"That depends," I replied. "If the Scarlet is staying surface-side then only one is required, but if the Scarlet is traveling out of atmosphere, then there is to be one gun for every person aboard, stock included."

Instructor Bardzecki glowered while the rest of the class goggled at me. They had all assumed I was hopelessly behind, and hadn't expected me to know the facts word for word.

"Why is a Kodiak the favored weapon when facing a grindt?" Instructor Bardzecki pressed.

I didn't hesitate. "As you said, the Kodiak was designed to penetrate grindt flesh and bone, both of which are denser than our own. A normal bullet is trapped in a hostile's thick muscle, and therefore, not fatal. But a Kodiak, at close proximity, is capable of delivering a mortal wound."

Instructor Bardzecki had paced closer and was now standing directly in front of my desk. He continued to ask me about weapons they had studied in months past, and when I didn't falter he asked me about a Shetheerie weapon featured in a chapter we hadn't yet studied.

I sensed that in this instance it was in my best interest to know less, to show ignorance, but I could not. "The Larolin is a traditional Shetheerie bow, and it is also fatal to the grindt as the arrows are made to sink and shatter out, catching in the muscle and sending a deadly spray of shards to pierce the organs beneath."

Once I'd caught up, I made a point of reading three chapters ahead. He wasn't going to stump me. As if realizing this, Instructor Bardzecki stared down at me for quite some time. The classroom remained quiet and unmoving as he made his assessment. Up until then he had ignored me completely, but he noticed me now. "Clever girl," he said, but his disparaging tone belied the compliment.

I nodded hesitantly, unsure where this was going.

"Everyone up," he bellowed suddenly. "Go to the West Field." And when we all stayed in our seats, "Move!"

A knot of dread formed in my gut. We were scheduled to be in-classroom today and I felt sure this impromptu trip was a result of the last few minutes.

"You should have kept quiet," Roth said as we moved toward the door.

"I thought you'd be pleased. You love field training," I replied, anxiety making my voice monotonous.

"Believe you me," Roth said with a hearty slap to my shoulder, "there won't be anything to love about today's field training."

Hearing the usually exuberant Roth so diminished made things worse, because I knew it was on my behalf. Whatever was going to take place on the West Field, it didn't bode well for me.

I was right.

Instructor Bardzecki went to the small locked building that was strictly instructors only. I'd often seen Swanson and Steward, the troublemakers, stare at the door with hunger in their eyes. Today everyone's eyes were filled with anticipation as they waited to see what hell Bardzecki would unleash. The small gray box was something of a let down. He set it on the table and instructed one of the soldiers (Small, from the twenty-fourth format) to put a target on the range.

"Frost," Instructor Bardzecki barked out as he opened the box. I wended my way forward. It wasn't difficult, soldiers split, parting to make a path that lead directly to the table. "Do you know what this is?"

I glanced down into the box. For a fraction of a second I panicked, thinking he meant to shoot me. The intensity of the unfolding drama led me to believe that nothing shy of my impending doom would satisfy the situation. Then I came to my senses and replied, "It's a Kodiak."

"I want you to load and fire."

I had never touched a weapon before (well, unless you counted a shovel) and I wasn't keen to do so now, but I didn't have a choice. Reaching into the gray box, I lifted the Kodiak with both hands. The thick octagonal barrel was a brownish-red, and if it hadn't been so large and heavy, I would have guessed it to be some type of redantium. Next I plucked up a bullet and put it into the empty magazine, and knowing I'd never hit the target my first try, added a second, third, and fourth. I would have slipped the magazine into the Kodiak's grip, but Instructor Bardzecki ordered me to fill it. At first it wasn't difficult, but the more bullets I added, the harder it became, the spring-load giving resistance. It took much longer than I'd anticipated, and I began to flush, feeling the eyes of twenty-something soldiers at my back. My fingers became sore and clumsy, and by the time I'd finally loaded the magazine, I was eager to shoot and bring my humiliation to an end.

Snapping the magazine into place, I took up the Kodiak, doing my best to imitate the textbook's instructions. I put my feet a shoulder's-length apart, remembering not to pull my shoulders back. Holding the gun outstretched in both hands, I looked down the range. Small had cleared the field, leaving behind a paper target, the rough image of a man outlined in black, a red and white bull's-eye on his chest. I used the gun's sight to take aim, breathing once before holding my breath, and then I gently squeezed.

I can't say if I hit the target, because after that everything went black.

# Chapter 12

I came awake slowly, thickly, as if I was being pulled from syrup. I knew only that the spot above my right eye ached ferociously. The nattering voices from all around were only aggravating the pain. I lay very still, trying to find my bearings as the memories rolled back in. I squeezed the trigger and... and I had no idea.

"Is she dead?" I didn't have to open my eyes to know it was Pumphrey speaking. I'd recognize that nasal tone anywhere. I could easily picture his round, protruding eyes as he continued, "Convenient that, we could win trials if she offed herself."

"Don't be daft," replied Roth in his deep, rumbling voice. "It was just a bump to the head."

"A bump to the head?" scoffed Martinez. "She sent herself sprawling."

"Should have put some action on that," added Ramirez.

These were the two dark soldiers who had watched me vomit my first day, but I'd learned to tell them apart since then. Though they shared the same smooth, liquid voice, similar coloring and hotheaded tempers, Martinez was more animated, always the first to speak while the less energetic Ramirez was known as the bookie. He collected all manner of bets and wagers, keeping record on a tattered palm-size notebook which he tucked out of sight and only produced when Winslow wasn't looking. I suspected he didn't need the book at all. He had a memory to rival mine, the memory of an elephant my father would say.

I was less than fond of Martinez and Ramirez, having learned that they often bet on me. How long it would take before I could finally do a push-up, before I vomited, before I cried... you get the idea. And soldiers from all over the convene would stake whatever they had available, be it a small luxury from home, food hoarded from past meals, or even their pillows if they were desperate enough for the sport of gambling.

"Maybe I should get Doctor Pruitt," suggested Edwards nervously.

"I think you've done enough already," answered someone waspishly. Swanson or Steward I'd guess, both too smart for their own good. They excelled at everything, too clever to be challenged. As a result they often looked for creative ways to entertain themselves, and when that failed, they settled for distressing the status quo.

They enjoyed a good torment, and as if to prove my point the other chimed, "If you'd just done a little studying, Edwards, then she wouldn't be lying here with a smashed face."

_Smashed face?_ Surely he must be exaggerating.

"That's enough," barked Bardzecki. I heard the redrock crunch under his boots as he made his way over. The muscles in my stomach went taut, the anxiety ringing through me, making me wish I could sink beneath the earth. "Lift her legs, got to get the blood back in her brain."

_Should I pretend to wake up?_ I meant to, but didn't, couldn't. In fact, I might have pretended to sleep indefinitely except the slap took me by surprise, making me wince as my face scrunched up, pulling on the tender skin above my eye. "Ugh," I moaned, nothing feigned about it. Bardzecki was looming over me, blotting out the sun, and behind him Winslow. I briefly locked eyes with my first, and somehow I just _knew_ I hadn't fooled him. I felt childish to have been caught pretending to be unconscious, and that made me irrationally angry. Huffing, I pushed myself upright, the powdery reddust clinging to my uniform like chalk.

Instructor Bardzecki took this recovery as his cue, standing up to deliver the rest of his lesson. "Edwards, what did you learn from Frost's poor handling of the Kodiak?"

"Uh," he hesitated for a moment, shooting me an apologetic glance before continuing. "Her grip wasn't quite right, and though she had the proper stance, she leaned back at the last second, putting her weight all wrong, so she wasn't prepared for the recoil."

"Correct," agreed Bardzecki roughly, looking at Edwards through belligerent slit eyes. "But as usual, you've missed the point!" he barked, his voice growing louder with each word. "The point _is_ ," he emphasized, glaring at me for good measure, "that a book can't teach you everything you need to know. _A book_ ," he spit," won't help you shoot a hostile."

I'd been prepared for a scathing speech. However, I _was_ surprised when Bardzecki called Pumphrey forward. "Load and fire," he commanded.

Pumphrey didn't hesitate, and to be honest, he looked quite natural with a gun. I was confused when he pulled some small black thing from the gun's container, but its purpose dawned on me as I watched him use it—a magazine loader. While I'd been abusing my thumbs, pressing against the spring's high pressure, he wielded the device simply, filling the clip in no time at all. I watched his stance, his breathing, and the way he didn't flinch at the gun's report. He certainly didn't let the gun's kick fly back and hit him in the face... unfortunately. I didn't have to watch the target (I couldn't see it from where I was sitting on the ground anyway) to know that he had been dead on. Shooting was his strength, and he had a reputation around the convene as a crack shot. As Martinez or Ramirez could tell you, the odds were always in his favor.

Satisfied that he'd made his point, Instructor Bardzecki dismissed us after that. Soldiers from the twenty-fourth format who shared our class dispersed, leaving behind only my mates. Edwards rushed forward, wanting to help me to my feet, while the ever silent Fitallion took my other arm. Roth patted the dust from my back as they pulled me upright.

Winslow stood, knuckles to hip, an oddly grim pose, watching as I gingerly touched my forehead. "It doesn't look serious, though you might have a concussion. Dr. Pruitt will want to see you at the infirmary."

"No, I'm fine. I don't need to go to the infirmary."

He stared, the look so hard I almost recanted and agreed to go. But then he said, "Someone take her to her shed. I've got a firsts' meeting to attend."

Roth would have taken me, even Edwards and Fitallion seemed willing, but Martinez shooed them away, insisting he and Ramirez would help me. I thought it odd, but didn't resist.

I should have.

"Bardzecki is a real hardass," said Martinez, explaining as we walked, "big believer in 'everyone's got a place, and everyone in their place.'"

We'd left the hub of camp behind, the activity and noise receding as we stepped from the paved walkway, a demarcation of sorts, showing the boundaries of our convene. The soft red sand _shushed_ beneath our boots as we crossed the nothingness to my shed.

"He's old school, formal, strict about ranks and titles. See, as soldiers, we're bottom of the barrel. And you—a fledge—well, showing off didn't do you any good."

"Showing off?"

"Yeah," Martinez answered, "reciting the book."

"Forgive me," I said dispassionately, "I was under the impression that instructors _wanted_ their students to learn."

"That's not what set him off," added Ramirez. "Helping Edwards is what really burned him up."

"Why?"

"It was a liberty, and fledglings don't take liberties," Ramirez answered. "You overstepped, and everything after that was him showing you your place."

Once, while sitting around the table for supper, Lizzie had blithely admitted that she shouldn't mind marrying a soldier instead of a farmer because they had so many commendable qualities. Loyalty, honor, integrity, and courage were just a few of those qualities which she had proceeded to list for us. Da had contradicted her, saying that a soldier didn't have to be courageous, or even particularly loyal, the only _true_ quality a soldier required was obedience.

I saw now that Da was right, and Martinez and Ramirez for that matter. While I thought I was helping Edwards, saving him from disgrace, Instructor Bardzecki interpreted my actions as defiance. Slowly I was beginning to understand that things worked differently here. But I didn't like it. In fact, I was angry. I'd like to blame the concussion, but I think it was that—the anger—more than anything that made me agree to their proposal. So when Martinez next said, "We could help, you know," I let his warm, fluid voice pull me in.

# Chapter 13

"Why don't I just go steal it now?" I asked.

"Don't be dense," Martinez replied derisively. "We don't know his schedule yet, he may not show up. And the whole point is for you to get caught."

"That doesn't explain why we're waiting here," I said, unable to keep the distaste from my voice. I shifted and there was a loud wet noise as my heel was sucked deeper into the runny clay.

Martinez, Ramirez and I were huddled together outside the convene. The wall had a deep recess where a water spigot stood; it was one of the few places that vegetation grew of its own accord at camp. Soldiers would come here throughout the day to fill their waterskins. Someone must have been particularly careless this morning because when we arrived a trickle was leaking out of the spout, leaving the ground a sodden nightmare that even the weeds couldn't sop up.

Keeping his head tipped around the corner, Martinez answered, "Ram and I have a reputation. If we're seen loitering, it'll raise suspicion. But we have a legitimate excuse to be here," he added, distractedly waving his waterskin at me. "This is a prime location to watch his office."

A few minutes passed as I hid in the niche while Ramirez and Martinez kept watch. The longer I stood there in the muck, the less sure I felt. As if sensing my weakening resolve, Ramirez said, "Come on. You can't be late to dinner or Winslow will start asking questions."

I followed him away, more than ready to leave. But when I noticed it was just the two of us slogging off, I asked, "What about Martinez?"

"We'll take turns keeping watch. By midday tomorrow we'll know when to expect Bardzecki and you can steal his birdbane."

"Lovely."

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were being sarcastic," Ramirez replied.

"I was."

"Huh. You seem too sober to have a sense of humor."

I was tempted to tell him that, when compared with Martinez, he always seemed like the tactful one. But I wasn't sure he'd get the irony, so I said nothing.

I wasn't late for dinner. Winslow was already standing over our format's long table when I arrived though, so my entrance didn't go unnoticed. He skewered me with his eyes, and when his gaze shifted to Ramirez I thought I noted an assessing glint in their depths.

"You must be feeling better," he said as we drew near.

I couldn't tell if this was a question, an accusation, or a sarcastic remark, so I stayed quiet. Much to my relief, Winslow didn't press.

After dinner I waited for Winslow to hand out any letters that might have arrived. I was disappointed when yet another day passed and still I hadn't heard from my family. I retired to my shed, turning down Roth's offer to exercise. He often asked me join him on the southeastern fields during free time, as if I had a burning desire to lift weights and only required an invitation to do so. Usually I studied, but I was too nervous to focus just then. I was apprehensive about the plan Martinez and Ramirez had hatched, but if all went well, then tomorrow I'd be on my way home.

Earlier, while escorting me to my shed after the Kodiak debacle, they'd offered to help, admitting that it would be mutually beneficial. I wanted to go home and the format wanted me gone. All I had to do was commit an infraction, one so great that I was no longer welcome at camp. That was when they suggested Bardzecki's birdbane. It was no secret that he kept a large stash, or that he was intensely attached to the substance. Once (Martinez had relished regaling me with the tale) a soldier had knocked the envelope of birdbane off Bardzecki's desk while passing by. It had been an accident, but the soldier had suffered regardless. Martinez and Ramirez were convinced that if I got caught filching his supply, I'd be on a Scarlet home in no time.

I could think of a few things worse than stealing Bardzecki's birdbane—destroying convene property for one, maybe defacing a building. I offered up these suggestions, but Martinez had seemed stubbornly set on the birdbane idea. I acquiesced, admitting that when it came to plotting trouble, I was out of my depth.

So the plan went forward. The rest of the evening and all the next day either Martinez or Ramirez was noticeably absent. When Winslow questioned them, they were never short on excuses. The only downside to their surveillance was the use of my mother's mirror. They'd invited themselves into my shed after escorting me back, and that was where they'd conspired together. I'd stayed quiet while they'd paced around, seeming keen to touch everything. Ramirez had found the mirror first, and before I could take it away Martinez had noticed. They had been as covetous as Lizzie, smudging the surface as they stroked it with their dusty fingers.

I'm not sure how it happened, but Martinez decided that the mirror was essential to the plan. When I argued, he seemed to cobble together a convoluted reason for why it was necessary. His theory was that if he secured it to the door frame of the building where Instructor Bardzecki's office was located, then each time the door open and closed there would be a blip of darkness in the surface's reflection; this was, of course, assuming the mirror faced the sun at all. I pointed out the numerous holes in his logic, to which he only got loud and belligerent, saying, "It doesn't matter. If all goes well then tomorrow you'll be taking it home with you anyway." I was fairly certain that the only reason he was so set on including it in the plan was because he wanted to fondle it longer, but I'd reluctantly agreed anyway, hoping he was right. Hoping I'd be going home.

* * *

I was a nervous wreck the whole next day. During breakfast, Fitallion, always perceptive, leaned down to inquire quietly if I was feeling unwell. Unfortunately Edwards overheard and began bleating that I must not have recovered from my accident the day before, insisting that I be sent back to my shed. Leaving wasn't an option. I had to be near Martinez and Ramirez, waiting for their signal to slip off. I was relieved when it came. Martinez sidled up next to me, grabbing my arm and hustling me past the convene's main entrance where soldiers were gathering for lunch. Ramirez was already waiting in the spigot niche. The ground was bone-dry, the reddust having sucked up every drop of moisture from the day before. I stood there, unsure of what came next.

Martinez, ever impatient, said, "Well go on then, get the birdbane."

Stalling, I asked, "When is he due back?"

Martinez and Ramirez exchanged a look, eyes hard and knowing. It made me nervous, but Martinez's reply absorbed my whole attention. He said, "Soon, better hurry. Remember it's in the top left drawer of his desk. It may be locked, but you can break through if you must."

"The more damage the better," added Ramirez. "If you want to get sent home."

"Yeah," agreed Martinez. "Just don't stop until you get the birdbane."

"You mean until I get caught."

They exchanged another quick glance. "Listen," Martinez said, "we did our best to learn his schedule, but if he doesn't come, then just get the birdbane and we'll use it some other way to get you sent home."

I was about to step out of the niche when Ramirez added, "We can't be seen hanging around. We'll meet you at your shed."

I nodded then left, walking toward the door that had been the center of our attention those last few days. From their surveillance, I knew Bardzecki's office was to the left, second to last door on the right. I followed their directions, afraid I was going to pass another instructor and get busted before I even did something truly damning, which only made me rush along like I didn't belong, running down the halls until I burst through the bronze-plated door marked 'Bardzecki.' I recognized the room. It was where the commander had abandoned me, the place I had first met Winslow and Instructor Bardzecki.

I turned to the desk, luckily he wasn't behind it, so everything was going as planned. Until I pulled on the drawer and it didn't open. Locked. I grappled with it for a while before jamming his letter opener in the keyhole. That did nothing, but when I stabbed at the actual locking mechanism through the small gap above the drawer it eventually gave way and I was able to force it open. I didn't even notice what other items the drawer contained. I simply grabbed the waxy envelope in one hand, curling my fingers until it was wadded in my first, and then looked around expectantly. I had been rushing to get it, and now that I had it, I wasn't quite sure what to do.

Remembering Ramirez's advice, I turned over the drawer and let Bardzecki's things fall to the ground, and then I stepped on them. You might think it was an act of revenge after what had transpired the day before, but truthfully, I took no pleasure in it... or when I emptied all of his other drawers, scattering papers everywhere. And then I paced around, waiting and fearing the moment I would get caught. But it never came. I could tell when lunch ended because a few instructors stopped by their offices on the way to class. I waited until the halls emptied, and when it was clear Bardzecki was not going to come, I marched out of his office, down the hall, and into the dust.

* * *

"Do you have it?" was the first thing Martinez asked when I stepped into my shed. Ramirez was leaning against my bunk bed, but Martinez paced, back and forth, back and forth, stepping on mattresses and over bed frames.

For the first time it struck me as odd that they had met me here. If I was getting sent home, then surely the format would find out first. So why weren't they waiting for news with the rest of our mates? And why was Martinez so agitated? Cautiously I said, "He never showed. I waited for nearly and hour."

"But did you get the birdbane?"

Frustrated with his fixation, I snapped, "Yes, yes. Here, take it."

"You squished the envelope," Martinez complained as he moved closer to the window to inspect its contents.

"I don't care. I shouldn't have bothered carrying it the whole way back here. I wasn't thinking, I completely forgot to get my mirror. I'll have to go back for it." I was talking to myself, Martinez and Ramirez ignoring me, their attention riveted to the delicate envelope. I became increasingly uncomfortable watching the two of them moon over it, uncaring that the plan had failed. Uncaring that my mirror was not yet returned to my possession.

I was beginning to feel as though I had made a big mistake when there was a rap at the door. The flimsy wood shuttered once, twice, and then the whole thing swung open. Winslow stood on the step, eyes roaming over each of us in turn. Tall and broad-shouldered, he was intimidating just then, backlit by the sun, a dark, unreadable figure.

"Frost, come with me," he said. Sparing a glance at Martinez and Ramirez, he added, "Go to class. I'll deal with you later." The envelope was gone, slipped away and hidden just as smoothly as their exit.

"Where are we going," I asked, though I had a good idea.

"Bardzecki," was his one word reply.

# Chapter 14

I knew from the first that Winslow didn't like me, his careful indifference gave him away. While the rest of the format could warm him up, turn him somewhat friendly, he was always cool towards me. Which was why his anger was so shocking. He took jolting steps, and with every one his apathy drained away only to be replaced by ire.

I followed in his wake, jogging to keep up as I watched the muscles in his jaw twitch with tension. Our trek north through camp was unhindered by soldiers. I didn't see a single one. Classes were in session, and they were all tucked away inside.

As for myself, I was already half-gone. The reunion with my family played through my mind, but it was oddly hard to imagine, either because I'd never been gone long enough for an eventful return or because I wasn't big on emotional displays. Either way, I skipped the homecoming and focused on how nice it would be to sleep in my own bed once again, even if I had to share it with Lizzie.

I was so distracted with my thoughts that when Winslow suddenly spun to face me I didn't have time to stop, plowing into his chest and bouncing right off. Both of his hands shot out, grabbing my arms, but not to steady me, rather in a restraining sort of way. Holding me in place, he asked, "What did you do?"

"Bardzecki didn't tell you?"

He shook me once, hard. "You'll be lucky if he doesn't put you in the hole," he replied, not answering my question.

"Yes, I _will_ be lucky, because that will mean I'm going home."

He shoved me away, a sharp move that sent me stumbling back. "I didn't think anyone could be that stupid," he said, looking at me like I was Little Red's greatest fool before stalking off.

My mind was my one saving grace and if there was one thing I _was not_ , it was stupid. His words jarred me to anger, and without a thought, I reached forward and grabbed the back of his vest, yanking as I said, "I know what I'm doing."

He grabbed my wrist, squeezing until I released the fabric. "You only know what Martinez and Ramirez told you, and trust me, whatever it was, you will pay for it." He was standing so close, his hand to my arm, giving me his full attention as he glared down into my eyes, continuing to express the warning I refused to hear. But then I felt his hand relax, like a cuff his fingers slid down my arm, over my wrist and past my fingers. I watched the emotions slip away as he closed himself up, a format first once more.

I waited until he was a few steps ahead before I followed him, irrationally wishing that the argument had gone on a bit longer. I wasn't sure what to make of them, but the facts were these: I had found that encounter strangely satisfying, and my feelings concerning Winslow were vastly different than they had been just minutes before.

* * *

Bardzecki was livid. He stood amidst the mess I had made, the muscles playing beneath his skin, flexing and shifting in defiance of his still pose. "Sit," he commanded brusquely without looking at me.

He knew I was to blame. I felt somewhat relieved, but mostly nervous. I meant to sit, but I couldn't seem to bestir myself from the threshold.

Bardzecki brought one meaty fist down on his desk, the dull thud ringing out as he roared, "Sit!" The few slips of paper I'd left scattered across the desk fluttered at his outburst, raining down to the floor as I ran to the chair. "Are you going to deny that you are responsible for this?" he asked, waving a quick hand to gesture at the mess surrounding us.

"No," I replied.

He moved out from behind his desk, stalking around me like a circling bull before it charged. "Pathetic," he pronounced, his eyes still fixed on me, but his words meant for Winslow. "She still doesn't know how to address her instructors."

I cringed because it was true, I had slipped.

"You are too insipid to plan this on your own, whose idea was it?" Bardzecki questioned as he continued to circle behind me.

"It _was_ my idea, Instructor Bardzecki."

Winslow, standing silently off to the side, shifted, uneasy over what must have been an obvious lie. I lied so rarely that I was unable to gauge my believability. This whole situation had skittered out of my control. I had expected it to be bad, and I knew I would get in trouble, I just hadn't prepared for it to feel so... personal.

"You expect me to believe that you, and you alone, skipped class to sneak into my office, destroy my property, and steal my birdbane?" He didn't bother waiting for another lie. "Why?"

I hadn't prepared an excuse, hadn't thought it would matter. Keeping my eyes trained on the floor while I cast around for the likeliest reason, I said, "I was angry that you embarrassed me in class, so that's why I did it. Instructor Bardzecki," I hastened to add.

"I didn't embarrass you, you embarrassed yourself, something you manage on a daily basis," he said ruthlessly, pausing for a moment before speaking again. "This is the story that you expect me to believe? That you were embarrassed?"

I realized then that Bardzecki was vastly more intelligent than I'd credited him for. By repeating my words back to me he'd managed to point out the stupidity of them, leaving me hunched in my chair, ashamed. It took all of my willpower not to blurt out that Martinez and Ramirez made me do it.

"Where is my birdbane?"

I had to lie because I couldn't give it back without implicating Martinez and Ramirez. "I— I dumped it out. Into the sand." I spared a glance up at him. His lip was tight on one side, his dislike for me evident. A soldier doesn't ask questions, but I just couldn't help myself. I had to know. "Will I be sent home?"

He smiled back at me, almost a snarl, and I knew I had given too much away. "You are everything that a soldier isn't—you speak when you shouldn't, respect nothing, and are weak. But that doesn't matter because only the commander has the authority to release you from your basic training. Even if I could, I wouldn't, because that's what you want, and I intend for you to suffer. And since you maintain that you acted alone, then the punishment will be yours and yours alone."

_Not sent home?_ It kept ringing in my ears.

Bardzecki continued, "You will spend your free time in the hole for an entire week."

The hole. Winslow had mentioned it with dread, but I still had no clue what it meant.

"In addition, you will complete a list of chores to keep yourself busy. I've suggested a few to Winslow, the first of which is to clean my office."

I can hardly provide the details of what followed—I was in a trance. It was surreal, an unreal nightmare, where everything had gone wrong. I shuffled around the floor, collecting papers and restoring them to some sort of order. I was forced to notice things I didn't want to. I had knocked over an inkwell and the floor would be forever stained. The drawer I had pried open would never again shut properly. I had destroyed a framed picture with my boot heel, breaking glass and leaving shards along the floor. It wasn't until I was organizing his desk that I was rocked back into reality, the sight of my mirror making everything sharp again. I gasped, reaching for it.

Instructor Bardzecki's hand came down, caging it from me.

I reacted on impulse. "That's mine!"

"Yes, just like the birdbane was mine," he countered.

I blanched. He had a point.

"I suspected it was yours. It isn't something a typical soldier would have. But I couldn't fathom why you would leave it behind to incriminate yourself. It makes sense now, you wanted to get caught."

Yes, I had wanted to get caught, but not for nothing, or worse than nothing—a thorough punishment as reward. And never at the expense of my mirror; I wouldn't have given it up for anything. "When may I have it back?" I asked, knowing it would not be today.

Bardzecki ignored me, picking it up and carrying it to the door with him. "You are now in charge of her punishment and discipline, First Winslow. I trust you will be as brutal as the situation requires." Turning to me, he added, "It's in the blood. We'll see how well you keep up in class now that you have no spare time to study." It was the worst possible punishment he could have inflicted, taking my mirror and leaving me no time to study. It didn't sink in until that very moment how big of a mistake I had actually made.

* * *

I do not recognize the person I have become here at camp. I would never have trusted the likes of Martinez and Ramirez back home, never would have let them talk me into something deceitful or destructive. But it is easy to say that, because in truth, I was never faced with such challenges on my father's farm. The idea of returning home felt right, so I let myself follow the backwards logic of Martinez. But I'm ashamed now, not just by how things turned out, but because getting sent home would have been quitting. And I never quit.

I messed up, gave up, trusted the wrong people... but I know how to make it right.

# Chapter 15

Dinner was uncomfortable, reminding me of those first few days at camp. We sat in silence while the soldiers around us carried on, loud and laughing. Martinez and Ramirez wouldn't look at me. Angry and stewing, I watched them. When they stood to leave, the first at our table to do so, I hurried to dump my tray and follow after.

Winslow caught me jogging down the convene steps. "Frost," he called. I stopped, turning to face him. "You spend free time in the hole, remember?"

"Yes. I just want to speak with Mar and Ram first."

"Alright," he allowed. "You have ten minutes before I expect you to meet me on these steps."

Winslow wasn't in the habit of granting favors. I smiled faintly before nodding and loping off, unwilling to waste another second. I caught up to Mar and Ram as they wended their way through the format huts. "Hey!" I called out, yelling at their backs. Ram turned first and I saw him exchange a significant look with Mar before facing me. "You owe me an apology," I said in a hard but calm voice.

Martinez, always the first to speak, said, "Things don't always pan out as planned. Sorry, love," he tacked on, turning away as if things were settled.

"But they did turn out as planned, didn't they?" I called. Waiting for them to face me, I then continued. "You knew I wouldn't get sent home, it was only ever about the birdbane." Ramirez was watchful, but Martinez seemed genuinely shocked by the accusation. Did he honestly think I wouldn't figure it out? "You didn't watch his office to find out when he'd be there, why would you? It's easy to get caught. You needed a window of time long enough for me to get in, give up, and leave. And that's why you waited at my shed, because you knew I'd return, bringing the birdbane just like you told me."

Martinez almost looked uncomfortable, but Ramirez remained unmoved. "It's done," he said quietly. "There's nothing you can do about it now."

Again, they turned to leave. But I wasn't finished. "You're right, Ram," I said, using his abbreviated name. Our format often called him thus with familiarity, but I meant it in disrespect, no longer willing to stand on formal grounds with two soldiers so undeserving. "That's why _you're_ going to do it."

Martinez asked, "Do what?"

"I want me my mirror back and the two of you are going to get it for me."

Martinez laughed outright. "How do you expect us to manage that?"

I shrugged. "I don't care, figure it out."

"I don't think so, princess," Mar replied.

"You are going to do it," I said with steel in my voice.

"Or what?" Ramirez countered.

"Or I'll tell Instructor Bardzecki the truth."

Mar's laughter cut off abruptly, anger sprouting in its place. "You wouldn't dare—"

"—Don't," I cut in. "Don't bother with a lecture about ratting on my mates, and please, spare me the speech on loyalty. You've already demonstrated exactly how much that means to you, so you'll excuse me if I'm not jumping at the chance to keep you out of trouble. The only reason I didn't tell Bardzecki in the first place was because I wanted leverage." That was a lie. I'd been too flustered at the time to fully realize how Mar and Ram had orchestrated the whole thing, but they didn't need to know that.

"You have three days," I said. Adding, "And it had better be in the same condition as when last I saw it," before turning on my heel and stomping off to meet Winslow.

* * *

The hole turned out to be an old well. It had been carved into the surface of Little Red back when the planet was first inhabited, marking the camp's origin. It hadn't been the only well at camp, just the only one that didn't get filled in after the weather stabilized, rain becoming a regular, scheduled event and water becoming plentiful.

As camp grew, the convene's foundation was laid over it. So I was led down into the deepest cellar of the main building, to a circular hole made of stone. Winslow knelt, grunting as he lifted the glinting red grate. He waited expectantly as I peered down, trying to find the bottom. I couldn't. It was simply too dark.

I thought Winslow would hurry me along, bid me to jump. But instead his voice echoed up from the damp shadows, asking, "How do you control a camp full of rowdy soldiers?"

There was a long pause in the near dark before I realized he was waiting for me to answer. "I don't know. How?"

"With a threat," he answered, gesturing to the hole. "It'll be dark and uncomfortable. After a few hours you'll be bored, but after a few days you'll be miserable. Not many soldiers get put in the hole. It's meant to be a deterrent more than a punishment."

I edged closer. "You'll come get me in a few hours?"

"Just before curfew," he answered.

I turned and sank to my knees, preparing to lower myself over the side. Winslow grabbed my arm, stopping me. "Here," he said, standing upright while circling my wrists with his hands. I wasn't sure what he was doing, but I let him do it, watching his muscles bunch as he deftly lifted me up, and swiftly lowered me down.

"Okay," I called when my toes touched the floor. His hands slipped away and my feet thunked down, knees and ankles stinging from the jolt. Next time I'd have to brace myself.

"Watch your hands," Winslow warned. There was a metallic screech as the grate was closed. He needn't have bothered. I could barely touch it with my fingertips, and lifting it from beneath was out of the question. I very much doubted if I could even climb out on my own. I certainly wasn't going anywhere.

"A few hours," Winslow called down. And then he was gone.

If it was dark up there than it was black down here. I felt the walls, unable to make out my own hands as they moved over the slick stone. There was something growing from the moisture. I could feel it, smell it even. A spongy, slimy something that crawled up the walls and stank of bracken and mold. I knew the floor was damp and puddled, but I grew tired of standing after a time and was forced to sit. I couldn't quite stretch my legs out, the hole was too narrow. I did the best I could to avoid the wet spots. Eventually my legs would cramp and I'd have to shift or stand back up. For someone afraid of tight spaces, I knew this would be torture. For me it was just annoying, stuck there, trying to get into a comfortable position and knowing it was impossible. And knowing that I ought to be studying but couldn't—that was the real torture.

None of the other punishments were as bad as the hole, not even close. In the mornings I filled my format's waterskins. In the evenings I cleared the rec fields, putting away weights and other equipment. I toted laundry, ran errands, and took plenty of turns on night-watch—the last causing much strife among my format.

It was tradition for a pair of soldiers to walk through camp all night and keep watch. On Earth they used to patrol for fires and the like, but it was more for ne'er-do-wells these days, those vexatious few soldiers who were keen on sneaking off when they were meant to be in bed. Each format took a turn doing night-watch, pairing up and wandering around together for a two hour shift. My format had already completed this service before I'd arrived, but because I was forced to do a shift each night, one of my mates had to go with me. Even Roth was disinclined to the idea, but my format's outcry was so great, that like it or not, Roth was the first to cave.

It was the dead of night when I was prodded awake, and it took me a moment to gather my wits. Fitallion's cat sat on my ankles. The odd creature was absorbed in the task of licking its hind leg. Above me Roth loomed, huge as ever, his creamy black skin melting into the dark. Only his perfect set of shining white teeth stood out, glinting when he smiled. "Frost, it's time to rise and shine, our shift already started."

I suppressed a groan, refusing to utter even the slightest of complaints when it came to my punishment. I was going to endure it all, and I'd do it with good graces, even if it killed me. On that note I dragged myself up, scattering the cat as I moved. It lurched off the bed with an indignant hiss, disappearing out the open doorway in a flash of crimson fur.

I hadn't had a chance to talk with Roth since earning my punishment. He'd always managed to put me at ease, so it was unsurprising that I told him everything. As we wandered through the quiet grid of format huts, I whispered a quick succession of the events: Mar and Ram's proposition, their surveillance, the actual theft, my interview with Bardzecki, and even my time in the hole.

"I wish you would have spoken with me first. I could have told you that soldiers don't get sent home. Not ever."

"I think that's how Winslow feels," I replied.

"I don't envy him that job of his. He's got his hands full with our lot," Roth said, though he sounded almost proud.

We walked loops around camp. If it had been light out I might have seen a few Scarlets parked on the airfield just north, or the dunes to the south. I questioned Roth as we strolled along, wanting to know more about my format. We ate together, trained together, and learned side by side, and yet there were a few format mates I'd hardly exchanged more than two words with. Roth was happy to oblige. It was obvious that he felt deep affection for his format, even the odious Pumphrey.

I learned that Fitallion fascinated everyone, not just me. He carried himself well, confident, but not arrogant. Some of the soldiers suspected that he already knew everything they were teaching us at camp because he seemed to be good at all of it. No matter the weapon—Fitallion was a natural. But no one was a better shot than Pumphrey (something I already knew), and as Roth laughingly put it, the only thing sharper than his shooting was his tongue (something _else_ I already knew). Edwards struggled both in and out of the classroom, and though everyone gave him a hard time, the format liked him as a whole. Swanson and Steward on the other hand, were not so popular. The two lanky soldiers were too smart for their own good and often wreaked havoc trying to entertain themselves. The only thing they did better than cause trouble was avoid getting caught. Roth regaled me with tales, most of which I hoped weren't true. Lee was the soldier I knew the least about. He was always there, but never said anything, quieter than even Fitallion. He had thin dark eyes, thick dark hair, and the faintest hint of yellow in his skin. He was short and slight, and still _,_ so _still_. He seemed almost peaceful when he sat, unmoving, unspeaking. Roth said it was a trick, and that I'd know what he was talking about if I ever saw Lee doing hand to hand combat, apparently he was unbeatable. Dutton was the champion of wrestling. He liked to grab on and grapple, unlike Lee who only came in close to strike. Roth trailed off on a tangent, imagining a match between the two. Some discredited Dutton for his size. He was large and he did love to eat—I could attest to that, but even so he was the best wrestler at camp, or so I was told. Jackson, another mate I was unfamiliar with, was a farmer like me. He was gone often, socializing. He had friends in every format, though not as many acquaintances as Mar and Ram. Roth talked about their ambitions, and how he usually stood on good terms with them, though at the moment he was quite put out with the two. He assured me the entire format would be put out when they learned why I was being punished. I didn't want Roth to defend me and I told him that. I especially didn't want anyone to think I was a victim, because the only thing I was victim to was my own naive stupidity.

I tried to sidetrack Roth, hoping I could get him off the topic of Ram and Mar. I wanted to circle back around to the one soldier in our format he had neglected to give insight to: Winslow. But Roth could be stubborn. And by the time he was done griping about Ram and Mar, our shift was over.

# Chapter 16

Breakfast the next day was even more awkward than dinner had been the night before. I had begged Roth not to tell the format why I was being punished, and although he never agreed, I thought he would listen. Apparently not. He must have told them during PT when I was too busy sweating up a storm to notice.

Mar and Ram were blasted by pointed, disapproving comments and icy distain. They simply ate faster, shoveling down their food in an effort to escape. I knew I should feel something... guilt, maybe gratitude? But I was too tired to care.

I had to stay up really late and wake up extra early to complete my additional chores, not to mention the two hour chunk of sleep I'd missed doing night-watch. If I barely had time to sleep then I was definitely going to fall behind in my studies, a most depressing thought.

Shuffling to dump my tray, feeling exhausted and groggy, I hardly noticed when someone fell into step beside me. It wasn't until he said, "Greetings, Soldier Frost," that he got my full attention. It was First Gridleigh. I remembered him, and I remembered that I was supposed to avoid him. Glancing over my shoulder, I looked for Winslow. He was walking away, bearing down on Mar and Ram as he chased after them, paying us no mind.

Perhaps I hadn't been very discreet when looking for Winslow's help, because the gesture didn't go unnoticed. "So _you do_ remember me," he said with a gummy smile. Two soldiers had come to hover just behind us. They were a pair of matching squares, big and boxy, Gridleigh's mates no doubt.

I felt hemmed in and uncomfortable, but fought to be polite nonetheless. "Yes, First Gridleigh, I remember." Bardzecki thought I was pathetic, and maybe he was right, but I didn't have to stay pathetic. If being a good soldier included showing proper deference to my 'betters,' then I would. I may never respect First Gridleigh, but I could always pretend. "How are you?" I inquired politely.

His jaw clicked shut. For a moment there, with his mouth closed, I thought he wasn't terribly bad looking. Then I noticed he was mad, eyes pulled down in hostility. "Are you mocking me?"

"What? No!"

Speaking over my protests, he said, "I hear you've already landed yourself in some trouble. I'd tread more carefully if I were you."

I had been trying to do just that. At a loss for what to say, I could only nod, hoping to be agreeable.

Gridleigh was pleased by my response. Smiling at me as if we were co-conspirators, he then asked, "And how are you getting on with Winslow?"

It felt like a trick question, so I tried to step around it. "I'd rather not say."

He jumped to the wrong conclusion, a smug grin seating itself on his face. "Ah," he said knowingly. "He's an arrogant ass, always has been." He sidled closer. "You know, I could speak with Bardzecki if you like, suggest that he assign you to a new format. He listens to me, and now would be the perfect time. After your recent behavior, I could say a more capable first would keep you in line," he cooed into my ear.

"No!" I said, jerking away. Oops. I could tell from his face there was no way to salvage my outburst.

"No? You'd rather stay with that insufferable idiot and his band of misfits?" he spit at me.

"Yes," I said, swallowing thickly.

His hand snaked out, grabbing the loose braid that trailed down my back. His movements were slick and fluid, a blur of motion as he jerked my head around. "Look at these two," he said, gesturing to the soldiers behind us. They stared back blankly. "And over there," Gridleigh said, pulling my hair, forcing me to see his format's table. "The sixth," he said into my ear, the warmth of his breath making me cringe. "An impressive group, are they not?" I had to admit, they were, every one as big and strong as the last. Again he yanked my hair sharply and I couldn't help but cry out as he pulled my face around more harshly than before. Suddenly I was staring at my own table. I wished one of them would look over, but such was my luck that I went unnoticed. "And _that_ ," Gridleigh said emphatically, "is _your_ format." His fingers bit into my arm as he gave my braid a rough shake, asking, "That's where you want to stay?"

Suddenly I couldn't take it anymore. I didn't care what I was supposed to do, how I should be at camp, or what would impress Instructor Bardzecki. I just knew that First Gridleigh should not be touching me. I lashed out on instinct, my body rejecting his restraint. My elbow rammed into the soft flesh of his side. He released my hair immediately, admitting a small _oomph_ of pain. My freedom was short-lived. I took only a step before his arms crashed around me, hauling me over as we toppled to the ground. We went sprawling into the trash bins together. They skittered away as Gridleigh pinned me to the floor. I pummeled his thigh with one hand, my nails raking his face with the other as I tried to buck him off. He dropped his hand to my throat in retaliation, squeezing until my gasping breath was cut off and silenced.

I panicked, scratching at his hands, but it was over quickly. The moment Gridleigh had tackled me we had the whole convene's attention. Soldiers were pulling him off now, restraining him as I sucked in air. My own format was hurrying towards me, the table emptying as they rushed over. I didn't wait though, I ran.

I ran, and I didn't stop until I reached my shed, throwing open the door and hurling myself inside. I would have collapsed onto my bed, but it was occupied. Fitallion's cat was taking yet another bath on my blankets, though it had stopped to stare at me. I stared back, briefly deliberating before finally flopping down beside it. I wasn't sure if touching a Shetheerie's pet was a good idea, but since we were alone and I was feeling wretched, I couldn't help myself. Tentatively I reached out, gingerly stroking the fur of its back.

Any physical contact I received at camp was mostly aggressive. Either I was being bullied by the likes of First Gridleigh or I was having the spit kicked out of me on the combat field as part of my training. It was nice to touch Fitallion's cat, to gently pet its wiry hair, a soft and careful connection. And since the cat had tolerated my petting, I couldn't resist reaching over to pick it up, wanting to hold it, hug it. I had crossed a line. The thing hissed at me, squirming from my hands and jumping to the floor. With an annoyed flick of its tail, it sauntered off, but not before glaring at me in indignation one last time.

I felt rejected, then embarrassed for feeling rejected by a cat. I slumped over, rubbing my eyes as I called out after it, "If you don't want to comfort me, then you aren't welcome in my bed!"

"That's completely inappropriate."

I jumped out of my bunk, whirling to face the door. Winslow stood on the front step, much to my dismay. I dropped my face to the floor, trying to hide the scorching blush as I mumbled, "I was talking to the cat."

"Apparently that's your problem—talking when you shouldn't. What happened between you and Gridleigh? He's claiming you insulted him."

"He was eager to find offense. Honestly, it was impossible _not_ to insult him. He suggested talking to Instructor Bardzecki about assigning me to a new format, and I think he meant his, and I..."

"Yes?" Winslow asked, urging me to continue.

"Well, I was resistant to the idea, which he didn't appreciate."

"Is it true that you instigated the fight by taking the first swing?"

"I elbowed him," I admitted. "So technically I guess that's true, but he touched me first. He grabbed my hair and was jerking me around. I couldn't take it!"

Winslow sighed. "It's not your fault."

"What's going to happen?"

"Fights are not uncommon. They're usually ignored, but if Gridleigh pursues this and informs Instructor Bardzecki, then I'm not sure what will happen."

"Is it true? Can First Gridleigh convince Instructor Bardzecki to switch me to his format?"

"Gridleigh is a first. His word will hold more sway than yours, and when one takes into account your previous behavior..." Winslow let his words trail off, letting me know just how bad things could get.

"But why?" I asked, my voice getting slightly higher as I began to panic. "Nobody wants me on their format! I've heard the soldiers talking and I know I'm ruining your chance at trials, so why would _anyone_ want me on their format?"

"It's complicated," Winslow said. "But I wouldn't worry yet. I doubt Gridleigh will report the incident."

"You don't think so?"

"No," he shook his head, "because he'd have to admit to beating up a girl."

I shrugged. "I get beat up at combat training every day."

He sat down on the bed beside me. "It's not the same."

The conversation had been flowing naturally, and I'd just shared more sentences with Winslow than ever before. I wanted to keep talking, never stop, but our words dried up. He sat forward, head bent as his neck brushed the underside of the top bunk. He was so tall, and broad, radiating heat. I sucked up the feeling, remembering it all so I could maybe one day tell Lizzie. Or maybe not. Maybe I'd keep the memory all to myself.

"Here," he said, breaking the silence. He thrust a thick cream-colored envelope at me. "I thought you could use it right now."

He stood up, and I would have been disappointed, but I was too distracted by the letter. It was addressed to me, the words penned in my sister's spidery handwriting.

"Frost," Winslow said, drawing my attention back to him. "Are you going to be alright?"

I nodded.

He was standing on the threshold, ready to leave, but he seemed weighed down by something. Almost reluctantly, he asked, "Why did you run?"

"He was hurting me," I said, thinking the answer was fairly obvious.

"No, I mean, why did you run out of the convene? Our whole format left the table to help when they saw what was going on, why didn't you just wait for them?"

"I'm not sure," I admitted after a time. "I guess I wasn't really thinking. I just rushed off to where I felt safest."

He was frowning when he left. I got the feeling he was unhappy with my answer.

# Chapter 17

Dearest Fiona,

You are the talk of the town! No one will shut up about it. At first Mum was so embarrassed she refused to go to town. Not even to select this season's goods, which you know she loves to do. She just put it off, longer and longer, until we were eating corn for every meal. Eventually Da hitched up the wagon and said he would go by himself to get our supplies. But then, hating the idea of being left out, Mum changed her mind. She made him wait for over an hour, the poor horses standing there ready to go while she put on her magenta and teal gown, you know, the one with the ruffles. Well you can bet I wasn't going to miss a trip to town, so I got ready too, putting on my sky green dress, you know it, it's the one that makes my hair glow. We looked very fine, and I was dying to see Meg and tell her what happened. But guess what! The Flints had already heard and so had everybody else! One of the soldiers had written home about you, and my how news has traveled! You are famous! Oh, I'm so jealous, how I wish everyone would be thinking and gossiping about me!

You wouldn't believe how my hand is hurting from all this writing, Fiona, and I haven't even gotten to the very best part! I'm in love!!! And it's all thanks to you. Five days after you left, your replacement arrived. I could tell Da wasn't happy about it, but he'd been struggling without you, so he let Davies stay! That's his name. Davies. He is so tall and handsome, though I have noticed that his teeth overlap, and he sort of hunches a bit. But I hardly notice all that because I love him! And his teeth only overlap a little, and not the front two, because that would be dreadful, but oh how I love him, Fiona!

He sleeps in the barn but takes his meals with us. And I think Mum loves him nearly as much as I do. She's always bussing his cheeks and feeding him sweets. Da wasn't friendly at first, but it has been a few days and I think he is finally coming around. I heard him laugh real hard at something Davies said as they were coming into the kitchen, and Da clapped him on the back as if Davies were his own son.

I'm going to marry him, Fiona, but don't think I have forgotten my promise, I'll wait for you to be a bridesmaid! Oh, how my hand hurts! Write me back, must go, ta!

Love, Lizzie

P.S. How are you?

On the back of Lizzie's letter two short messages were scrawled. The first was from my mother.

Fiona,

Things fell behind when you left but then Davies came, and I'm sure Lizzie told you all about it, so everything is alright now. We got your letter and I know you said you were fine, but I still worry they aren't feeding you enough. Are they? You will write and tell me if they are not.

Mum

My father's message was even shorter.

Take care of yourself and don't worry about the farm. –Da

I folded the paper gently, slipping it back into its envelope. I then had nothing left to do but think as there were no tasks left to keep my mind occupied, so it wandered. I imagined going home, or rather being sent home after stealing the instructor's birdbane. It would be dinner when I walked through the door, and Davies would be sitting in my chair. I had a feeling it would fit him better, more comfortably, than it had ever fit me. I had been replaced. And it was a good thing I hadn't been sent home after all. I couldn't help but be intensely relieved and grateful for that fact. I had been spared the inevitable moment when I would realize that I was the interloper in my own house. Well, not spared, the moment had come regardless, but at least I was in the privacy of my shed when it happened. The shed—my new home. I desperately wanted my mirror just then, needing to hold it, but its comfort was just out of reach for a few days more.

* * *

Instructor McMoore taught Shetheerie. He was my favorite teacher, probably because he seemed more scholar than soldier. His classroom was one of the many instruction facilities that sat along the northernmost border of camp, and my format combined there with the ninth for his lessons.

Upon entering, the first thing I noticed was Instructor McMoore scribbling furiously on a blackboard, completely absorbed in his work. The soldiers milled around socializing, and neither teacher nor student seemed eager to begin.

The first few rows always sat empty, and I took a seat there, not minding the close proximity to McMoore. Roth and Fitallion followed in my wake. They often shadowed me, but they had been less subtle about it as of late. Roth sat to my right and Fitallion made to move around my chair and take the open space on my left, but Edwards flung himself down first. Gracious as ever, Fitallion moved away to find another seat without protest. Edwards tipped his head toward me saying, "The weather is looking very fair today."

I thought that was a rather bland and pointless thing to say, but since he was attempting to be friendly, I smiled at him in reply. Since I'd often been ignored by my peers back home, I was unsure of how to participate in a proper conversation and therefore kept quiet more often than not. Roth, who had been listening, didn't hesitate to say what I had been thinking. "Yes, the weather was scheduled to be lovely, as it always is the third day of the week. What of it?"

Edwards must've been familiar with Roth's frank attitude, because he was only slightly put off by it. Leaning forward to hang over the desk, he replied, "I was only making conversation with the lady."

"She's not a lady, she's a soldier, and Winslow's gonna tan your hide if you keep it up," Roth warned.

I kept my eyes trained forward, doing my best to ignore the conversation. I was relieved when Instructor McMoore finally remembered he was supposed to be teaching and turned to begin. As usual the lesson was hard to follow since it was spoken mostly in Shetheerie. Nothing left me more frustrated and irate than being ignorant, so I opened my textbook and continued to study at my own pace.

At the end of class Instructor McMoore stopped me as the last of the soldiers filed out. "I saw you reading your book. Are you making progress?"

I wasn't sure if I should apologize for neglecting his lesson. "I'm caught up in all the classes except Shetheerie. It is far more challenging, but I expect to be following along in class by next week." That was sort of an apology.

McMoore's face scrunched up, little wrinkles forming around each eye. "Frost, no one expects you to come along six months into a class and pick it up immediately. And you can't learn everything you need to know from a book, it'll take more than that. You need help. Have you asked Fitallion to help you review what you've read?"

"No," I admitted.

McMoore pushed a delicate pair of wire-rim spectacles back up; they were forever slipping down the narrow bridge of his nose. He continued, using a voice that suggested he was breaking bad news. "Learning another language is like learning how to play a musical instrument. It will take a lot of time and practice."

My father had never discouraged me, and hearing it from Instructor McMoore rankled. Only knowing that he was trying to be helpful kept the annoyance from my voice. "I will think on what you have said. Thank you for the advice, instructor. Good day." I turned on my heel, heading for the door. And yet I didn't miss the look on his face. Eyes wide and mouth flapping; I'd left him stupefied.

My parting words had all been spoken in Shetheerie.

* * *

It was the fifth day of the week—a rain day. All night clouds had been gathering in the sky. I'd watched as they lumbered from the horizon, blotting out the stars one by one. I'd been on night-watch with Jackson. He was a farmer, but from a distant community in the sector I hadn't heard of. He spent the entire two hours reminiscing about home. He had a habit of it, and the format was forever groaning for him to shut up. I didn't complain though, I didn't even mind really, because I felt somewhat bad that he was so obviously homesick. I had learned that sometimes a boy from the farming sector would prefer, and be more suited for, military life. In such cases the soldier was allowed to continue with the training program instead of returning home. Jackson would not be one of those soldiers. That was not to say he couldn't cut it, he did well at camp, but his heart just wasn't in it. By the time our shift was over I could tell that he liked me, or at least disliked me less than he had. Growing up with an effusive mother and sister, I had learned the art of listening early on, and I knew its power.

By the time I woke up to shower and start my chores the clouds had completely taken over, blanketing the sky. It wasn't easy to hurry through each task. I was weary and exhausted, but I wanted to beat the rain so I hustled. I was hauling laundry when the sun started rising, though very little light escaped through the unfriendly gray mass above.

Beneath the convene was a hive of activity. The women who volunteered there had husbands working at camp or stationed nearby up at the airfield. They were, for the most part, older, their children already grown, with little left to fill their time. They kept 601 soldiers fed and clothed. And from what I could tell, it was a thankless job.

Mave was waiting for me. Before I could even tap on the glass partition she was waving me through the door. At some point I had overcome my aversion to being there. At first I had despised the laundry trips I had to make each day. I'd gather up my mates' sheets, or the dirty clothes they left lying around everywhere, and try to sneak into the basement and drop it all off without being noticed. It never worked. The smooth adobe walls echoed the sound of my approach, and they were always waiting to pounce. Though I soon discovered that, while curious and talkative, they were not malicious. In fact, they seemed to have my best interests at heart. Often flocking to me, a bunch of twittering hens, they would ask if I needed anything, and much to my dismay, pet my hair. So, at some point or other, my dislike seemed to melt away and I no longer avoided the chore.

Mave was my favorite. She had a no-nonsense attitude that belied her girlish, high voice. She seemed to be in charge, though whether the position was officially delegated to her or assumed, I wasn't sure; everyone just did what she said, because regardless, Mave was a natural born leader.

I followed her through the swinging doors, into the back room where the boiling vats sat steaming. The ladies were always up before dawn, either preparing breakfast or heating up the giant tubs with water. The air was thick with moisture, my clothes seeming to smother and stick in an instant.

"I heard you had some trouble with Gridleigh," Mave said. She stopped near one of the vats, gesturing for me to drop the clothes inside.

"Yes," I confirmed. "He doesn't seem to like me much, though Winslow said it wasn't my fault."

She nodded while pulling a piece of chalk from her pocket. "He's right. Gridleigh's been sore with him for years, long before you came along." Marking the vat with a big forty-four on the side, she used the chalk to keep track of our laundry.

"What do you mean? Did Gridleigh and Winslow grow up together?" I asked, plopping in the last of our clothes.

"They're cousins," Mave answered, before turning to find the soap.

I followed in her wake, having established a routine over the last few days. I knew she could barely reach the laundry soap. Mave was as short as her personality was tall. I'd have to stretch up and pull it down for her. "Cousins?" I repeated, hardly believing it. "But I thought they tried to separate family members at training camp. To reduce distractions."

"There's only so many convenes in the Triangle Patch, and if a family is big enough, not as many as it'll take to put 'em."

"How do you know all this? Did you live near them when they were little?"

"Of course," she said lightly. Adding, "They _are_ my nephews."

"Your nephews! And all three of you here at the same camp," I said, taken aback. My arms must have gone slack from shock because Mave hurried forward to scoop the soap from them.

"Four," she corrected. "Instructor Bardzecki is my brother."

"What!" I exclaimed.

"Hush up," Mave answered while leading me back to the vat. "No need to cause a ruckus."

"Instructor Bardzecki," I said, shaking my head. "Are you sure?"

She seemed to find that amusing. "Aye, he's my brother, I'm sure. And I have three others, and two sisters, too. Corissa is Winslow's mother, and Bet is Gridleigh's. Life in the military is a Bardzecki family tradition."

"And they never got along?"

She paused, seeming to think very hard as she measured out the soap, and only after pouring it into the bubbling water did she deign to speak. "There is something you have to understand about the Bardzecki family—we were bred for the military, and our name is known throughout the ranks. My father, my brothers, they were especially sought out and recruited for Providence because of their reputation. As a family we decided to come here, all of us, spouses, children, and even my grandparents. There was so many of us, and not all ready to depart at the same time, that we were separated onto three ships, but... but only two made it. Gridleigh's da was on the ship that didn't."

Hostiles.

It was the most awkward moment of my life. I had no idea what to say, if I ought to do something. Did I have to give her a hug? After a moment I compromised by gently patting her back, saying, "I'm sorry."

She huffed, shrugging me off. "I didn't run off at the mouth for the fun of it. I'm telling you this so you'll understand. See, Winslow is the splitting image of my da—a real Bardzecki man. He's got the face, the build, and the attitude to match." She tilted her head, mouth open, struggling for words. Finally, "Gridleigh... well, he takes after his da. And since his da wasn't around, Bet stayed with Carissa for a time. That's when Gridleigh started the rivalry, though it only exists in his mind. I guess he never felt like he fit, like he had a place, so he was always trying to take Winslow's."

"What did he do?"

"At first Gridleigh just wanted attention and praise. While Winslow would be climbing trees for the fun of it, Gridleigh would be climbing higher to prove himself. It was always like that, and it only got worse as he got older." She looked at me sharpish then, to make sure I was paying attention. I nodded, and satisfied, she continued. "Gridleigh went away to live with my brother, Instructor Bardzecki, for a few years, and when he came back they were both sixteen. Maybe Gridleigh wouldn't have been so competitive if they weren't the same age, but I guess we'll never know. So anyhow, Gridleigh returns to live with Winslow and instantly falls in love with Samona, a local girl."

I didn't like where the story was headed, but I couldn't stop listening, thralled into a quiet stupor.

"I can't say whether he liked her because she was Winslow's girl or not, but the idea of stealing her away would have only fueled his infatuation. But of course she'd been sweet on Winslow for years, and like all the girls, she only had eyes for him."

I grimaced but hid it the instant Mave turned to me. "You can imagine how the story ends. Winslow never participated in the rivalry, never even acknowledged it until Gridleigh started talking about Samona. There was a big fight, I'm not sure of the particulars, but I fear neither will ever get past it. So you see how this affects you?"

"I don't think either of them are interested in me romantically," I said, keeping any form of emotion from my voice.

"And aren't we lucky!" she exclaimed. "No, I mean that Gridleigh sees this as a competition. On one hand, he might think that Bardzecki chose to put you on Winslow's format because he didn't want to hurt Gridleigh's chance at trials. But on the other hand, he might have done it because he trusts Winslow more, trusts that it won't interfere with his format's performance. It must be eating at him, not knowing." She looked me in the eye. "And trust me, Frost, romance or no, you don't want to be caught between those two." She thrust the soap container at me. "Now I've said everything I intend to say on the matter, so go on, shoo!"

I made to return the soap to its shelf, but turned to ask, "Which is it?"

"Which is what?" she huffed.

"Why did Bardzecki put me on Winslow's format?"

"Why do you think?" she asked as she shuffled off.

I had no idea. But of course, it was pouring down rain when I left.

# Chapter 18

My entire format was clustered inside of their hut. It was crowded and gloomy, with the only light streaming in through the doorless entry. Dinner had just finished, and I was anticipating my last day in the hole, though not for the reason one might expect. That second day, when Winslow lowered me down into the damp pit, I had been so tired that I'd fallen into a deep sleep almost immediately. So what had started out as a tedious, despised punishment soon became something I looked forward to. I'd nap for a few hours, the quiet, dark space feeling less creepy with each passing day. And when Winslow came to pull me out, I'd study until I was due for night-watch. I yawned in anticipation just thinking about it. But Winslow had called a format meeting and I would just have to suffer through first.

I watched him twist around the stacked bunks, passing out and collecting letters. I hadn't written home yet, not since getting my family's letters. I just wasn't sure what to say.

Next to me Roth was sprawled across his bed. We sat on the top bunk, legs dangling over. He was deep in conversation with Jackson, who was telling him about how back home he used to lift, using farming equipment as his weights. Roth, who seemed to love weight lifting more than life itself, was totally engrossed.

I noticed Swanson and Steward sitting on the next bunk over, staring at me. I tried to ignore them for a while, but eventually cracked. "What!" I said in exasperation. Those two really had a gift for getting under a person's skin.

Steward leaned forward. "We saw what happened in the convene. Gridleigh can be a real prick."

Swanson leaned in next. "Do you want revenge on Gridleigh?" he asked quietly. And before I could even open my mouth to respond, "No, don't say anything," he cut in, shooting Winslow a quick glance. "Just give us the signal and we'll take care of it." And then they both sat back, staring at me with expectation in their eyes.

As I hadn't a clue what signal they were talking about, I held very still, hoping they didn't misinterpret a single twitch. Winslow called for our attention. I sighed in relief, ignoring Swan and Stew with pleasure.

"Alright," he called out. "The first half of the year is over, and soon the instructors will provide feedback on our individual progress. But it's the second half of our training that I'm concerned with, because I imagine it will go fast. So I want to start preparing for trials now."

My format seemed to go wild for the idea. They cheered in various ways, each laden with excitement. Roth thumped me on the back, smiling grandly. I tried to look happy in return.

Winslow waited for everyone to calm before going on. "Trials are notoriously competitive because soldiers from the format with the highest score usually continue on to have an outstanding military career. You want to be recognized? Then you have to be on the winning format. In order to do that, we have to accept our weaknesses and deal with them accordingly."

"And how do you plan on dealing with that one?" Pumphrey asked. He hitched his thumb at me.

I hunched over, wishing I wasn't singled out so often. Roth bumped my shoulder with his in a show of solidarity, but I kept my eyes cast down.

"Yes," Winslow confirmed casually. "I'll speak with Frost in a minute. But first I'd like to discuss the Shetheerie exam, which may be written, oral, or both. Edwards, I want you to study with Fitallion from now on. And, Pumphrey," he added, skewering the soldier with one look, "you could use some help as well."

"Like hell!" Pumphrey shot back.

Winslow held up a hand, forestalling the argument. "Alright, we'll wait until Instructor McMoore gives you your Shetheerie grade, and if it's not suitable, then you'll study with Fitallion. Without complaint," he tacked on. "Agreed?"

It was a fair proposal, though Pumphrey didn't want to agree. But he had little choice. I could tell by his pinched face that his grade would not suffice.

"Maybe Frost could tutor me. She's good at Shetheerie," Edwards interjected.

Winslow gave him a disapproving look, which Edwards seemed to shrink under.

"Frost," Winslow said, turning to address me. "You'll do very well on the academic portion of trials, but you need help with—"

"—Everything else," Pumphrey cut in snidely.

Winslow ignored him. "They'll test each soldier's physical abilities, much like the drills we run through in PT. I want you to spend time each week lifting weights with Roth."

"Ha!" Roth laughed. "I knew it was only a matter of time." As if I had consented by choice, not likely! But I mustered up a smile for him anyway. It was hard not to.

"I assume there will be a basic combat exam of some kind. Lee can prepare you for that, perhaps even Dutton can help. It couldn't hurt," Winslow said, thinking out loud. "In addition, we'll be tested on one or more of the weapons we've studied. Since you've missed the first half of the year, you'll need to make up the hands-on experience. Fitallion can take you to the range for practice initially, but once you feel comfortable, I'd like Pumphrey to take over. He'll help with marksmanship."

"What? No!" Pumphrey protested.

"Every mate's score will affect the format as a whole. And since you have been so concerned with her holding us back, I thought you'd be relieved by how everyone is contributing to get her up to speed," Winslow countered. "That includes you. Agreed?" he asked Pumphrey for the second time.

Winslow was gifted. He continued to back Pumphrey into a corner each time he disrupted the meeting. He was made to be a format first, well, for now at least. Eventually he'd lead more than just twelve training soldiers, of that I was certain.

Pumphrey shot me a venomous look. It was paired with his defeat, so I ignored it and the meeting moved on.

"The war games will be the last test of trials, but we won't be given more information on that until it's closer to the time. It could include our knowledge on first aid or land navigation and the like... maps, compasses. And since it is called the war games, you can certainly expect real-life scenarios involving combat, weapons, strategy and teamwork."

This seemed to stir the format into a frenzy, while I remained singular in my disinterest.

"But like I said, we'll worry about that closer to the time. For now, I want us to focus on making our weaknesses our strengths," Winslow said, bringing the meeting to a close with finality.

It was a lovely sentiment, what he'd said. But as the only real weakness to my format, I wasn't holding out hope of becoming its strength any time soon.

* * *

The rain that had been was long gone. It was early evening and the sun was drifting down for the day, but it was still hot. The wind blew from left to right, kicking up a small bit of sand that swirled around our ankles before sinking back into the grass. Even with all the effort they put into keeping camp manicured and picturesque, the sand still crept in, drifting from all sides, but mostly from below, shoving up beneath our very feet.

Winslow strode beside me, his legs eating up the distance between us and our destination—the hole. He surprised me by saying, "Instructor Bardzecki has agreed that one week in the hole is enough. Today will be your last day, though you will continue on with your other chores until I say otherwise."

Was that his idea or Bardzecki's? I didn't bother asking. And I especially didn't bother arguing.

"Fiona!"

When I turned, it took me a moment to recognize who'd called my name. And when I finally _did_ , I was uneasy about it. Doug Chambers. I hadn't seen Doug in a while. He was leaner now; face a bit sharper than it'd been before. It was the Doug I had fancied when I was young and lonely. The Doug who hadn't wanted to speak to me (or even be seen standing next to me) back then. Doug had turned from boy to man, but his lashes were still long, drawing attention to a pair of expressive eyes. I looked into them, wondering why he was interested in speaking with me now. With Winslow behind me and Doug in front, trapped between the two... uneasy wasn't the right word.

"Hello, Doug," I said somewhat reluctantly. "What are you doing here?"

He smiled. "We're in the same convene!"

"Oh. I haven't seen you around."

"But I _have_ seen you. Causing the same splash as always, huh, Fiona? I had a letter from home, things are the same there. People are probably talking about you all over the Triangle Patch."

Winslow was still standing just behind me. I felt like he must be staring down over my shoulder at Doug, but Doug seemed oblivious. So I said, "This is my first, First Winslow. Winslow this is Doug, I know him from—"

"—Oh we go way back," he interjected, eyeing Winslow for the first time. "Winslow, huh? I know your cousin. He seemed quite interested in Fiona here. I had some stories—"

I didn't need him to tell me about the stories. I already knew them. So I'd found the soldier who 'knew' me from back home, the soldier who had said... what was it? Ah, yes, I remember—that I was strange. And there was something else too, something not half as friendly as the smile he was sending me. I would bet he had written home about me, that he'd been the one to start the rumors around town.

"So, Fiona, do you know why you are here?" he asked, fishing for more information.

I just didn't have the patience for it. "You may call me Soldier Frost," I replied. "And apparently you already know why I'm here. Didn't you tell First Gridleigh that it was because my parents couldn't marry me off?"

His eyes skimmed over me to Winslow, suddenly wary. "I never—"

I cut him off. "—We don't go way back. Our homes may have been in close proximity, but it may as well have been from here to Earth for all the attention it got me."

"We weren't introduced. It wouldn't have been pro—"

I walked away, not wanting to hear more of his blathering. I was lost in thought as I marched to the convene, Winslow stalking quietly at my heel. Why had Doug suddenly wanted to talk to me? I'd overheard a lot more gossip since that morning by the latrine. I knew I was an oddity like Fitallion. The mere fact earned me a slew of unwanted attention. But the soldiers here at camp seemed to view me differently than I viewed myself.

Elizabeth had always been the pretty one. Even at twelve, the boys back home were just waiting for her to grow up, recognizing a good thing when they saw it. She was pale and fair-haired, with pink cheeks and red lips. Her eyes were bright blue, full of color, matching her flounced skirts which always caught the eye. She looked like she'd been drawn into the book of fairy tales my da had brought from Earth, identical to the princesses on every page. And then there was me... Having spent most of my time working under the sun, my skin was brown. Brown like the dirt under my short cracked nails. Brown like my hair and brown like my eyes. Brown. Brown. Brown.

But the soldiers here didn't draw the same conclusions, in fact, they seemed to see a totally different me. I couldn't help but notice how often I was on the receiving end of a lingering look, as if the soldiers admired me. And they must have, because I also noticed the way my format sort of discouraged them, standing around me while we ate or worked out during PT, insulating me. They kept the other soldiers from coming too close, and if by chance one did manage to strike up conversation with me, my mates were always hovering nearby to squash it. I didn't mind. I just had a hard time believing that here I was desirable.

They said that when the sun struck my hair, it was red. When it reflected from my eyes, they were yellow. I'd never seen my reflection in the sunlight, only my ill-lit bedroom back home. And even if I'd wanted to check now, I couldn't, because Ram and Mar had yet to return my mirror. The soldiers said I was striking, and the gossip concerning my looks was only fueled by the rumors about my intelligence. There was a rumor going around that I spoke fluent Shetheerie, and another that said I'd come to camp speaking Shetheerie. Some said I was a spy from Earth. Others said I was the illegitimate daughter of Commander Clarke. Camp was abounding with rumors, and I couldn't help but overhear a few.

We were already walking through the convene cellar when Winslow spoke. "So the two of you go way back?" It was dark down there, so I couldn't quite tell, but I thought his face might be hinting towards a smile.

"You think I was mean?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I'm just always surprised what you're like."

"What am I like?"

"I thought you were bold that day in class when Edwards didn't know the answer and you tried to help him."

"Stupid, you mean," I said offhandedly.

"Yes," he agreed. "And you've got some nerve, breaking into Bardzecki's office like you did. Not many could do that."

"Also stupid."

"You didn't let Gridleigh push you too far, or that Doug fellow, which takes gumption. It's just buried under that inscrutable façade."

"You think _I'm_ inscrutable?" I asked, voice thick with sarcasm.

"Aren't you?"

"I'm not the only one," I muttered.

# Chapter 19

"Mar!" I called, pushing myself up off the ground. He and Ram were wiping the sweat off their faces, gathering up waterskins, and preparing to leave the field. PT had just ended, so it took a big effort on my part to chase after them. "Wait up!"

I think Mar would have ignored me, but Ram turned.

"Where is my mirror?" I managed to say while catching my breath.

"We don't have it yet," Mar replied, visibly annoyed.

"You were supposed to have gotten it days ago."

"We need more time," Ram said.

"I gave you three days!"

"He said we need more time," Martinez growled before stalking off. Ram followed behind, probably forgetting the whole conversation the moment I was out of sight.

"You handled that all wrong," called a sing-song voice from behind me. Swanson and Steward sidled, and I hadn't a clue as to which of them had spoken. Even after weeks at camp they still appeared nearly identical, though they swore there was no blood relation. On occasion Steward would wear spectacles in class, a black thick-framed pair that did nothing to offset his washed-out complexion. And sometimes, when standing close, I noticed that Swanson's eyebrows and lashes were so pale as to be nearly invisible, which didn't help his washed-out complexion either. But so far those were the only perceptible cues which marked them as two separate beings.

"You didn't follow through with your threat, so now they know you're bluffing."

"Yup, if you're pinning your hopes on them, then your mirror is long gone," agreed the other, looping his arm around my shoulders as he steered me toward the convene for breakfast. Up close I could tell it was Swan by his transparent eyelashes.

"They told you about that?" I hadn't taken Mar and Ram for the gossipy type.

"No," said Stew, dropping his arm around my waist as he hemmed in my other side. "But we tend to find out anything worth knowing."

"Ram writes down everything in that little book of his," added Swan. "Sometimes it doesn't pay to be organized."

"I wasn't bluffing," I said as I tried to shake them off, feeling smothered between them as they bandied words around.

"Oh, you don't think so?" Swan asked as they continued to pull me along the path. "Then tell Bardzecki the truth. Perhaps he'll be so overjoyed at the prospect of getting his birdbane back that he'll hand over your mirror."

I hated to admit it, but they were right—I _was_ bluffing. I'd kiss a hostile before I approached Bardzecki for any reason. But instead of admitting all that outright, I said, "Bardzecki wouldn't reward me with my mirror. He'd punish me for lying."

"This is the part where you thank us," said Stew. "Because we are going to help you get your mirror."

"Oh yeah, and how are you going to do that?" I asked, thinking they couldn't help me at all.

"We'll get you leverage," said Swan.

"I had that with the threat" I countered. "It didn't work."

"But you didn't have their greatest treasure—the birdbane. Think of everything they went through to get it, and then think of what they'd do to get it back."

"They didn't do anything," I grumbled, "I did." But I thought they might have a point, and probably a plan. "They showed you where they put it?"

"No, Frost, they did not. But we already discussed this, remember? Ram writes everything down, so we know it's hidden with the rest of their stash."

"And we know where the stash is because we followed them a while back," Stew added.

"Where?"

Stew stopped, turning me away from the convene to point at the dunes behind us.

"I don't understand," I admitted.

"They hide their stash at the dunes. Everything they've ever won from gambling," Swan answered.

"But how do they get there?"

"They walk," said Stew.

Swan elaborated. "It looks far, but it's only four miles to the dunes. A soldier could easily make the trip there and back in one night with a few hours to spare."

I watched him blink, almost innocently, a few times, realizing he was completely serious. "I can't go haring off across the sand!" I paused and took a breath, shrugging out of their hold before spinning to face them. "You know what this sounds like?" I asked. "It sounds like my conversation with Ram and Mar right before they convinced me to go along with their asinine plan. And guess what, I know how it'll end, too. With extra chores!"

Swan was unperturbed by my rant. He seemed confident I'd eventually cave in and go. "There is always the risk of getting caught," he agreed. "But I suppose that has its own appeal, or else why would so many soldiers do it?"

"Think about it and get back to us," said Stew.

"But make up your mind by the next wind day," Swan added.

"Why?"

"Because that's when we have night-watch together," Swan answered. "No better time for a midnight stroll across the sand." They turned, melting into the stream of soldiers that were going up the stairs to breakfast. From behind I could no longer tell them apart, just two tow-headed soldiers amidst the crowd, blending in among the matching uniforms.

Before joining them I glanced behind me, taking in the dunes just south of camp. Were they really four miles away? If I did, by chance, agree to go, getting my mirror back would only be part of the reason. Mostly I was just curious. We didn't have dunes back home, everything was flat. What would they be like? How high did they go?

I was afraid I might have already made up my mind, but I was hardly surprised. I was overly familiar with that old Earthen saying "Curiosity killed the cat."

* * *

My first tutorial was weight training with Roth. Together we walked to the southwestern rec fields. I tried to pay attention as he went on about the importance of my diet, but he'd found the one subject I was uninterested in learning about and I couldn't help but open my Shetheerie textbook and take a peek inside.

He must have sensed my wandering thoughts, because he asked, "What did I just say?"

I snapped the book shut, contritely echoing back, "That I should never ever eat fats and sugars together."

"I don't know how you always manage to do that," he grunted, taking the book from my hand. "I know you weren't paying attention. And you won't need this," he said, letting my book drop just outside of the weight lifting area.

The shed was open, inviting soldiers to use the equipment inside. A few had already dragged out the barbell to bench press. Another stood alone, stripped from the waist up, beefy and tan. He was using an impressively large kettlebell. I stopped being impressed the moment he swung it in my direction. I responded without thought, jerking to hide behind Roth.

Northward, a game of fracas was going on and the sound of cheering stretched all the way down field. Dr. Pruitt spent most of his time treating soldiers who'd been injured while playing the rough sport, or so it was said. Either way, I had no desire to play. Ever.

"Come on, Frost, we'll start you off with some small dumbbells."

Giving my book one last lingering glance, I followed him to the shed. After having me lift progressively heavier weights, I think Roth was surprised by how much it took to challenge my muscles. We all knew I couldn't keep up in PT, but even so, I was strong for a girl. He pronounced that I was trainable, smiling to himself, inordinately pleased by the fact. He then put me through my paces, the mild-mannered Roth long gone as the strict taskmaster appeared.

I couldn't talk for a while. I was too exhausted. My arms, legs, and back felt like jelly, and the air smelled faintly of sweat. When Roth finally allowed me to stop and get a drink from the waterskins, I got the chance to bring up the subject that had been haunting me the last few days. "Roth, do you remember when I told you what happened with Ram and Mar, and you said I should have talked to you first?"

Having allowed me a moment of freedom, he was now focused on his own muscles, a massive dumbbell in each hand as he worked both arms. "Sure," he agreed, mildly distracted.

"Well, I'm asking now."

"A little late for that," Roth responded, still distracted with counting reps.

"No, I mean about something else." Halfway through telling him about my conversation with Swan and Stew, he had put down the dumbbells and was listening intently. Upon finishing, I asked, "So do soldiers really sneak off to the dunes?"

"They do," he confessed. "Camp routine can get boring after a few months, and the dunes offer some entertainment."

"You've been." I could guess by his tone.

He looked almost sheepish. "Most soldiers have. Winslow even went a few times, but that was only so he could drag the rest of us back to camp."

"So do you think I should take Swan and Stew up on their offer?"

He mulled it over, face wincing up at the thought.

"You think it's a trick? I'll admit, I have a hard time believing anyone wants to help me after what Ram and Mar pulled."

"I don't know what to tell you, Frost. Those two are always trouble, but the thing of it is, they never get caught. So if the offer is a trick, then I'm not sure how because going to the dunes is like a right of passage here at camp. It's not really a big deal."

"So what entertainment do the dunes have to offer?" I asked, having already made my decision.

He smiled while leaning down to retrieve his dumbbells. "You're just going to have to find out for yourself."

# Chapter 20

"Then the hostile lifted one massive hand, his black talons filed down and razor sharp. They easily ripped through the captain's tender neck, splattering blood on the bulkhead and control panel. The grindt turned to find his next victim, a young mother and her baby, not even a month old—"

" _Ugh_ , would you shut up?" I groaned. I'd listened to Swan tell horror stories for the past two hours. I couldn't take anymore. "You shouldn't make light of the hostiles. Most people on Little Red have lost someone to their attacks, haven't you?" I asked pointedly.

"Well, jeez. You're as bad as Winslow."

"I don't know what you mean."

"The two of you sure know how to put a soldier in his place. Where do they teach that, anyhow? I'd really like to learn," Swan said, not the least bit perturbed.

"No, you don't _do_ direct," I replied. "You prefer to play mind games." I knew he'd been filling my head with scary stories so I'd be terrified while going to the dunes in the dark. He and Stew seemed to find the most perverse satisfaction from causing discomfort to others.

"Our shift just ended. Do you want to go to the dunes? Or would you prefer to keep talking about me for the rest of the night? I'm not opposed to either—"

"How do you know our shift just ended?" I cut in.

"The last time we walked by the convene clock we had twelve minutes of our shift left. It takes thirty-eight and a half minutes to do a complete circuit around camp. Dividing the distance by time means our shift was over when we reached this spot."

"This spot exactly? You can't be sure." But I thought he might be. He and Stew were frighteningly smart.

Swan ignored my question, deeming it insignificant. "I'll wake up the next pair of yoohoos unlucky enough to get stuck on night-watch. You go get Stew."

I turned, heading for our format's hut, but he grabbed my arm to stop me with one last command. " _Do not_ wake up Winslow."

"Or Ram and Mar," I added. "I know."

A light was mounted over the entrance of every hut. One had even been installed on the front of my shed. They were dim, yellow, and thready, but having spent the last two hours roaming the dark, my eyes were fairly adjusted. I slipped through the hut, stepping over shadows nimbly. I knew where each soldier dropped his tunic and trous from my time on laundry duty. Not that it mattered; Dutton's snoring would have drowned out any noise I might have made.

I prodded Stew until he sat up and then moved to the doorway to wait outside. What would my mum think if she saw me sneaking through the dark of night, past a dozen soldiers in their undergarments, sometimes less? She'd be beside herself, that is, until she wondered if I was just compromised enough to get myself a husband. Did my parents hope I'd meet someone here so they wouldn't have to worry about what to do with me when I returned home? Winslow brushed through my mind, but I quickly banished the thought.

Swan was already waiting behind my shed when Stew and I arrived. "Did you bring the hoods?" he asked Stew.

Hoods were essential on Little Red. Mum and Lizzie preferred to wear the more fashionable bonnet to keep the sand out of their eyes. But nothing worked better than a hood. Made of a thick canvas, they fit around the head, hanging low over the face to lace around the neck. Stew tossed us each one by way of answer.

Tomorrow it would rain again, and soon the clouds would gather in preparation. But for now the only sign of an impending storm was the vicious wind. The air was restless, picking up sand and whipping it in waves. Camp was an oasis of sorts, staving off the worst of it. But out there the sand had teeth. Already it bit, sweeping across my exposed cheeks and hands to grind at the skin. I hurried to put on the hood, grateful they had thought ahead.

"Go get an extra jacket," Swan told me. "It'll get cold."

From their preparations it was obvious they had done this before. When I came back out, armed with another layer, Stew was asking, "Are the night-watch occupied?"

Swanson smiled, playfully malicious. "They shouldn't sleep in the buff. They'll be searching for their skivvies all night." He pointed toward the convene where something had been raised up the flagpole and was flapping in the wind. It was too far to make out, but I could guess.

Knowing it wasn't likely we'd be caught by the night-watch (as they were busy searching the dark for their underwear) we didn't have to worry about being quiet as we set off.

Swan pointed to a star above our heads. "That's called Fria. Follow it and it'll lead you straight to the dunes. And that," he said pivoting to point behind us, "is Caliente, which will lead you back to camp."

"No, that's Shaltoe and Hablla," I corrected. "The Shetheerie named them, and most of the other stars in our system."

Swan seemed impressed, but only said, "Yes, well, try telling that to Ram and Mar. They were the first ones to sneak off to the dunes, so they named their guide stars."

"So they used the navigation techniques they learned _at camp_ to help them sneak _out of camp_?" They had some gall. "And those names don't even make sense. Shaltoe is a blue star, which means it's hot. It should be named Caliente, not Fria. And vice versa since Hablla is red. They mislabeled them."

Swan seemed miffed by my observation, but admitted, "That's what we said."

Stew whistled and dropped his arm around my waist as we crunched our way across the sand and stone. "What a giant brain!" he said, pretending to examine my head. "You might be our kind of gal after all."

I sort of wished I'd never said anything.

The closer we got to the dunes, the noisier they became. The wind whistled over the peaks and valleys of sand, screaming and wailing an angry tune—it was eerie. I'd never heard anything like it. The wind seemed angrier here too. It showered off the side of the dunes in sheets, sweeping down on us. Swan and Stew found the assault as unpleasant as I, and we jogged the rest of the way. I jogged each morning at PT and sometimes did sprints, so I could have gone on longer, but we reached the dunes fairly quick.

At first they were small, just little hills of sand standing no higher than my head. But those were nothing to the dunes of our destination, just ripples in comparison. We stopped at the foot of the first towering mountain of sand. I asked, "How tall do you think that is?"

"I'd say it's as tall as the convene stacked up nine times, so 180 feet, give or take a few."

"Do we climb up?" I asked.

"Rot that! We'd be climbing all night," Stew answered.

"Come on," Swan said. "There's a way around. It'll lead us to Ram and Mar's stash."

We jogged along the base of the dune, and despite my earlier thoughts about being able to go further, my calves were burning. Running on sand was harder than running on a walkway.

We circled around until we came to a second dune, the valley between them opening up for us like a giant door. And when we stepped through the wind died down, blocked by the looming hills. After that it was a maze, Swan and Stew leading me down looping paths that snaked through the valleys.

"Looks like the party's already arrived," observed Swan, stopping abruptly. Light flickered off the next dune over, voices and laughter echoing out. "We'll go there after we dig up their stash," he added.

It wasn't far after that, though I had no idea where we were. A small part of me panicked, admitting that we had gone deep in the hills and I didn't know how to get back out. But then I remembered the stars, wondering if Swan had showed them to me for just this reason. So I wouldn't worry. Doubtful. Those two didn't have a sympathetic bone in their bodies.

"Here!" Stew crowed. There was nothing where he pointed but a swath of flat sand. They knelt, scooping out armfuls of sand by interlacing their fingers. I followed suit, feeling sweat gather on the back of my neck where the hood chafed. It was a matter of seconds before we hit something. Carefully we brushed off a bundled up piece of fabric.

"Have you looked at this stuff before?" I asked them as they began to unwrap it.

"Not since the first time we followed them here," Stew answered.

"They've buried more stuff since then," Swan said. He began to rummage through the pile. It was hard to see in the dark. I squinted down at Ram and Mar's treasure.

"Maybe my mirror is here," I said, unable to disguise the hope in my voice.

"Is this it?" Stew asked, holding something out to me.

I took it, feeling it in my hands before holding it up to catch the moonlight. It was flat and gilded like my mirror, also crusted in gemstones of some sort. The center was smooth and cool, but made of glass. I thought I could see a girl's smiling face. I handed it back, unable to hide my disappointment. "It's a picture of someone's girlfriend."

Stew took it eagerly, holding it up and shifting it back and forth. "Ugh," he said giving up, "I can't tell if she's pretty."

"It doesn't look like your mirror's here, Frost." Swan poked at a few things with his finger. "Just a few thick rings with insignias, some other family heirlooms, anything made from precious metal or stone, and a lot of IOU's."

"IOU's?"

He dropped a stack of papers into my lap. "A formal acknowledgement of someone's debt, signed and dated. Ram and Mar are ambitious."

"What do they use them for?"

"Right now? Nothing. But they intend to make it to the top, high-ranking military positions, so they'll be calling in these favors, and doing whatever else they have to, to get there." He put something else in my hand. "Is this the birdbane?"

I rubbed the thin waxy envelope between my fingers, recognizing it immediately. "Yes."

"Awesome!" Stew grabbed it from my hand. "I want to try some."

"What? You can't!" I said, trying to wrestle it back from him.

"Don't," he warned. "You're going to spill it." I instantly let go, backing off. "What does it matter anyway?"

I couldn't fault his logic. Bardzecki thought it was gone for good, and I didn't care what Ram and Mar thought since they'd stolen it. "Well, isn't it some sort of drug?" I hedged.

"Birdbane is a lot of things," Swan said. I saw him move and heard the crinkle of paper as Stew handed him the envelope. "They've been working with it on Earth and are continuing to find new uses. It has numerous medicinal properties, and yes, it can be a dangerous drug depending how you take it. But breaking down the leaves and ingesting them will only give you a bit of energy, a mild stimulant. No paranoia, delirium or vomiting, so don't worry."

"Are those the more serious side effects?" I asked as he shoved the envelope into my hands.

"Only if you smoke, snort or inject a more concentrated dose."

That did nothing to reassure me. "I think I'll pass."

"Fine," he said simply, taking the envelope from my hands.

"Are you sure?" Stew asked. "I feel it already, and I completely understand why Bardzecki is so hung up on it." He took the envelope from Swan and shoved it at me. "You probably won't get another chance, the Earthen representatives hoard the stuff."

I was sort of curious, but I didn't really trust them. "What's the catch?"

Swan snorted.

"Catch?" Stew asked.

"She thinks it's a trick," Swan explained. He was more adept with people, and didn't struggle to interact the way Stew sometimes did.

As if to prove my point, Stew fumbled in the dark until he found my hand, lifting it up and into his mouth.

" _Ack_!" I cried, trying to pull away.

He held on. "Shee you can pheel it in my mouph," he mumbled around my fingers. "It'ch not a twick."

"Fine! I'll try it, just let go!" I yelled. He released my wrist and I immediately began scrubbing my hand against my trousers, trying to wipe off his spit. "Gross," I muttered.

"Go on then," Stew urged. "You said you'd try it."

"Fine," I said, having reached the end of my rope. I licked my thumb like I'd seen Bardzecki do that first day in his office, then jabbed it into the envelope and stuffed it under my tongue.

"Uh... I can't see real well, but I think you might have overdone it," Swan said. They'd both gone quiet.

"What! _Pth_ , _Pthh_." I tried spitting it off my tongue. "You said _mild_ stimulant! Mild!"

"Calm down, it isn't going to kill you," Swan assured. "You'll just feel the effects a bit stronger is all."

Just then things began to spin, my head turning circles and lifting up, bobbing above my shoulders. I'd never felt like this before. It was amazing. I could do anything. But all I could manage to say was, "Wow."

Distantly I heard Swan and Stew laughing, but I didn't care. I didn't care if this was a trick. Just then I wouldn't have even cared if Bardzecki appeared, catching me at the dunes, his birdbane still fizzling away under my tongue.

Someone was pulling me up. An arm dropped over my shoulder, another slung around my waist, steering me along, guiding me. I shook my head trying to pay attention to what they were saying, but could only focus on bits and pieces.

"—acting weird."

"—too much."

"—alright?"

"—just the euphoria, it'll wear off."

But when Stew said, "Let's go to the party," I heard him quite clearly, and I agreed wholeheartedly.

A party sounded perfect.

# Chapter 21

Scraggy bushes grew along the valley, surviving off whatever water rolled down from the dunes. Some had long needle-like thorns, while others had burrs, pesky, pointed balls that caught our clothing and refused to let go. I was too relaxed to care, and made a minimal effort to avoid the vegetation. Swan and Stew were running the show and I just let them drag me along.

I could see the fire roaring from a distance, sparks shooting up into the sky. The dry scrub had been ripped up and the soldiers were feeding it to the fire. I counted fourteen. They seemed to be having a good time, laughing as they passed something between them. "What's that?" I asked as we moved closer.

"Moonshine," Stew answered.

"Where did they get it?"

"The first batch was left over from the previous year's soldiers. Ram has an older brother who told him about it, so he and Mar snuck out to dig it up at the beginning of camp."

"Now there's a rule though. If you drink it, you replace it. So the soldiers steal apple juice from the kitchens before they come, then seal the bottles and bury them for later," Stew told me.

"Come on," Swan said, "almost there. And then you can try it for yourself."

I had no intention of trying moonshine. The birdbane was enough. Swan had been right, the euphoria had dissipated during the walk over, but I still felt energized and clearheaded. Something inside of me was being suppressed though, because I'd never felt this sure of myself, this invincible. Like I could do anything.

Stew stopped suddenly just mere feet from the gathering. His arm around my waist, it was pulling me back. "Gridleigh's here," he whispered. They both let go of me then, not wanting to tip off our company that I was, well, me.

"Maybe we should go back to camp," I suggested, though I couldn't seem to muster up much concern. The birdbane made everything feel unreal, as if it was happening to someone else.

"It's too late. They've already seen us," Swan said. Then added, "Pull down your hood."

I complied, surreptitiously tugging the canvas down past my eyes.

"Good thing you made her bring an extra jacket or her chest might have given her away," Stew observed.

"Hey!"

" _Shh_ ," Swan said, shushing me as we walked up to the fire. "No more talking."

They were instantly hailed by a bevy of voices. One called out, "Well if it isn't the two troublemakers."

Another asking, "Who's under the hood? Who did you bring with you?"

Swan ignored the last question by saying, "You're only considered a troublemaker if you get caught."

The soldiers laughed at his quip, drunk and easily entertained. They all seemed eager to have a good time, welcoming Swan and Stew among them.

"You think you're so clever," Gridleigh called from across the fire, his belligerent voice breaking the merry mood. He was sprawled out lazily, nursing a ceramic jug to his chest as he glared up at us.

"I suppose that's a matter of opinion, and depends on my audience. I am, however, irrefutably intelligent, something which can be tested and measured," Swan answered.

I thought: _Oh jeez, here we go_... Swan couldn't let anything go, he just had to pick and pick.

Gridleigh sat forward as if on cue, spurred into action by Swan's sarcasm. "You like to talk a lot don't you? Got a real smart mouth. But we'll see how well your confidence holds up after trials. You think your group of misfits will stand a chance?" He laughed while the other soldiers shifted uneasily. "Let's see," Gridleigh continued, slurring as he ticked off a list with his fingers. "There's the fat one, the giant black one, the alien, the short guy, that bug-eyed, wormy one, oh, yeah, and your newest member, a girl!"

"You really hit the highlights there," Swan answered calmly, making a list of his own. "First you mentioned the best wrestler at camp, then the strongest soldier. Truthfully, I don't see how having a Shetheerie will hurt our chances. Or Lee for that matter—he's unbeatable at hand to hand combat. And while I agree, Pumphrey's face is unfortunate, it doesn't prevent him from being the best marksman. So all in all, I'm not too worried. But that's what infuriates you, isn't it?" he challenged. "You have your matched set of muscle-bound soldiers, and yet your fiercest competition is a bunch of 'mismatched freaks.' Isn't that what you're always calling us? Well I hate to break it to you, Gridleigh, but you're not _our_ competition."

The jug was thrust aside as Gridleigh lurched to his feet, face flushed and eyes glassy. Demanding, "You don't think so?" while stalking forward.

Great. Swanson had managed to turn a party into a fight. And he and Stew just stood there, wearing faint smiles while waiting for the chaos to ensue. They spoke a language unto themselves, for which I would never understand.

Gridleigh bent down as he launched himself at Swan, catching him in the gut with his shoulder and bowling them both over. Sand flew everywhere as they rolled back and forth, grunting and grappling.

I backed away, trying to escape the melee as soldiers rushed forward, shouldering one another to get a good view. Swan and Stew were swallowed up amongst them for a few minutes until a soldier was thrown out, parting the crowd like a scythe. I scrambled to get out of the way but he flew right into me, taking me to the ground in a heap of mingled limbs.

Swan appeared, standing in the place where he'd just tossed Gridleigh from, knuckles dripping blood. I think he meant to help me, but just then a voice rang out above the din.

"Swanson!" Winslow bellowed.

Swan jerked around. He wore the closest expression to nervous I'd ever seen on his face. I was instantly forgotten as he slunk off to face our first.

That was when I realized I was still in a jumble with Gridleigh, and what was worse, my hood had come off. He was staring at me, mouth twisted, chin set. It was dark, the fire had died down a bit, and the soldiers were blocking it from sight. I hoped that the shadows would hide me as I scooted away, jerking the canvas back into place as I went. But it was too late.

"You," he hissed, grabbing for me.

I scrabbled up the sandy incline, but he hauled me down, dragging me further from the others.

"Don't," I said breathlessly. "What can you possibly hope to accomplish?"

"You chose him. She always chooses him," he muttered, and I wasn't sure he was talking to me. But then he said more forcefully, "But I can change your mind."

I had no idea what he meant, and I didn't care to find out. I could smell the fermented juice on his breath, rancid and sour, impressing the fact that he was more unpredictable than usual. I wasn't sure what he'd do. But I knew what to do. I sucked in a breath and then screamed. The sound was so loud, so piercing, I surprised even myself. I didn't scream for help. I didn't even scream for Winslow, Swan or Stew. I didn't have to. There was only one girl at camp, and everyone knew it was me.

Gridleigh, who'd been petting my loose hair, shoved me away. "Bitch," he hissed.

"What are you doing?" Winslow questioned, coming to stand behind me.

"Well, well," Gridleigh said, swaying as he pushed himself upright, "if it isn't First Winslow. I thought you were too good for the dunes," he sneered.

"No," Winslow countered, "I like the dunes just fine. But I like setting a good example for my format more."

"Yes, always hurrying to do the right thing, aren't you, _cousin_?" He spit the word cousin like it was dirty.

"I don't enjoy harassing young women if that's what you mean," he admitted, pulling me to my feet. "This is becoming something of a habit for you, isn't it Gridleigh?"

Gridleigh didn't say anything for a moment, affecting calm disinterest as he brushed the sand from his trousers. But then he glared, "We'll see," he said, "we'll see."

I watched him walk past, heading for the fire as he rejoined the crowd. And then I glanced at Winslow, finding thunder in his eyes. For the first time that night I was actually scared.

* * *

The wind was capricious as we walked back to camp, calm one moment, frenzied the next. The clouds were gathering in preparation for the coming storm, and I could relate. Winslow didn't say a word until we were almost back at camp, my shed in sight. "Go back to the hut," he instructed Swan and Stew. "I'll deal with you tomorrow."

They obeyed, slinking off without even a glance in my direction. So much for solidarity.

Winslow followed me inside the shed, leaving the door open so the light would stream in. "Tell me what happened," he ordered. "All of it."

I didn't hesitate. I told him everything.

"I'm surprised you tried the birdbane," he said when I had finished.

"I'll never see the dunes again when I leave this place, and if I happen to come across a sprig of birdbane growing up from the ground, I'd never know it. They don't tell us what it looks like. Things in the farming sector are sheltered," I sighed. "Dunes. Birdbane. These are new things for me, things I don't want to take for granted. I just wanted to... to try something, experience something, _anything_ , while I still had the chance." I couldn't seem to stop talking, admitting the thoughts I never dreamed I'd speak of. It was the birdbane. My inhibitions were gone, the words free to spill over.

Winslow moved across the shed, his boots, _thunk_ _thunk_ ing as he came closer. I was sitting on my bed, and he didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of me, my knees brushing his shins. Leaning down, he placed something into my open palm. I touched it lightly, hardly believing it was real.

My mirror.

"I asked Bardzecki for it on your last day in the hole. He gave it to me this evening."

"Oh."

"Frost, you really need to start confiding in me. I can save you from a lot of trouble, but only if you trust me."

"I _do_ trust you."

"Then why didn't you tell me about going to the dunes?"

"You're intimidating," I admitted.

"Not much I can do about that," he sighed, sitting down beside me.

"There is." He gave me his full attention then, waiting. "Tell me something, something personal," I urged.

"That won't change anything. I'm close with our mates, but I manage to intimidate them just fine. I can do both."

"I want to know anyway," I pressed. "Why didn't you tell me Gridleigh was your cousin?"

"It's not a secret, everyone knows. And I'm not ashamed of the fact. I'm not even ashamed of him, though he should probably be ashamed of himself, it's just..."

I was afraid he'd stop talking, so I hurried to needle him. "When he was trying to pull me away, he said 'she always chooses him,' and then later you said he made a habit of harassing young women. Who were you talking about?" Mave had already told me about Samona, but I wanted to hear if from Winslow.

"There's a girl..." he trailed off. "You know," he said, huffing out a breath, "it doesn't even matter. Gridleigh will never be satisfied. Something was taken from him at an early age, and instead of accepting that bad things happen for no good reason, he just keeps... waiting, thinking that he deserves more than everyone else to make up for it."

"Trials, you mean? He thinks he deserves to win?"

Winslow nodded.

"Are you afraid of losing?" I asked.

"No," he said sincerely. "I'll be satisfied if everyone does their best. Living up to our own potential is much harder than winning."

"I'm going to make you lose," I whispered. I knew he was serious, that he only wanted his format to do their best, but I also knew that before I'd arrived, they'd had a serious shot at winning. Everyone at camp said so.

"Hey," he said on a breath, almost inaudibly. Gently, he pulled my hood back, his hand engulfing my neck, turning me so I'd look at him. Freed, my hair spilled down my back, framing my face. He touched it with his other hand, sliding his fingers over a strand.

I was intensely attracted to him, liking his face, his shape, his voice, and even his attitude. Especially his attitude. I admired his strength, his ideals. It felt natural to lean forward, resting against him, my face grazing his shoulder. He pressed closer too; our bodies cinched together. I waited, knowing he was going to kiss me, feeling his face nuzzle closer, moving my hair aside.

Laughter rang out, boisterous and grating. I knew instantly that the other soldiers were making their way back from the dunes; they'd have to pass my shed to reach their huts. Winslow knew it too, because he pulled away, jerking back as if burned.

"I'm your first," he said. "You will respect that, and so will I." He left without another word, the flimsy door clattering shut behind him, leaving me alone in the dark.

Well I _had_ said that I admired his ideals, and apparently they didn't include me.

# Chapter 22

I wish I could cease to be. I wish I could undo time. I wish I could forget...

I woke up this morning, rising early to shower and dress before the others, and then it all came back to me. The birdbane—that insidious plant which gave me the power to speak my mind while snuffing out the warning apprehension of when to shut up.

Winslow. He gave me my mirror back, even after all the trouble I caused trying to get it for myself. He just handed it to me. But it's what happened after that, the talking, the touching. Those are the moments I want to erase and forget. I'm embarrassed by the way I acted. And if I had to choose one moment in particular that made me wish to be swallowed up by the sand, it was the moment when Winslow regained his senses and walked out. I thought I was numb to rejection... I guess not.

How was I going to face him? I knew how—we were both going to pretend it never happened. That felt more real than the truth anyway.

And that wasn't my only problem. Gridleigh had been at the dunes! How could I have been so dismissive of that fact? I'd hardly given it a second thought, even when he was dragging me off to... to what? I don't want to think about that. I can't think about that. I have to be more careful.

Today will be difficult. I'm just going to stop thinking about Winslow, put him from my mind. And steer clear of Gridleigh, mustn't forget that.

* * *

I caught Swan and Stew just before they went into the hut, grabbing their tunics and dragging them around the corner. "You didn't tell them yet, did you?" I asked.

Swan brushed my hand away. "No, we're going to let you do the honors."

"Yeah, better you than us," Stew added. "Ram and Mar are going to go berserk. Those two are hotheads."

I threw a quick glance around the corner to make sure that the conversation remained private before asking, "Where is it anyway?"

"That was always irrelevant," Swan said, preoccupied with straightening his vest. "They just have to _believe_ you have it."

"In other words—you stole it. Was that the plan all along? Steal the birdbane for yourselves?" I said, somewhat annoyed but not at all surprised.

"Nope, just a perk," Stew said, smirking. His upturned smile pulled his long nose off-center.

"You'll bluff about the birdbane and they'll get you the mirror. It'll all work out," Swan assured me.

"Actually, that's why I wanted to talk to you," I said, sparing another glance around the corner. "I have my mirror."

"What?" Stew sputtered.

"I got it last night," I explained. "Bardzecki gave it to Winslow, allowing him to return it to me."

"Jeez," Stew said. "Winslow heaped on the chores as punishment for dragging you out last night, and all you got was your mirror back? Did he even scold you?"

I couldn't help it, thinking of last night made me blush. I jerked my head down, trying to hide it by staring at my boots, but it was too late. They were smart, and I saw Swan send Stew a knowing look before I managed to avert my eyes.

Stew got the hint, dragging out the word, "Weellll," as he gave me an appraising look. "I guess Swan was right—things _did_ work out. In fact, I think you got the best end of the deal."

"But what about when Mar and Ram realize the birdbane is missing?" I asked. That was the real reason I'd dragged them off to have this conversation.

"No point in worrying about that now, is there? We'll deal with it when it happens," Swan answered calmly. Too calmly. We all knew Mar and Ram would not be pleased to find their precious treasure had been molested. But he was right. There was nothing I could do about it now.

"Come on," Stew said, "or we'll be the last ones to arrive. And something tells me Winslow won't be pleased to see you in our company after last night. Or anyone else's company for that matter," he added, jabbing me in the ribs with his elbow.

_Hostile take it!_ I thought as I followed them around the corner and into their hut. They'd never forget my blushing, and had probably drawn all the wrong conclusions from it. Winslow wasn't soft on me. And as if to prove it, he ignored me completely as I trailed in, the last to arrive. He'd reverted to treating me in his former manner since breakfast, with cool disinterest and vague tolerance.

"Alright," he called. "This won't take long. I'm just going to hand out your quarterly marks and then you can go about your usual free time business."

Winslow began to pass out the half-sheets of paper, quickly flipping mine into my lap before moving on. No special treatment there. I had just started to unfold it when Mar (whose bottom bunk I was currently sitting on) crumpled his paper in a tight fist, cursing.

I wasn't the only one to notice his reaction. Immediately Ram drew closer. "What is it?"

Martinez spit out in an angry voice, "I got a minus in weapons." Ram's gaze dropped to the fisted paper and he grabbed for it, but Mar pushed him back roughly. "I already told you what I got!"

"What reason did Bardzecki give?" Ram demanded.

"Lack of motivation," Mar ground out.

I had always assumed that Ram was the sensible one, but I watched in trepidation as he launched himself at Martinez, shouting, "You lazy ass!"

The two began to brawl within the small confines of the hut, smashing into bunk frames and adobe walls, grunting and cursing. In the back of my mind I'd been waiting for them to get angry, and although their upset had nothing to do with me, I couldn't help but respond as if it did, jerking upright and pressing myself out of the way. Surprisingly my format did the same, flattening themselves against the walls to give Ram and Mar the space they needed to wale on each other. I glanced around wildly, wondering why my mates looked on with mild interest instead of interfering. The night before, when Gridleigh and Swan had fought, it hadn't seemed real, the birdbane insulating the reality of it. But this was real. This was right in front of me, the meaty sounds of pounded flesh filling my ears. Sure, Gridleigh had singled me out, frightening me on more than one occasion, but those scenarios had ended quickly, broken up before they had even started. This fight just continued, past the blood and sweat, my entire format content to watch. I couldn't take it.

Seeing a small space open between them, I jumped to fill it, yelling, "Stop it! Stop!" It was a mistake. Ram had been throwing a low punch that he didn't have time to pull. His fist landed, thrust solid into my gut. At the same time, Mar had launched himself forward, intending to plow Ram off balance. He collided with me instead, sending me clear across the hut where I crashed into the corner of a bunk, crumpling to a heap on the floor.

The hut erupted. My mates, who'd stood prone, watching the fight with little interest, swarmed to lift me gingerly from the floor. Ram and Mar had ceased fighting, staring down at me in dismay. I didn't see much after that. They all winked out.

* * *

I came to slowly. It felt like waking from a deep sleep. With the growing awareness came a severe ache in my stomach and back. I couldn't help but groan, curling into a ball as I rolled onto my side. Firm hands pushed me flat again.

Winslow's deep and emotionless voice filled my ears. "Frost, how do you feel?"

"I'll be fine," I rasped, hoping it was true.

"I told you fights were common at camp," Winslow continued. "What on Little Red were you thinking, jumping between Martinez and Ramirez like that?"

Stew answered for me. "She couldn't help it, women hate violence. My sister never tried to interfere though, just cried."

"Well she _was_ successful at ending the fight," Pumphrey snarked, his nearby voice making me crack an eye. His face was hovering far too close. With a clumsy hand, I tried to swat him away.

Roth laughed. It was a comforting sound.

"She's been in two fights already," Stew observed. "That's impressive considering she hasn't been a camp very long. I haven't even been in a fight yet."

"That's no coincidence," Jackson explained. "There are plenty of people who'd like to hit you, trust me. They're just too afraid of your revenge to do it."

"Frost, do you want to go to the doctor?" Winslow asked. "We can take you there if you don't feel up to walking."

I imagined them carrying me through camp to the infirmary, all the staring soldiers. "No!" I said hastily. "Just let me rest for a bit before I go lift weights with Roth."

Someone snorted.

"You won't be lifting weights today," replied Winslow. "Or doing anything else for that matter."

"What about Ram and Mar?" I asked. "What happened to them?"

"I sent them out, along with Edwards. The three of them were only making the situation more hectic," answered Winslow.

"No, I mean, what were they fighting about?"

"They have grand ambitions," Swan answered. "If all goes according to plan they'll be commanders one day. But that'll only happen if they get accepted to Hamilton, one of the better training camps, which will only happen if they get decent marks. So what you witnessed was Ram expressing his disappointment. Mar's marks will lower their chances."

"Are they in the infirmary now?" I asked.

Another snort.

"Fighting for them is therapeutic," Jackson said. "Lets 'em blow off steam. It's so common we hardly notice anymore. If they went to the infirmary after every fight, they'd never have time for class."

"We found your marks still folded on the floor," Roth rumbled from nearby. "Want me to tell you what it says?"

I had forgotten about that, and shrugged with indifference.

I heard the crinkle of unfolding paper followed by Roth's rich, thick voice. "You got a plus in every subject, Frost, good job. Even Bardzecki gave you a better than neutral score."

"She scored as well as Swan and Stew," Dutton grunted, a little surprised.

"I suppose that means she'll be able to help Pumphrey with his minus in Shetheerie when she's feeling better," Swan needled.

"Rot that!" Pumphrey replied, but it lacked its usual heat.

Fitallion wove his way between the clustered soldiers, carefully handing me a glass. "Drink this," he said. "You'll feel better."

My eyes were falling shut before I'd taken more than a sip, the pain slipping away. The last thing I saw was my format's blurring faces, and the first upon waking was an unfamiliar bed. They had taken me to the infirmary after all. I didn't want to think about how they'd gotten me there, or who had carried me, but I hoped it had been Winslow.

# Chapter 23

The infirmary wasn't empty like on my first day at camp. The cot across from me was occupied by a soldier who had hurt himself while playing fracas. Dr. Pruitt was in the process of checking to see if he had a broken collarbone. My injuries were not so serious.

I had a wicked bruise that spanned the front of my waist and a welt just beneath my shoulder blade to match, but surprisingly they hurt not at all. I was of the opinion that whatever concoction Fitallion had given me, it was meant for the horses. It'd knocked me out all night and left me feeling numb all morning.

I woke up at dawn, Dr. Pruitt telling me to stay put and rest up, but it was now late afternoon and I was growing restless. My format had been in to see me, dropping by between classes. Ram and Mar had apologized. Of course they had waited until I was alone, not wanting to condescend with an audience. Frankly, I thought it was peculiar. For once, Mar had said very little, while Ram, who usually seemed somewhat omnipotent with that little book of his, had been off his game, delivering a halting series of 'I'm sorrys' mixed in with an equal number of chiding remarks about how I ought not to have interfered. That was the general theme among my format's visits, each of them separately finding a way to say the same thing—I should never have put myself between Ram and Mar. _As if I hadn't learned my lesson_. Edwards made a fuss, attempting to take my hand while he stood at my bedside. It was embarrassing, but luckily Roth intervened, pushing him aside before tipping a few textbooks onto my lap.

Their attitude seemed to have changed over night. I knew my format's resentment had been waning, but this was different. Suddenly they were solicitous about my health, clustered around the cot as if it was my deathbed. Lee spoke, quietly telling me that he hoped I'd be feeling better soon. Lee never spoke. And for once Pumphrey _didn't_ speak. No scathing comments on my unwashed hair or anything of the like. Dutton had saved me a biscuit from breakfast, though he gripped it like he was starving, and I eventually told him to eat it himself because I wasn't hungry. They were all out of sorts. Perhaps they felt guilty, I wasn't sure. But the books and visits hardly occupied my mind, and being stuck in bed was growing more intolerable by the minute.

I waited until Dr. Pruitt was done delivering the bad news: the soldier across from me did, indeed, have a broken collarbone. After he'd pulled the curtain closed, allowing the soldier to sulk in private, I called to him. "Dr. Pruitt, can I go yet?"

"I'm sorry, Fiona, but you'll need Instructor Bardzecki's permission," he answered, the only other person apart from Doug to call me by my first name.

"Why?" I wondered, taken aback.

"Well, when they brought you in I asked if you'd recently received any other injuries, and apparently you've had quite a few since coming to camp."

"Not really," I said, shaking my head.

"So you weren't momentarily knocked unconscious by a Kodiak's recoil as Winslow indicated?"

"Well, yeah," I shrugged.

"And were you knocked over by a soldier at the dunes like Swanson and Steward said?"

I nodded, hardly believing they had told.

"Mave also mentioned a rumor. She said you'd been in a fight during breakfast," he added. _As if he hadn't already made his point_.

"Mave was here?"

"Yes. She and two other ladies brought your breakfast, but you slept through. You've had a great many visitors, even a few soldiers who aren't from your format came by looking very concerned. I suspected they were merely curious, so I sent them on their way," he added good-naturedly. "But the visitor you'll want to see is Instructor Bardzecki. He'll have to consent to your leaving."

"But, why?"

"Your format explained how you came by these injuries, and I know it was an accident, but even so, taking the other 'accidents' into account, I had to report it," he explained.

"Am I in trouble?"

Dr. Pruitt shook his head immediately. "I shouldn't think so. It's clear you didn't instigate any of those situations."

"Being female doesn't make me any less aggressive," I said in annoyance. I had had it with being treated like a fragile doll. "My mum is very fond of throwing things when she is cross."

He smiled, but it wasn't condescending. "I only meant, that by all accounts, you aren't a troublemaker."

"Oh," I mumbled. "Will you tell Instructor Bardzecki that I went to the dunes?" That would get me in trouble, and I'd only just managed to shed some of my chores. Ram and Mar had taken on a load, both for the birdbane incident and this most recent brouhaha. And then there was Swan and Stew, their additional chores came from taking me out of camp.

"Unless the particulars come into conversation, I see no point in mentioning it," he replied. I relaxed a bit. "But, Fiona, try to remember that we are constantly wrangling the Triangle Patch into submission. This planet doesn't love us. The sand can be more ornery than any soldier here at camp, so I suggest you stay away from the dunes." I wouldn't go again, if for no other reason than his kind suggestion. "Now, try not to go mad while you wait for Instructor Bardzecki. Though I feel sure you'll be sleeping in your own bed tonight."

Instructor Bardzecki strode up a few minutes later, jerking the curtain aside and staring down at me with his deep-set eyes. For the first time I noticed the small cleft in his chin. It was just like Winslow's, and Gridleigh's for that matter (his only redeeming feature).

"Are you alright?" he asked, though it sounded more like an accusation.

"Yes, Instructor Bardzecki. I'd like to leave the infirmary."

"I hear there have been some altercations. Do you have any complaints?"

"No, Instructor Bardzecki." Complain about his beloved nephew? I think not. I wouldn't have said anything that risked extending the conversation anyway.

"Fine," he said. "You can go."

I didn't need to be told twice.

* * *

I was forced to sit out of PT and combat training for three days, doctor's orders. It was ridiculous. I was sore, that was all, no serious damage to keep me out of action. I suspected Bardzecki and Winslow were behind the order, though I couldn't say why I thought so, just a hunch. I would have been grateful for the break in physical exercise when I'd first arrived at camp, would have regarded it as a blessing, but now I was chafing at the bit. I had been growing stronger, getting tougher, and the sudden setback in my training only frustrated me because I knew, now more than ever, I had to prepare for trials. I was terrified of being the weak link. I'd been concerned when my format was less than fond of me, but now that they were all so polite and friendly, the idea of letting them down filled me with panic.

The only activity I was permitted, aside from studying, was target practice at the range, though on Winslow's express condition that I go nowhere near the Kodiak. Swan and Stew had laughed at that, but I knew he wasn't joking. So that was how I spent my free time, target practice at the range with Fitallion as my tutor.

I waited for him in the northwest corner of camp. The range faced outward. The targets were placed at varying distances in front of piles of rock and sand meant to stop the bullets. I was surprised how busy it was, nearly every station occupied, soldiers standing over hip-high tables with protective gear cupping their eyes and ears. Not seeing Fitallion among them, I paced the pathway, waiting for him to arrive.

Fitallion was by far the most fascinating soldier at camp, though perversely it was Winslow that often occupied my mind. But even so, Fitallion's mere presence demanded notice and attention. He towered over his fellow soldiers, a graceful tree. His body was similarly shaped, and yet subtly different, with arms, legs, and torso tapering more severely than a human's flowing curves. His skin was undoubtedly strange. The faint bluish hue seemed to glow from beneath his pale skin, just a hint of delicate discoloration along his oddly narrow neck and wrists. While a few of his features seemed somewhat feminine, like his eyes which were overlarge and saucer-shaped, he was entirely masculine. His sharp, narrow nose ended with defined, slightly flaring nostrils which gave him an intensity that a light expression could not broker. His lips, like his eyebrows, were made of flat, horizontal lines, adding to his hard mien. Seeming much older than the typical eighteen years of my fellow soldiers, the deep lines that were etched around his mouth made him appear mature, as did his attitude. His hair was a wavy mass of rich, yet faint ginger-brown and when the sun reflected off his head, it turned his hair bone white. He was the only soldier, apart from myself, who was permitted to let it grow long, though he kept it tied back at the nape of his neck with a leather thong.

His cat came first, the harbinger of his arrival. The creature had more moods than my mother; I was as likely to incite a scratch as a purr with my petting. It sat down directly in front of me, sparing a bored look before twitching its tail in a somewhat intimidating manner. Thankfully, Fitallion arrived moments later. I followed him to the armory where he signed out an array of small handguns and the ammunition for each.

We were halfway through free time, and I was feeling more confident having handled a few guns, when Fitallion finally spoke about something off topic. His voice was oddly hollow, accent careful and lilting as the words dripped from his tongue. "Are you angry?" he asked.

"What?" My outstretched hands dipped as I turned to look at him.

"I did not remain in your vicinity as of late, and I would like to know if you are angry. Perhaps if I had continued to linger, you would not have been harmed." He gently tapped my wrists up, forcing me to look straight ahead where I was aiming a Boom 230 at the target.

Of course I had noticed his withdraw, how for the past few weeks he'd ceased fighting Edwards to sit beside me, no longer a constant in my periphery. I had noticed and I had done my best not to think about it, but I'd been curious and maybe a little hurt. "Looking after me was never your responsibility," I said at last.

"But it was my responsibility," he contradicted after I'd finished the round. "It was the entire format's responsibility, and seeing you get hurt has made it plain what a failure they have been at it."

"They don't owe me anything and neither do you, so if you don't want the chore of coddling me any longer, I understand."

He switched to Shetheerie, the echo in his voice becoming more pronounced. "It was never a chore, Frost. I have enjoyed your company."

My next shot went wide, not even touching the target. Embarrassed, I gently set down the firearm before responding. I switched to his native tongue as well. "Then why did you stop?"

"I wanted our mates to know you, and I thought if I stepped aside, perhaps another would take my place."

"That backfired," I noted dryly, thinking of how Mar and Ram had taken advantage.

"Yes," he agreed. "Humans are unpredictable."

I was a little startled by that, my head jerking 'round to look at him. I had, on some level, forgotten that he was alien.

He was staring up at the sky, his face blank as a sheet. Without turning he said, "The clouds do not move so quickly on Shether, and the sky is blue."

Above us the clouds were making haste across the sky, boiling with unrest as if pushed by invisible hands. It would be days until another storm was scheduled, so they were being drawn off, away from camp, to dissipate over the hot sands. "My parents say it's the same on Earth."

"Earthens who visit Shether for the first time often remark that we live in the clouds."

"Why do they think that?" I replied. Wondering, "What is it like on Shether?"

"Nothing there is flat. The entire surface is scarred with high peaks and plunging valleys."

"Like the mountains on Earth?"

"The highest mountain on Earth would be considered a mere foothill on Shether. We prefer high altitudes, seeking thin air, so our homes and cities are built on the tallest cliffs, taller than you can imagine."

"Tell me more," I pressed, completely fascinated.

"Shether is made up of many small tectonic plates, and their constant shifting means the mountains are either receding or advancing. So our foundations are constantly under stress, sometimes crumbling, forcing us to continually rebuild. Everything is always changing on Shether, and everything is beautiful and new. And mysterious," he added. "The clouds shroud everything in mist, delivering a damp kiss."

"You miss it," I said, noting the way he watched the sky as he talked, as if he could find his home by looking hard enough.

"Of course," he agreed, finally glancing down at me. "The atmosphere here does not agree with me. But visiting the desert planet was an opportunity I didn't want to pass up."

"Why are you here? On Little Red, I mean. I've been curious since the first time I saw you," I admitted, busying my hands with reloading so I didn't have to look at him.

"Then why did you never ask?"

"I didn't want to appear meddlesome."

"Or maybe interested," he countered.

"That's why I didn't ask the others."

He nearly smiled. "I am the first phase of an exchange program our planets are creating, details are still pending. After I have completed my year of service, I will give a report, and they will make adjustments based on my experience."

"Is there a human soldier serving in the Shether military then?"

"Yes," he nodded. "But I have never met him."

"You seem older than everyone here. Did you serve in your military before volunteering for the exchange program?"

For just an instant he seemed startled, but when I looked more closely his face was the same. A moment passed, and when it became apparent he wouldn't answer, I spoke to smooth things over. "I'm sorry, _I am_ being meddlesome."

He was unperturbed throughout the remainder of my lesson, and I wanted to forget that there had ever been that awkward moment. But I couldn't help recalling the strange reaction he'd had over a seemingly innocent question. Was it my inquiry over his age, or his previous experience in the Shether military that had surprised him? And more importantly, why had he refused to answer?

# Chapter 24

I have been beyond busy these last few months. Fitallion still tutors me in weapons, though I have long since caught up to the soldiers at camp, and soon he says Pumphrey will have to take over because I'm ready for sharp shooting. Lee has been working with me four days a week on my hand to hand combat skills, though mostly it's defensive, delving into how to break a hold. I even spent my free time with Dutton once, watching him give pointers at the wrestling rings. I had intended to give it a try, but after seeing the soldiers do it, I refused. Dutton didn't care. He was having a hard time trying to find me a suitable partner. Edwards had offered, and since he was one of the smaller mates on my format, it was a logical choice. Winslow forbid it though, and even seemed slightly relieved when I said I didn't want to participate. Too much touching, my mum would have gone into hysterics.

So my free time is always full, my entire format contributing in one way or another to make me a better soldier. And though I suspect Lee is going easy on me, I'm often covered in bruises anyway. It's like that first week of camp all over again. But I don't mind, in fact, I'm sort of... happy. I mean, I fit in here about as well as I fit in at home—so not at all. But the thing is, here I have room to grow, some way to stimulate my mind. There are books and classes, and help in subjects I'd never thought to learn. And most importantly, a goal: trials. But as my mates prepare for the future, planning their careers, I can't help but wonder what I will do, haunted by the question: Why am I here?

* * *

The moment Instructor Shubert called time, I collapsed to the ground, a heap of rubbery muscles. I allowed myself a few moments of rest. The rise and fall of my chest was my body's only motion as I sucked in air. PT was brutal as ever, but I was keeping up. My arms and legs (which'd always been lean) had grown solid and firm. My stomach was still flat, but it too had turned hard, along with my back, which currently ached, the result of doing deadlifts. Slowly I peeled myself up off the ground, lumbering to the sidelines where the rest of my format currently toddled about, gathering stripped-off tunics and gulping from their waterskins.

I had just taken the first sip of my own waterskin, letting it _glug glug glug_ into my mouth when someone stepped up beside me from behind.

"About the birdbane," Mar said, slapping me on the back.

I spewed water out, more from his statement than anything.

"Yes, we know you took it," he said, noticing my rigid posture. He'd left his hand on my shoulder after his initial greeting, and he pulled me closer now, tucking me under his arm so that he could lean down and speak quietly into my ear. "We also know that you don't have it. Swan and Stew are in possession, so we'll likely never see it again. But therein lies the problem—we need it."

"Nobody _needs_ birdbane," I said, trying to shrug out of his grip, but he held fast. "And whatever you're up to, count me out."

"You see," Mar continued, as if I hadn't said a word, "Ram had it all figured out. The birdbane was meant to be incentive for a soldier named Packer. He has a soft spot for two things, one of them being birdbane. You don't by any chance know who Packer's father is, do you?" He didn't wait for me to respond, plowing on unperturbed. "His father is Robert Packer, the man in charge of admissions at Hamilton. And Ram and I _have_ to go to Hamilton. Anyone who is anyone in military politics did their specialty training there. But since the birdbane is now gone, we have no way to get Packer to write home to his dear old dad, saying he wants his two good friends, Ram and Mar, to go to Hamilton with him. And now that I've got my less than stellar marks from Bardzecki, I need a recommendation more than ever. Lucky for us," he said, speaking as though I cared, "Packer has _two_ soft spots, the other being fracas."

" _No_ ," I said, thoroughly appalled. "No way."

I tried to squirm away, but I was weak from PT and he easily kept me pinned to his side. "This isn't another trick," he said, trying to sound conciliatory. "We're just concerned about our future and we want your help. Have we done anything to earn your reproach these last few months?"

He had a point. Ever since the fight that had sent me to the infirmary, they had been... nice. But I was no fool, and could promise only so much accommodation. "You can finish your pitch, but I'm telling you now, whatever it is, I won't do it."

"Now," he said, smiling as he shook my shoulders with enthusiasm, "down to business. You wouldn't be in harms way, though I know you might find that hard to believe considering we want you to play one game of fracas—"

"Martinez," Winslow barked, cutting him off. "Release Frost," he ordered while rounding on us.

Winslow had been a bear the last few months. After my spell at the infirmary he had been very protective, so much so in fact, that I began to imagine it as tender consideration... until it got annoying. He disliked me mixing with other formats. None of my mates liked it for that matter, but only Winslow frightened the soldiers away, growling and glaring until the entire convene knew better than to approach me. After that he started in on my mates, growing intolerant of Swan and Stew's open affection. He had even taken to watching Roth, who'd been thumping me on the back from day one. The worst, by far, was when he announced one day during lunch that Edwards was forbidden from entering my shed unaccompanied. Poor Edwards had grown bright red. Even I had flushed at the implication, but it was anger that I felt as the whole table snickered, not mortification. Towards me, Winslow remained cold and withdrawn, but it was his habit of acting like a father and not a first that I couldn't stand.

"Frost is not participating in fracas," he said.

"Excuse me?" I'd had enough. I was putting my foot down.

"You aren't playing fracas," he repeated. "It's too dangerous."

"Aren't you supposed to treat me like every other soldier at camp?" I asked. Continuing, "They play, even if it _is_ dangerous."

Martinez, knowing an opportunity when he saw it, spoke up. "So you'll do it?"

I stared up at Winslow as he glared back at me. "Sure," I said.

* * *

Ram and Mar planned another neat little trap, only this time I wouldn't be the victim. Or so I hoped. They had happened upon Packer and his mates (not the coincidence it'd seemed) a few days before the big fracas game. I didn't follow the sport, but even I knew that the forty-seventh and eighteenth formats were going toe to toe. They'd been duking it out all year on the field, smashing each other to pieces, and they were ready for another match.

Mar had casually said that the forty-seventh was sure to win, knowing full well that Packer favored the eighteenth. As planned, Packer argued in that format's favor. Mar didn't disagree outright after that, preferring to stir the gathered soldiers into a debate with a few provocative remarks. The whole lot of them were going at it when Ram spoke up. Until then he had been silent, and that, coupled with the little book he carried, gave his words weight. Everyone hushed to hear as he said, "Mar's right. It'll be the forty-seventh, they'd win even with a handicap."

"The eighteenth doesn't need the help of a handicap," someone protested.

"That would be an interesting match though," another soldier remarked. "Imagine if the forty-seventh won. Everyone would have to admit that they were the superior format at fracas after that."

"The eighteenth doesn't need a handicap!"

"But what handicap?" They began to conjecture, ignoring the soldier who persisted in the eighteenth's favor.

Just then I casually walked through the huts, passing them on my way to the latrine. My seemingly spontaneous presence was as tailored as the entire conversation had been, plotted out and planned for just this moment.

"The girl!" someone called out, pointing in my direction.

And that was it. Ram and Mar had just succeeded with half their plan.

The fracas match took place on our one free day of the week. It was bone-dry and hot out, the sun beating down, creating an oily sheen that shimmered over the distant sands. The fracas field was shockingly green by comparison, the grass nicely trimmed and springy. Around it soldiers gathered, assembling just behind the sidelines, anticipation written all over their faces.

"Your team is this color," Mar said, wrapping a blue sash around my waist and tying it off at the hip. "So remember what we told you, the red ditch is where you'll go."

"Don't make it obvious," Ram stressed. "Act as though you're just nervous, hiding as far from the action as the field will allow."

They'd told me the plan and then rehashed it a thousand times over; it was the game itself that I was unsure of. "So you can win points by getting the ball into your opponents' ditch," I clarified.

"Or tackling the other team as they move the ball to your team's ditch," Mar added. He was a bit preoccupied trying to fit me into the oversized shoulder pads. "Take off your vest for a second," he said. "It'll be easier."

"Do I really need this?" I asked, shrugging my vest down. "I'm not tackling anyone."

He laid the padding over my tunic where it rested on my shoulders, stretching thinly across the back of my neck. "You can't play unless you wear all the protective gear," Mar replied. He strapped it to me by the fluttering strings, tying them tight under my armpits.

"I know there are two ways to move the ball," I continued. "It can either be kicked or carried."

"If it's carried, tackle from the waist up. If kicked, the waist down. If you do it wrong, you don't get points and the team moving the ball switches," Ram said as they finished cinching me in.

Mar was waiting impatiently for me to shut up. "You don't need to worry about all that. You know what to do, it's simple enough. Now open," he said, gesturing to my mouth.

"Is that clean?" I asked skeptically, staring at the mouthguard.

"Sure," he said, wiping it off on his pant leg for good measure before shoving it over my teeth. "How does it feel?"

I couldn't talk around it, so I gave a halfhearted shrug which seemed to pacify him.

"Do you remember what Fisher looks like?" Ram asked for maybe the hundredth time. I searched the crowd, easily finding the soldier they had indicated in its midst. He was now wearing a blue sash like mine.

I pointed to him, and Mar rushed to cover the gesture, hoping no one had seen. "We don't want this to look planned, Frost, so don't stare at him the whole time, alright?"

Fisher loved gambling as much as he loved fracas. And while he was good at one of those things, it didn't help him with the other. He owed Mar and Ram a lot of favors... a lot. Packer had bet the eighteenth would win, additionally betting that I would never even touch the ball. That was where Fisher came in. They would expunge his debt if he helped ensure that Packer lost his bet.

"Last thing," Ram said, lifting up a padded cap. He pulled it on, tucking my hair away as Mar strapped it under my chin. I knew how ridiculous I looked because I now matched the other players, each of us egg-headed. "Alright, that's it. You're all set." He gave me a shove toward the field where the players were gathering.

"Good luck," Ram said quietly as I drifted away.

"Don't screw it up!" Mar added, yelling after me.

# Chapter 25

Someone had brought a drum. I could hear its slow, steady beat from center field. I glanced along the sidelines while waiting for the game to start. They boiled with soldiers, even a few instructors, each jockeying for a better position.

My whole format was there, but that wasn't a surprise—everyone was there. I avoided looking at Winslow, though I did note that no one pushed _him_ to get a better position, and he stood front and center, a coveted spot.

Fisher sidled up next to me. Like many of the players, he'd already stripped off his tunic. I envied him. It was hot and I could feel the sweat gathering under my many layers and across my forehead.

"How do you want me to pass you the ball?" he said under his breath.

"Kick it to me," I replied, knowing I'd never catch it. He began to saunter off, taking up his starting position with confidence, and I hurried to add, "Gently."

I could not share in Fisher's confidence. I knew that despite Mar and Ram's claims, the forty-seventh and the eighteenth were evenly matched. And by replacing me with a contributing player, the forty-seventh would have to work that much harder to win.

The drumming got faster and I knew the game was about to start. I just didn't know exactly how it would happen. Would someone say go?

"Frost!" a player wearing blue hollered. "Over here," he said, gesturing for me to move. I realized I was on the wrong side of the starting line.

"Oh hostile take it," I cursed under my breath, jogging to where he pointed I should stand. Things happened fast after that. Someone threw a white sash onto the field and suddenly everyone was moving. It didn't take long to realize that my plan to 'avoid the action' was impossible. Each time someone was tackled the game reset, players gathering at the centerline. So I'd creep away, and the moment I felt relatively safe, I'd have to join the fray once more. For a while I kept that up, but at the start of one play I didn't move fast enough. Even after it was over, I could barely recall exactly what had happened. Someone passed the ball. It was thrown from person to person like a hot potato, everyone trying to rid themselves of the burden before they were tackled. We were all hemmed tightly. No one player could keep the ball without being instantly plowed down. And then it flew past my head, a blur of smudged white. Everyone hurled themselves to catch it. Most landed on me instead.

I gasped for breath under a heap of flailing limbs, waiting for them to peel themselves off. Someone helped me up, asked if I was alright. I didn't know who, or what team he was on. Adrenaline coursed through my blood, urging my heart to rage in my chest. I blinked, trying to focus on the rushing images around me, distracted by the underlying drumbeat. I gingerly patted myself down, surprised to find that I was all in one piece. When I took a step though, my ankle protested. Not with a bolt of pain, a throbbing ache rather, so I ignored it, assuring everyone around me that I was fine before they made a fuss out of it.

My efforts to avoid getting hurt were wasted after that, both teams were suddenly more conscious of my presence, avoiding me as much as possible. It was absurd, the care they took with me, considering neither team had wanted me to play in the first place. The forty-seventh format had complained, knowing my addition might cause them to lose, while the eighteenth was all up in arms, their pride offended by the suggested handicap. The rest of the convene had been taken in by the idea though, desperate to see the match. In the end, both formats had caved to social pressure. Even more absurd was how the game turned less fierce with all the players preoccupied on keeping me in one piece. The spectators would regret their earlier eagerness.

The drumbeat marked the passage of time, even perceived time as it sped up when things intensified. I could feel the game drawing to a close, and I got nervous as I prepared to complete my one task. But how was I going to kick the ball? My ankle was weak and sore! I should have told Fisher to throw it to me, but it was too late now. I'd just have to manage.

When Ram and Mar first told me they wanted to force Packer to lose his bet, I thought they meant to bribe someone on his favored team to throw the game. I had flatly refused to help them cheat. But no one owed them on the eighteenth format, so they used Fisher from the forty-seventh instead, telling him to win (as if he didn't plan to already). It was riskier, the outcome uncertain, but it was there only option. So I watched the numbers go back and forth, neither team managing much of a lead over the other. The time ticked down and I held my breath, waiting for the blue team to take the lead. And they did, tackling a red player inches from our ditch. I'd caught on enough to learn that the further from centerline you let the opponent get before tackling him, the more points you were awarded.

And then it was time. There was less than a minute left before the game ended and Fisher was moving the ball straight towards where I hovered by the red team's ditch. I'd been there half the game, and the red player who guarded it had taken to ignoring me. So while Fisher sprinted down the field, kicking the ball in short bursts, I sidled closer, knowing the goalie was preoccupied as he prepared to stop Fisher on the left side. In doing so he gave me his back on the right. Fisher feigned a kick toward the goal, but then very gently sent it rolling over to where I stood. The goalie pivoted, but it was too late for him to block. I'd already made my move, kicking it, weak ankle and all. The ball plopped neatly into the four by eight ditch just as someone called time. The game was over, blue leading by two points, and Packer had lost both his bets. Mar and Ram's chances of getting into Hamilton had just gotten better and... and unfortunately my ankle was done for.

* * *

I hobbled off the field, bypassing my format while slipping through the crowd. I didn't take off the protective gear; it somewhat hid my identity. But a few soldiers recognized me regardless and tried to get my attention. I ignored them, but they congratulated me on the winning kick as I passed. I had no desire to revel in the victory. I was just glad it was over.

My ankle ached with each step, and though I knew there wasn't anything seriously wrong, I wanted to rest it and relax for the remainder of my free day. But first I wanted to get away from everyone and strip off the sweaty shoulderpads and helmet. I'd already spit out the mouthguard, leaving it unceremoniously in the grass. Someone else could get it.

My shed wasn't far and I reached it quickly, dumping the protective gear outside the door before flopping into bed. I'd left the door open, so Winslow unexpectedly waltzed right in shortly after, speaking to me as if we were in the middle of a conversation. "What was that? You only played to spite me. Admit it."

I adjusted my foot on the rail of the bed, hoping he wouldn't realize I was keeping it elevated because it had started to swell. "Alright, I only played to spite you, it's true."

"Why?" he demanded, pacing the short distance of my shed. "I only have your best interests in mind."

I lost patience; being tired and achy would do that to a person. "You've been insufferable for months!" I hissed, propping myself up on my elbows to lessen my vulnerable position. "You ignore me!" I added. "And I can't believe you forbid Edwards from entering my shed. Do you know how humiliating that was?"

"You forget, I know what can happen in this shed," he said, throwing me a glance over his shoulder.

I swung my foot off the bed frame and jumped up, ignoring the pain as I shoved him into the wall. "Bastard!"

He grabbed my wrists, preventing me from further slamming him against the cool, hard adobe. "Don't push me!" he said, his voice low and angry as he gave me a firm shake.

I tried to shove him again anyway. "You're not being my first, you're being my father!"

"It's easier!" he yelled right back.

"Easier than what?"

His mouth clicked shut, the muscle in his jaw flexing. And then he lunged, grabbing the back of my neck as his lips crashed down roughly on mine.

We stumbled then, our feet floundering beneath us as we collided with the bed frame, then back into the wall. I don't know where I meant to go, or him for that matter, but my whole body felt like it needed to be in motion. For a while I felt nothing but the kiss, the moment not soft as before, but consuming, pulling me down to a place without thought. My foot brought me back, my heel coming down too hard, sending a small jolt up my calf. My eyes flicked open, my head tipped back, and Winslow, sensing my drop into reality, opened his eyes as well.

When the silence stretched on and neither of us moved, he finally sighed. "Come on," he said, sounding defeated. "Let's talk about this." I followed him to the bed where we sat together, the length of our sides pressing into each other where the mattress sagged under our weight. "This can't happen," he said.

"Okay," I agreed. Paused. "Well, why not?"

He turned his head and gave me a look.

"I know you're supposed to treat me like any other soldier," I said, shifting uncomfortably. "And I'm sure you don't go around kissing them," I added just to lighten the mood. "But girls my age back home are getting married. You drop a female into a camp full of soldiers and it's hard to believe that she wouldn't find one that she... well, that she..."

"That she what?"

"That she liked!" I said, sounding totally annoyed.

"And usually you're so articulate," he almost smiled.

"Obviously," I said while touching my lips, "you know how I feel."

For some reason that gesture seemed to snap him back into something of his usual self. "I don't have to ask Bardzecki to know he wouldn't approve of you fraternizing with any soldier. And it's worse that it's me. I'm your first, and you are my responsibility—anything between us would mean I was taking advantage of you."

"You know that's not true," I argued.

"So what?" he asked. "We sneak around, and then what? I've already requested to spend my specialized training at Concord. Do you even know where you'll be by then? The obstacles for us are long-term."

I shifted back, taking a moment to think while stretching my leg out on the bed. "They say you'll marry your career," I told him, almost whispering for some reason. Concord was a specialized training camp for soldiers who wanted to be captain of their own Scarlet one day. It was very prestigious in the Triangle Patch. I'd heard of it even from the farming sector back home. He was going to the top, and the rumors said Bardzecki men didn't marry until late in life, when their careers were secured and set in stone.

He nodded bleakly, not denying it as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"Alright," I said finally. "I accept all that. I have no desire to hurt your career. But for just one second, imagine that we didn't have to follow Little Red's traditions. Nothing is frowned upon or forbidden. Would you want me then?"

He grabbed me, pulling me half onto his lap as his hand slipped around my back and curled against my waist. The kiss was even hungrier than before, his face pressing into mine, our features imprinting on one another. His free hand squeezed my thigh, possessive and heavy. He left no room for doubt. But it was over as abruptly as it began, with him setting me gently to the side. "No one else would tempt me," Winslow said, his eyes burning into mine. And then he left, with soft and measured steps. I could tell by the calm stillness of him as he went that he wouldn't be back. He had opened that door just long enough to close it, giving us both a taste, but more importantly, the closure that we needed. It just couldn't be. He knew it, and I knew it.

# Chapter 26

Dear Lizzie,

There is a soldier here at camp who snores so loud that the sandcreepers ring out and answer. There's another from the fourth format, I think, who is so flatulent at night, his mates make him sleep outside when the weather allows it. And when it doesn't, they all suffer. Men are not as romantic as you imagine. I do hope though, for Mum and Da's sake, that things are going well with Davies. Don't be too forward with him. You have years to wait until you're old enough to marry, and they'll be easier to bear without a broken heart.

You'll be surprised to find that I have some experience with broken hearts. Well, maybe not broken, just a bit cracked. But that's a story that'll have to wait until I'm home. Won't be long now, trials are coming.

Love, Fiona

Tell Mum and Da not to worry, I'm doing well.

Truthfully, I _had_ been doing well. Little did I know, that wasn't meant to last. Folding the letter carefully, I set it aside until the next day when I would give it to Winslow at breakfast. I'd been sending my sister short letters, mostly just to let my family know I was okay, or perhaps to remind them that I still existed. Lizzie would write back, long ramblings with little to no real information concerning the farm, which I took to mean that things must be alright.

With the letter complete, I started to gather my dirty laundry. From the many chores I'd had, I knew that most soldiers waited until their free day to dump their clothing and sheets at the convene to be washed, overwhelming the ladies who toiled down there. So I always made a point to go mid-week, when they were sure to have a lull in duties. It was late and I didn't expect to find anyone in the basement, but when I swept through the swinging doors, Mave was there speaking with another woman. Seeing me she paused her conversation, pointing to the first in a row of tables. "Drop it there. We'll take care of it in the morning."

The woman turned, wanting to see who Mave was addressing. She was young, too young to be working at the convene. My age and no older. I was probably staring, but she gaped at me in return, surprised to find a girl in uniform. The embroidered image of Providence and the six stars of hope on my vest gave me away.

"You must be the female soldier," she said, skipping over.

I nodded, looking past her to Mave with a question in my eye. Mave, appearing a little irritated, trailed her over just as I dumped my laundry on the table. "This is Samona, she's visiting family," Mave explained.

I tried to hide my reaction, but I'm sure I failed. Samona. Winslow's Samona. I had conveniently forgotten that she'd ever existed. A bit more difficult now, what with her standing right in front of me. "Hello," I managed, trying to smile.

She smiled back, a perfect set of teeth winking as her face dimpled prettily. She had soft brown eyes and thick black lashes to match her heavy black hair. She was lovely and delicate in her sky green frock. "Your name is Frost, right? I didn't think I'd get to see you, how exciting!" she beamed.

Mave must have sensed my tension because she began to speak, giving me a moment to pull myself together. "We don't live like you do in the farming sector," she explained. "Most families get spread out over the military districts, so if a Scarlet is making a trip surface-side, then any additional room aboard is offered to local families. Samona came with her mama to visit Cleo, her aunty who lives up by the landing strips."

"Well, enjoy your visit," I replied. "I've got to get back to my shed, got a lot of studying to do." That was a lie. I'd polished off my textbooks months ago. Much to Bardzecki's chagrin, I knew the subject matter of each very well. Fitallion had taken to giving me advanced lessons in Shetheerie for a while, but even he had exhausted the topic. After that he'd taken me to McMoore, finding me a grindt lexicon in his office that I'd taken to studying in my spare hours. I turned to leave, hurrying to get back to the hostile's native language and make my escape.

"Why don't I come along?" Samona piped up.

"You aren't supposed to wander camp," Mave said, sounding peevish. "You know that."

"Oh, _pshaw_ ," Samona replied, waving a hand. "I'm just going to walk with Frost, and since she's a she, I won't get in trouble for fraternizing with the soldiers, now will I?"

I tried to interject. "If Mave thinks it's best—"

"It'll be fine," Samona assured, ushering me toward the door. "Don't you miss speaking to girls your own age?"

That last bit seemed to sway Mave, who I knew, like most of the laundry women, had grown a soft spot for me. "Oh alright," Mave muttered. "But hurry back," she said darkly to Samona.

Samona did not hurry. In fact, she seemed to go as slow as possible, her eyes roving over camp, pausing briefly on each soldier before moving on. I didn't have to guess who she was looking for. But I knew Winslow was at a firsts' meeting all the way on the other side of camp, so she was destined to be disappointed over and over again. For a while I let this continue, but she attracted too much attention in her dress. With the soldiers continually turning to stare, I eventually picked up my pace, leaving her in the dust.

"Frost!" she called, running to catch up. "I'm sorry, I got a little distracted is all," she said, and I thought she meant it sincerely.

"It's fine," I said, continuing with the lie, "I just have a lot of studying to do for tomorrow."

"Of course," she said. "I can imagine how stressful this place must be." She paused briefly, "But you have a format right? Are you all very close?"

Not only pretty, but clever. She had managed to get her way with Mave, no easy feat, and now was subtly pumping me for information. The walk, the questions—it was all about Winslow. "I suppose," I replied vaguely.

"Oh how modest you are!" she said sounding amused. "A camp full of soldiers, surely you must have made a few close friends."

"A few," I agreed.

"Perhaps more than friends?" she suggested, giving me a sly smile.

"This isn't a festival, there's hardly room for flirting here."

"I'm sure you are right," she agreed happily. Content having gotten the answer she was after, she became more pleasant and engaging. "Is this it?" she asked as we rounded the corner of my shed. "Well, it's... charming."

"Thank you for walking with me," I said. "It was nice to meet you."

She seemed to sense my further withdraw from the conversation, agreeing, "You too!" before skipping off back to camp.

After immersing myself in Shetheerie for months, switching to Braacktdese was a challenge I enjoyed. Shetheerie dripped from the tip of the tongue, smooth and lilting. Braacktdese couldn't have been more different. Hacking and throaty, I often had to pull the words up from deep in my gut. I usually fell into the task, consumed by it really, but not that night. I stared at the words, unseeing, thinking of Samona. Samona and Winslow.

He'd said that no one else could tempt him, and those words ran reel through my mind, an ironic backdrop to Samona's beauty. Winslow wouldn't have lied, of that I was sure. But it was easy to love a lizard in the desert, out here any creature was unique—like me at camp. But Samona was a bird, and I paled in comparison. He would see her, and he would know.

I slept poorly that night.

The next morning at breakfast, I slipped Winslow the letter I had written to Lizzie so he could have it sent. Then I hurried in line to wait for a tray. When I sat down the rest of the format had already gathered, each wet-haired from their showers and eager for answers.

Mar, always the first to speak, began the inquisition the moment I took a seat. "Rumor around camp is you've made yourself a friend."

"I hear she's a looker," Stew added.

"Wish I could have seen her," Dutton said around a mouthful of potato salad. We all stopped to goggle at him, surprised at the show of interest.

"Not me," said Jackson. "I've got a girl waiting back home."

"That's what you think," Pumphrey sneered, always aiming to wound. "I bet you find her married and pregnant when you get back."

"How much will you bet?" Ram mocked, smiling faintly.

"So who is she?" Roth asked from beside me, ignoring the banter.

"Her name is Samona," I replied. "She's visiting family." I didn't watch Winslow outright, but I kept him in my periphery. I could tell he was listening by his stillness, how he carefully kept his eyes trained straight ahead.

"Why were you with her?" Mar asked.

"She thought I could use a little female company," I said, knowing they would laugh. They did.

"And did you two have fun gossiping together?" Stew asked.

Winslow had stopped breathing. Soon he would pass out. I did nothing to relieve him, shrugging indifferently to the question.

"Did you gossip about us?" Swan wanted to know.

"She was curious," I said honestly. "But when I told her I wasn't here to flirt, she lost interest." I saw Winslow's frame relax ever so slightly. I wanted to kick him for it.

"You're the only girl alive who could make a claim like that and mean it," Mar said. I did my best to keep from blushing. He didn't know the half of it.

* * *

I had no desire to see Samona again. But after wearing the same clothes two days in a row, I couldn't avoid the convene any longer. I needed my laundry. I fervently wished that she was already gone, that a Scarlet had whisked her away, making her nothing more than a distant memory. But I was a realist, and I thought it was likely she was still lurking about. I planned to slip in and out, collecting my things and hurrying off before she could attach herself to me again. I was not so lucky.

I heard her voice. It echoed off the bare adobe walls, raised in agitation. I had no desire to eavesdrop, but I refused to continue on, not wanting to be seen. I retreated a step, preparing to go back up the stairs and leave, but then I heard another voice I recognized, pitched low and measured. Abandoning my ideals altogether, I crept closer, turning my head this way and that, trying to discern the words from the stringy mumbles.

It sounded like they might be arguing. Winslow, I was sure it was Winslow, and he was saying something, it sounded like an admonishment.

Her voice, higher, and easier to depict came back in waves, each word lapping down the empty corridor. "Did you miss me at all?"

How I wanted to hear his reply! But all I got was the wisp of his voice, muffled even. He'd hugged her! I knew it because her voice became muffled too as she spoke into his chest. The thought made me sick. I turned to leave, running down the hall, up the stairs, and out the door, laundry be damned.

The thing about eavesdropping—you always learn something, but rarely was it good.

# Chapter 27

A third day went by, and still I wore the same clothes. I knew I smelled, but I couldn't find it in me to care. The idea of returning to get my laundry was repugnant, but logically I knew nothing worse could possibly happen. Winslow had seen the error of his ways, forgetting me to reunite with Samona. What could be worse than that?

It wasn't long until I found out.

Slogging back to the convene that evening, I was feeling pretty dismal. Who knew my laundry could wreak so much havoc. It was because of my laundry that I'd met Samona in the first place, and then heard her and Winslow together. And it was because of my laundry that First Gridleigh found another reason to loathe me, another reason for revenge.

I heard her again. Heard her before I saw her even, and him, though at the time I assumed it was Winslow's voice echoing off the cool red walls. But this time I didn't stop walking. I was angry and bitter, and I thought, _Let them see me_. _Let_ Winslow _see me, that'll sure dampen his ardor_. But when I rounded the corner it wasn't his muscular, wide-set shoulders looming over Samona, but Gridleigh's narrow pair. She was pressed against the wall, and he was leaning close, his posture somewhat threatening as he'd braced his hand along the wall just beside her neck.

"Come on," he wheedled. "He's going to Concord, you'd have to wait years, is that what you really want? To wait years? I'd take my training nearby for you, you know I would. You know how I feel," Gridleigh said, his voice almost a whisper.

"Don't," Samona said. "You know how _I_ feel. I can't."

"Why him?" he snapped, falling back into anger. "Why him!"

Samona noticed me then, and Gridleigh, watching her face, turned to look too. He straightened the moment he saw me, his face black as a storm cloud ready to thunder. I didn't move as he stalked closer, my eyes dinging between him and Samona. I knew I couldn't leave her to him.

He shoved me roughly against the wall, but I was expecting it. I looked down to keep my head from hitting. He fisted my vest in both hands. I'm not sure what he planned, but the next moment Samona was stopping him. She put a hand on his arm, saying, "Don't!"

And he didn't. He wouldn't look at her, wouldn't acknowledge her in any way, but he listened. His fingers went slack, though his eyes remained hot. They told me everything. Samona may have thwarted him, but he would finish later. I would pay for seeing Gridleigh vulnerable, and for so many other things. He hated me with his eyes, but later it would be his fists. As he walked away, I knew it for sure. His posture was a promise.

We stared after him together, Samona blinking. Perhaps she was trying to wink him away. If only it was that easy. "I've never seen him like that," she finally admitted.

"Count yourself lucky. I've never seen him like anything else."

"He can be very nice," she assured.

My eyebrows shot up by their own accord. I thought it best not to reply.

She smiled slowly. "Did you come for a visit?"

"I came for my laundry," I replied evenly.

"Oh," she said, a little disappointed. "I'll help you find it. I've spent a few hours volunteering down here, so I know my way around."

She searched the bundles of cloth. I found mine straight away, pointing to it. "That one."

She was surprised by my familiarity with both the laundry rooms and the women who worked in them, but I shrugged it off. Simply saying, "I did some volunteering too," though it was really punishment, and there'd been nothing voluntary about it.

"So I'm leaving soon," she said, trailing after me as I carried my clean clothes out.

"I guess you got what you came for," I replied, trying not to sound too bitter.

She looked puzzled, but then shrugged. "I guess so."

I didn't want to, but I forced myself to part with her pleasantly, pausing before the steps that led outside. "Have a safe trip home."

She nodded. "Good luck with everything, Frost."

I'm sure she meant it. Having won back Winslow, she could afford to be gracious. Though I did hope that she would never find out about our kiss, kisses actually, there had been more than one. But all that was over now, truthfully, it had been over before she'd ever arrived.

At least I had my laundry. I couldn't keep from being miserable, but that didn't mean I had to stink.

* * *

I was sitting on the steps in front of my shed later that week, staring at the dunes. Edwards rounded the corner. I could tell instantly that he was upset.

"Got some bad news," he said.

I set my book aside, standing to meet him. "Tell me inside."

He shook his head. "Winslow—"

"Rot Winslow," I said, cutting him off. "It's too hot out here." And it was. How long had I been daydreaming under the sun? My tunic was stuck to the small of my back, sweaty and stifling, and I could feel the early sting of a burnt nose. "What's happened?" I asked, sitting on the bed. The coils protested, grinding together beneath my weight.

"There was another hostile attack," Edwards said while slumping against the wall. "The ship was bound for Shether, some Earthen diplomat aboard, though the grindts didn't spare a single soul."

"How many?"

"Twenty-nine. A few had relatives here at camp. They've already been sent home to spend some time with their families." We said nothing for a few minutes, but finally Edwards seemed to explode. "I'm glad women aren't allowed to join the military! Thinking of you on a Scarlet—" His voice broke in half as he shook his head at the thought.

"Edwards, you don't have to be in the military to die. Everyone dies," I said as gently as I could.

"But you don't plan to continue in the military, Frost, do you?" he asked, straightening upright as he stared at me.

"I don't know what will happen to me. Unless they tell me otherwise, I'm assuming I'll be sent home when the year is up. I doubt I have much say in the matter."

"I've been thinking, and I know you must have realized by now, but I care about you. And—"

I cut in, needing to stop him. "Edwards, don't. Don't say it."

But he didn't listen. "I know what you think," he said, plowing forward. "You think that the only reason you get any attention from the soldiers here at camp is because you're the only girl." He was right, I did think that. "But you're wrong. You fascinate everyone because you're unique. There isn't another girl on Providence that could thrive here at camp like you do, you're so smart, smarter than me, but I admire that about you. I admire that you push yourself and always make the best of things. I can't think of a single time when I heard you complain either, you just walk around so damn calm, and I think... I think that's amazing. I think you are amazing."

"Stop!" I cried, a little surprised at both his intensity and mine.

He dropped his head, light hair falling to cover his eyes as he stared down. "I guess I don't have to ask if you feel the same way," he said, his slight frame seeming to fold in on itself.

I took a steadying breath, trying to think of the most honest and straightforward answer that I could give him. "Edwards," I said after a time. "If I'd known you back home, if you had said those things to me, I would have... well, I think I would have fallen in love with you. I was lonely and out of place there, and I thought I'd never get married. But I'm not like that now. I'm not the same person. And while I am very, very flattered, I don't feel that way about you. I'm sorry."

"I knew that," he said as he walked to the door. Without turning around, he called over his shoulder, "I just wanted you to know how special I think you are."

He stepped off the stairs and disappeared from sight. He'd arrived feeling terrible, and I'd sent him off feeling worse. No one, not even Winslow, had ever paid me such compliments, not in my entire life. Suddenly I felt like I had to speak with him again, though I didn't have the foggiest idea of what to say. Maybe 'I'm sorry' a few more times.

Jumping down the stairs, I jogged around the corner and straight into Edwards' back. He'd stopped dead in his tracks. When I plowed into him from behind, he turned quickly. I caught a glimpse of three approaching soldiers before I was shoved around the corner and out of sight.

"Who was that?" I asked.

Edwards dragged me to the open door. "Gridleigh, that's who."

# Chapter 28

"Go into the shed, Frost," Edwards said, sounding more sure and capable than I'd ever heard him.

"I'm not leaving you three to one!" I protested while grabbing his vest to stop his progress.

He pivoted sharply, his face serious and strained. "I don't plan on fighting," he assured me. "I'll say I came to fetch you, but you weren't here. Hide just in case though."

His idea was good. While I stood there thinking about it, he took the opportunity to leave unhindered. I spluttered, watching his back disappear from sight. I considered peeking out after him, but didn't. I remembered my father's advice. More importantly, I remembered Gridleigh's face from earlier that week. He had wanted to hurt me. He was coming to find me. I needed to hide.

As I ran inside, I kept thinking how stupid I was being. Edwards would convince them I wasn't here and they would leave. But somehow that didn't stop me, not in the least. I looked around my dark, dusty shed, seeing the empty space around my bunk bed, and then the cluttered mess of frames and mattresses that filled the rest of the space. I began to climb, stepping on a pile of rails, over a heap of musty mattresses, going all the way to the back of the wall. I slid under a metal headboard and crawled to the corner furthest from the door, concealing myself under a disgusting stained mattress. I was being ridiculous, hiding there under a wasteland of bed parts when nothing would happen. _Nothing would happen._ I repeated that over and over in my mind, and at some point during the mantra, I realized I was afraid.

I couldn't say how long I waited, but eventually I heard the flimsy wooden door as it ghosted gently across the floor. I couldn't recall closing it in my haste, but it was being opened now. Scuffing boots came next, and then I heard voices.

"Where is she?" someone I didn't recognize asked.

"Doesn't look like she's here," replied another soldier I didn't know.

"That idiot was lying. She's here. She probably just saw us coming and hid," Gridleigh told them. "Check under this junk." There was a sharp crash. I imagined him kicking over the nearest frame to punctuate his command. The noise picked up, continuing as his mates moved things around. I tried not to jump at the ruckus they made. The rusty screech of a bed's dragged legs. The padded thumps of shifting mattresses. Each sound was closer than the last.

"Hurry up!" Gridleigh ordered, sounding aggravated. "It won't be long until that pretty boy drags himself back to camp."

I began to shake, afraid for myself, but horrified for Edwards. What had happened to him? Maybe if we'd stayed together they wouldn't have given us trouble. I doubted it, but either way I shouldn't have let Edwards face them alone.

The sound of movement came from right outside the shelter of my mattress, and I watched in horror as it was folded over and slowly peeled away.

"Leave it," Gridleigh barked. "She couldn't have gotten all the way back there. I guess her mate was telling the truth. She isn't here."

"A lot of good it did him," one of the faceless soldiers said. His mate laughed.

Gridleigh ignored them, issuing a sound of frustration. I heard a scuffle and the sound of small objects landing harshly. I figured he'd probably just dumped my things from the top bunk.

"She's got more stuff than a regular soldier, and did you see that book—Braacktdese? Maybe one of the rumors is true," Gridleigh's lackey observed. "She could be from Earth. They like to check up on us."

"I hope she's not the commander's daughter. We'll be in deep shit then," replied the other.

"Don't be ridiculous. You heard that soldier she grew up with. She's just a girl from the farming sector, and a weird one at that. I'm not going to let her get the edge over us at trials though, there's got to be something here that'll explain her high marks." There was a pause. "See," he continued, and I heard the sound of turning pages. "She doesn't even know why she's here. She speculates the reason on nearly every page," Gridleigh said sounding highly amused.

"What's that you got?" one of his mates asked.

I cringed as the pages kept turning. I knew.

"Her journal, more of a diary, really," Gridleigh answered, pausing on what he must've considered an interesting passage. _Just wait_ , I thought, _soon you'll know exactly what I think of you_. Some of my fear had ebbed now that I was no longer in danger of being found, and knowing he was leafing his way through my most personal thoughts made me simmer. I'd been discreet concerning Winslow, but if he read long enough, he'd figure it out and we would be ruined. What would happen to Winslow if Bardzecki found out? Would he be stripped of his rank, no longer a first? Ruined for sure.

"Have you asked your uncle why she's here?"

"He either doesn't know or isn't saying," Gridleigh replied slowly, his voice drifting as his thoughts were currently occupied. I was getting really worried, he could not, could never, learn about my feelings for Winslow. I'd rather jump out from behind my mattress and yell boo. And I actually readied for it, my legs tensing as I prepared to spring.

But then Gridleigh muttered, "That bitch!"

Both of his companions stepped closer, drifting further from me as they pressed in to see what had angered their first. "What is it?" one asked.

"Nothing!" snapped Gridleigh. I heard the fluttering just before my journal hit the mattress I was hiding under. That sound was followed by a clap as it slid down and hit the floor.

"You should bring it," objected one of his mates.

The other agreed. "Yeah, think of how entertaining the rest of camp would find it."

"No," Gridleigh said, his voice a whiplash. "I said leave it."

I heard the sound of their boots, three pairs fading away, followed by the swish and clatter of the shoddy door as it swung shut. I sat, listening to them crunch over rock, dust, and sand as they departed, their noise growing faint and finally disappearing altogether. They hadn't said a word, just left, and I couldn't believe it. Really, I didn't believe it. I stayed motionless, listening for their return. I imagined it was a trick, that they had only pretended to leave while secretly waiting to see if I would surface. So I didn't move. I focused on breathing slowly. One deep, calming sip of air at a time. I didn't allow myself to feel relieved. I just continued to wait, scared, angry, and admittedly paranoid.

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 relished 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.

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 the 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.

When Bardzecki finally did arrive, I was surprised at my own relief as the bull-like man was my bane more often than not.

"Save it for the games," he barked, sensing the tension. He should have expected as much, leaving us together for over an hour as the rest of the convene emptied out. Nerves were frayed enough as it was, and the soldiers, myself included, had little patience.

Roth and Fitallion flanked me, reminding me of my first few weeks at camp when they were the only two willing to offer support. I was grateful for their presence as we neared the landing strips. The place had become a chaotic maze of sleek, pinkish redantium and churning bodies. The Scarlets' crew, identifiable by their rich sapphire blue uniform, made a valiant effort to create order as they bobbed throughout the crowd.

"Move! Out of the way!" one shouted trying to herd the scattered soldiers, clearing a path for the Scarlets to depart.

"That one's full!" another bellowed, only to be ignored as Instructor Hinkle ushered his soldiers up the ramp.

Off to the side I saw a huddled group of women, Mave among them. It was true then, everyone would be going, just like Winslow said. Was this the military equivalent of a Surplus Festival? I glanced at the nearest crew member, finding a flushed-face man whose voice had gone hoarse from too much yelling. He was probably looking forward to a little entertainment after ferrying a bunch of twitchy soldiers around.

Waiting was awful. We should have stayed down at the convene longer, at least the cavernous tiled room had been cool. Not like out here, the sun only adding to the engines' heat. All around us they rumbled, louder than loud, and all the while I could feel their humming in my chest.

We were the last to board. Most of the Scarlets had long since gone. The moment I stepped up the ramp I was blasted by cool air, but I felt no relief, oddly, it only made me shiver. I'll admit, by that point I was an utter wreck, far past nervous or anxious. It didn't help that Gridleigh sat across from me, both of us strapped to opposite walls as we faced each other.

"Not feeling well?" he asked politely. I wondered at his solicitous behavior until I noticed Bardzecki striding down the aisle, checking to see that we were all belted in correctly.

I let my eyes slide over him briefly, and down over the rest of his mates. I thought it odd that he was the slightest among them, not skinny, no, he had a predatory way, his lean body always seemed to strain, on edge, as if beneath his skin were wires. His mates were a burly lot, and though none of them stood apart by their own interests and talents, they all performed well, especially in regard to physical challenges. Ram had said that the whole camp was putting down bets on the war games' outcome, and it was down to us or them.

I willed myself to be calm through the entire trip, focusing every breath and blink, counting them out and slowing them down until my body settled. It didn't take long for us to glide over the planet's sandy surface, and too soon we were tapping down.

Something pulled gently on my tunic, and when I turned Fitallion tipped his head toward the ramp, telling me to look. Redrock formations filled my vision. Boulders shaped in various sizes littered the maze of adobe walls that snaked in random patterns around towering stone structures. The surface looked smooth from afar, a kingdom of crimson rock, but as we stepped off the Scarlet and drew closer, textures became visible. Pockmarks, ribbed rock, and chipped pits both deep and shallow marred the surfaces here and there, shadows sinking deep into each under the blaring sun. It was the gaming site, an arena of rock that seemed endless—and dangerous. Some of the formations went so high that falling from the precipice would mean a soldier's death. It was more than a little intimidating, but also fascinating. I'd grown up on a dusty planet of flat-nothing. To me, the dunes had been extraordinary, a treat, but this...

"It is lovely, if unnatural," Fitallion said quietly in Shetheerie from beside me.

It was an elaborate creation, seamlessly sprouting from the endless sands to blend in as if it had always been. "I wonder how long it took to make," I replied, using Shetheerie because I liked to.

The sight had a more animated effect on my mates. They became wild with nerves, but happily so. Only I seemed on the verge of losing my breakfast. Finally, and not soon enough in my opinion, we separated from Gridleigh's format, Bardzecki leading us away to our starting position. It was just outside of the arena. There were no other soldiers in sight as we stood, feet planted in the sand, waiting for the starting bell. Bardzecki left after telling us the games would begin in a few minutes, after the last of the formats and instructors were in place. He said not to cross into the arena until then. He asked if we had any last minute questions, though he was already striding away before anyone could answer.

I stared into the arena. Just ahead there was a concave slope in the rock. Beneath was a hollow spot, barely large enough for a soldier to climb into. I wanted to hide there, on the arena's skirt, facing away where no one would find me. Hide and wait until the games ended—that was what I wanted, but it wasn't the plan.

Above us the instructors perched, watching from a number of viewing towers that ringed the gaming site. The red and white striped sash around their waists set them apart from the pale green sky. There wasn't a cloud in sight, the weather preset to be perfect.

I fingered my surrender flags, two white rags with 44 scrawled in black ink. Bardzecki had passed them out while we were still aboard the Scarlet. Winslow had clipped mine on himself, taking time to linger a moment. I'd noticed then that my flags were nothing but a rough imitation. Every other soldier had a perfect square of silk, the number embroidered on it. It made me wonder who had remembered me, the thirteenth member, and when they had hastily created the extra flags to go along with the pre-made set. If my mirror gave me a sense of self, then the ugly flags left me utterly displaced.

Something buzzed overhead, the noise breaking into my thoughts. Before I could guess its meaning, Roth was pulling me along, Lee trailing behind us. I was surrounded by rock, being dragged deeper into the arena, and there was nothing to do about it—the war games had started.

# Chapter 32

I watched Winslow jog ahead. The rest of my format fanned out behind him, going over, under, and around the redrock walls that closed in all around us. My mates disappeared according to plan, all but two of them.

Roth came to a halt inside a large ring of standing stones. The formation was a series of upright slabs with lintels resting atop, massive portals that stood in a perfect circle.

Roth glanced at Lee, and Lee shrugged back. Good a place as any they seemed to say, so we wordlessly settled in to wait while our format created a loose circle of their own, standing just out of sight.

While planning for the war games Winslow had tried to pin down how long it would take fifty formats to pick each other off. Swan had been the one to answer, simply saying, "All day." So the idea was to wile away the hours somewhere safe, somewhere away from the thick of things, which was where we were. Only some yards from our original starting point, we lingered near the gaming site's edge. Lee was carrying the victory flag, and our format was surrounding him, running the first line of defense. I was there because I was useless and could do nothing should a soldier challenge me. And Roth was there in case a soldier came upon us. He would interfere before anyone could challenge Lee. It was a nice, neat little plan, for now at least, and all I had to do was wait.

And I did wait, for hours. At first I was tense and alert, pacing inside the circle of stone like it was my cage. Roth and Lee for their part seemed calm and steady, standing together relentlessly even as the hours dripped by.

Eventually Roth said, "May as well sit down, Frost. Nothing's going to happen for some time."

I didn't hesitate to crumple against one of the slabs, letting my back rest against the flat expanse, hiding me from sight. By that time the tension had left me, and I'd grown somewhat accustomed to the ominous sounds that drifted in from unseen places. The first noise had been a thud, followed by a grunt. My heart had kicked up, thrumming away as I searched the area, waiting as my eyes flickered over every surface. But no one came barreling toward us. In fact, I didn't see a single soul as things grew more intense. Overhead the speaker crackled, a faceless voice announcing, "Format seventeen's victory flag has been surrendered. All mates of format seventeen are to leave the field immediately." The announcement was repeated as different formats lost their victory flag, and it was often punctuated by the sound of drumming feet or the call of one soldier to another as they flowed around us.

I recognized that the waiting period was over. Things were moving swiftly now. Noise of combat grew steadily louder, from all directions and close by. The announcements continued, though I lost count after the six or seventh format was called out of the arena.

From my peripheral vision I immediately noticed when Roth and Lee stiffened, but it was only Mar. I watched him hop from rock to rock, then down the remaining slope before he jogged to meet us. He looked cocksure and happy, a grin spreading smooth as butter across his face.

"Look!" he said, holding a sleek silver gun out for our inspection. "I got it from Hudgins, tackled him from behind before he even knew I was there. You should have seen his face when I forced him to surrender." I noticed the extra flags hanging from his belt, the numbers labeling them as not our own. He'd bested more than just one soldier. "It's paint, but if you're marked anywhere but the arms and legs you're done for. Winslow wanted me to warn you." Gesturing to Roth and Lee, he said, "Anyone can pick you off if you keep standing there. Move to the stones for cover." He was gone moments later, returning to his station as Roth and Lee took his advice.

With so little of the competition touching us I must have gotten lulled into a false sense of security, because I was shocked when the first soldier came. He walked right past me as he entered the standing stones, a foot or so from where I sat. I scrambled away, but my reaction only served to get his attention. It didn't matter, Roth and Lee had rushed over and the soldier turned, sizing them up. His eyes settled on the red victory flag at Lee's hip, and I knew he was going to go for it. Roth didn't give him the chance, moving forward to intercept the challenge.

Roth was huge compared to the soldier he fought, and he wouldn't stop smiling as they circled one another. His opponent's knuckles were bloody, so I knew he liked to keep his distance in a fight. He did just that, quickly feinting in and out. Lee and I stood back, watching them and wincing together every time the soldier landed a blow, but still Roth smiled.

"He's having too much fun," Lee said, watching the surrounding area. "He should put an end to it so he's not engaged should another soldier appear."

Just then the soldier punched Roth in the side. I saw him wince. "Hug him, Roth!" I yelled.

Roth followed my suggestion, lunging forward to wrap the soldier in his arms. It was over in ten seconds. The soldier continued to pummel Roth's sides, but his effort lacked force. It was all he could do to catch his breath so he could wheeze, "Surrender."

Things after the fight were surprisingly amicable. The soldier, having collapsed the moment Roth released him, stood slowly wearing a half-crack, self-deprecating smile. Roth gave him a hearty pat, saying, "Fast fellow, aren't you?"

"Not fast enough," the soldier answered, but he wasn't angry as he handed over his surrender flag. Roth clipped it to his belt and we all settled in to wait a while longer.

Two more soldiers came along, the first stumbling across us by accident. He'd been moving stealthily, edging his way around. I thought he'd probably been searching for somewhere good to hide. He was slim as a rail, and I felt he was a kindred spirit as he turned tail and ran the moment he saw us.

The second soldier came at Roth so quickly that he hadn't had time to stand before he was plowed over. They wrestled on the ground, flipping this way and that. I watched from across the ring, Lee had come to stand beside me, his head slightly cocked. Again, Roth could have ended things, but he was enjoying himself. When his opponent recognized the futility of his own effort, he tried to crawl away. Roth was past feeling agreeable and stopped him, catching the soldier's ankle and demanding surrender.

Fitallion appeared just as the soldier had slunk off in a sulky huff with his surrender flag raised high. Tiny beads of perspiration dotted Fitallion's forehead. I thought he looked washed-out and gaunt from his efforts.

"Do not trouble yourself," Fitallion said, seeing my concern. "I am well." But I worried despite his assurance, recalling how he'd admitted the atmosphere here didn't agree with him. With speed and reflexes superior to our own, I knew he was a good choice to scout out the surrounding area and report back. He had offered to do so, but it must have been grueling work.

Roth noticed the surrender flags hanging from the back of his belt, eyeing them with a bit of uncharacteristic envy. "Been busy?" he asked.

Fitallion simply nodded, saying, "Call the others."

Lifting two fingers to his mouth, Roth blew and a piercing whistle issued forth. My format came quickly, pouring in from all sides. I hurried to count heads, coming up one short.

"Jackson?" I asked, looking to Winslow.

"He went down in the first hour," Mar said. "We heard him cursing the whole way out," he said on a laugh.

"At least he bested a few soldiers before he was forced to surrender," Stew said with what could only be described as a pout. "No one has even challenged me yet." Unlike the rest of them, he wore no additional white flags.

"You picked a bad spot," Ram told him. "No one saw you up on that rock."

"I didn't do so bad," Edwards said. I could tell he was trying not to gloat, but his eyes glittered madly and he kept flicking them in my direction.

_Yes_ , I wanted to tell him, _I see the flags_. They fluttered around his waist like a flock of birds. The format had always given him a hard time for his dashing face and slight frame, so I was surprised that he wasn't smearing their faces in it now. I figured they sort of had it coming, but Edwards showed restraint, hardly bragging.

"I found a place," Fitallion interjected, bringing gravity to the situation. "It is a ten minute jog that way," he said, gesturing toward the arena's center.

What should have been ten minutes took nearly an hour. We jogged together, Fitallion leading us through the man-made terrain. Weaving around the formations slowed us down, but it was Mar that made us halt more often than not, and even Ram lost his head a time or two. Winslow had said, "Don't stop unless you have to." But they were simply incapable of ignoring lone soldiers, charging off without warning whenever they spotted someone to challenge.

Eventually we came to rest atop a rise. The only formation there was a towering pillar more than five men high whose shadow we used to escape the sun. The cracked adobe sloped down to where the configurations of stone seemed to climb over one another.

"Here," Fitallion said.

I glanced around the immediate area, seeing nothing.

"Here?" I questioned, gesturing to the open space. I kicked a lone pebble to make my point. "Where?"

"Up," he said, hiking his thumb toward the top of the pillar.

"No," I said, glancing from him to Winslow. "No way."

The idea was to move from our original location to someplace more secure after the numbers were culled. But if this was Fitallion's idea of someplace secure, then we had a problem.

"I'm not climbing that," I said. "I _can't_ climb that."

"You don't have to," Winslow replied. "Fitallion will carry you up. I agree with him, this is the place. A first would have to be an idiot to pass up its advantages."

"Then why isn't someone already up there," I said, shading my eyes to see the top.

"Because I am not on their format," Fitallion replied matter-of-factly. "I am good at climbing mountains, remember? This will be no trouble, like moving up a ladder with waterskins strapped to my back," he said in Shetheerie.

"I'm the waterskins then?" I replied tersely, steeling myself for the inevitable.

He didn't answer. No one did. Lee stepped forward, unclipping the red flag from his belt and handing it over. After that my mates melted away, slipping down the slope in every direction to create a loose circle around the victory flag. Only this time Lee wouldn't be protecting it—that was my job now.

# Chapter 33

I held onto Fitallion as he climbed, my arms twined around his neck, my legs twisted over his hips. It was awkward to say the least, but also informative. Until that moment I hadn't realized that Fitallion smelled different. It wasn't bad, still subtly musky like a man, just... other. His ginger hair shined white in the bleating sun, whipping gently across my face as the wind toyed with it.

I happened to glance down and immediately buried my face in his neck, squeezing my eyes shut tight. "I'll die if we fall," I mumbled into his hair. "My head will bash against the rocks, but I bet you'll land like a cat."

"I will not fall," he said calmly. But he stopped moving to pull my arms away from his neck.

"Sorry," I muttered, realizing my arms had tightened with tension, squeezing like a vice.

I'll admit, he did climb well. He moved upward at a brisk pace, but nice and fluid, finding hand and foot holds easily. The moment he pulled us over the top lip, I scrambled off his back and flattened myself against the pillar's top. It was hot from baking under the sun, but I hugged it nonetheless, feeling queasy.

"You are afraid of heights," Fitallion remarked. "The rest of the format will be delighted. Finally, something that unsettles the unflappable Frost."

"How was I supposed to know? The rest of Little Red is flat."

"Sit still," Fitallion replied, having the nerve to smile. He was finding the whole situation altogether too amusing. "I will come back up for you when it is time."

"You're not leaving me here! What if someone starts climbing up for the victory flag?"

"Then threaten to push him down. Though I suspect no one else will try. As you said, this planet is flat, so most will not have any climbing experience."

I would have tried to physically prevent him from going, but that would have required moving. So in dismay, I watched him slip over the ledge and out of sight, leaving me alone. I don't know how long I stayed there, but eventually I couldn't stand not knowing. My heart still hammered in my chest, but after a few minutes, or hours (I really couldn't say) I began to inch my way over, wanting to look down at my mates and see how they fared. That first glimpse of nothing, the space between me and the ground, the long drop down, it was too much. I jerked away from the ledge, bile rising up my throat. I cursed the war games then, and the military in general.

It was some time before I worked up the courage to look again. This time I didn't focus on the ground. I focused on my mates. Watching them was a blessed distraction, and I felt my breathing even out as I settled in. Pumphrey had gotten himself a rifle-like gun and was positioned high up where he could easily pick off soldiers. Dutton catered to his wrestling abilities by wedging himself into a cleft in the rock where he took soldiers unaware, dragging them to ground. I could tell Roth and Lee wanted to make up for lost time, because they were all too eager for a fight. Stew was much the same, though I enjoyed watching him win his first flag. Truthfully, I enjoyed watching all of them. My mates were skilled, each in their own way, but they had something more. It showed in the way they carried themselves, with confidence, self-assured and unafraid. I'm not sure how, but I knew that sense of security was something Winslow had instilled in them over the months, and it set them apart from the rest of camp. But they weren't invincible, something I found out all too soon.

Edwards' waist was a flurry of white, but he'd overextended himself, and it showed, even from my perch up high. He leaned against the nearest surface, head bowed, vest soaked in sweat.

I tried to warn him, to get his attention, but he looked half-asleep, even when the soldier stumbled upon his resting place. Edwards straightened, but it was slow and stiff. The soldier sensed it and pressed his advantage. I waved madly, hoping to get anyone's attention. It was Winslow who noticed, and when I pointed, he responded immediately. But by the time he got there, Edwards was pressed facedown in the dirt, panting madly as he tried to buck the soldier off his back. It didn't work, and Edwards was the second mate on my format to surrender. I took comfort in watching Winslow chase the soldier down when he tried to run and collect a surrender flag of his own—it was undoubtedly for Edwards.

Swan was the third of my mates to surrender. Apparently it wasn't just paint guns hidden among the rocks, because one of Gridleigh's mates broke Swan's nose and fingers with a wooden staff. They'd worked with blunt objects in weapons and combat training before my arrival, but usually both combatants shared the same weapon. Swan didn't stand a chance, and as I watched him take blow after blow, I couldn't help but wonder why he was waiting so long to give up.

I sat upright after that, pausing to let the rushing noise behind my ears ebb before scooting toward the edge. Having watched Swan drip blood as he was escorted away, I was angry with my passive role. I wanted to help, and I was ashamed to have waited so long.

The next time a soldier approached my mates, I whistled, pointing toward the threat. I kept watch in this way for a while, and it worked well, almost too well, because soldiers started to steer clear of our area.

* * *

_Pop_. _Pop_. A gush of red splashed over the stone just beneath my fingers where I gripped the ledge. Something whizzed by my head.

"Frost, get down!" Winslow bellowed.

I dropped flat, rolling away from the pillar's edge. The noise continued, paint pellets raining down around me.

Then another shot rang out, louder, different. "Got 'em!" Pumphrey called.

"Frost?" Winslow yelled up, unable to see me. "Did you get hit?"

I sat up, checking myself over. "No, I'm fine."

I glanced down at him to make sure he'd heard me, but my eyes were snagged by a smudge of color moving through the formations. It was odd. The war games were winding down and the arena seemed quiet and empty. But there was no mistaking the format that jogged towards us, seven I counted. They must have grown tired and hungry (I could certainly relate) and decided to speed up the inevitable by challenging us outright.

Winslow had been watching me. He showed no surprise when I held up seven fingers and gestured off into the distance. He ran a circuit, collecting my mates to rush forward and head off the threat.

They left. All of them. They must have felt as though the flag was safe with me, but they couldn't have been more wrong. The moment they were out of sight a voice hailed me from below. "They left you all alone." I'd been so distracted, I hadn't even noticed him slink up from the other side of the pillar.

I tipped my head over the edge, glaring down at the soldier as he circled the formation's base, letting his hand trail over the ridged surface. I recognized him; he was one of Gridleigh's mates. "Has your first surrendered?" I couldn't help but ask.

He smiled up at me, but it wasn't friendly. "No. Would you like to surrender?" he countered.

"No."

He stopped circling, his hands reaching for the pillar. Grasping the wall, he pulled himself upright, finding a place to rest the tip of each boot.

I called to him, threatening, "I'll push you down!"

He hauled himself up higher. "Not if I push you first."

I jerked back from the edge, my mind reeling. He'd called my bluff! He was coming. I could hear him scuffing down below. What was I supposed to do? Wait for him to push me off? Even if he didn't, I would still be forced to surrender the moment he was up here. There wasn't a soldier at camp I could fight and win, certainly not one of Gridleigh's mates. The fight or flight response exploded through me, overwhelming any bit of logic I might have cobbled together at that point. It was without any sort of plan, without even sparing Gridleigh's mate another glance, that I laid flat on my stomach and swung my legs over the drop-off, gently shimmying until my feet caught.

My fear was all consuming as I climbed down, the feeling of emptiness that cupped my back indescribable. I wanted to dig my fingers into the rock, stay crushed against its surface forever. But I forced myself to move, step by step, eyes trained no lower than my feet. I knew I mustn't look down.

It wasn't until I was only yards from reaching the bottom that I relaxed enough to take in my surroundings, noticing the soldier's absence. I'd had enough sense to climb down the opposite side I had seen him coming up, and it was my hope that we'd unwittingly passed one another. _Perhaps he just climbed over to top and found it empty_ , I mused.

Something firm closed over my ankle and the next moment I was being pulled down. I kicked out wildly, trying to free my leg as I scrambled to hold on to the pillar's surface. The soldier didn't let go, his bruising grip only got tighter as he tried to wrench me down.

"How about now?" he taunted. "Ready to surrender?" He hadn't climbed the pillar. He'd been bluffing!

It occurred to me that my format teetered on the wall with me, the victory flag strapped to my waist. If I fell, they would fall too. "Help!" I screamed. "Help! Winslow, help me!"

The soldier growled in frustration and lunged, one hand closing over my thigh as the other gripped my belt, dragging me down until I fell. He landed on his back, and if that didn't knock the wind out of him, then breaking my fall surely did. I hit heavily, my back and shoulders slapping against his chest. He groaned as I rolled off him, struggling to stand upright.

My mates were nowhere to be seen, but I would run and meet them. Only he'd recovered too quickly, reaching for me in an instant. I reacted just as fast, bringing my leg up between his thighs. He grabbed my knee before it touched his groin, his face twisted in anger and ugly.

"Surrender," he threatened, his fingers gouging prints into my flesh as he held my knee captive.

I pressed me knee forward, acting as though I meant to try again. The moment he shifted his weight to block, I brought the edge of my palm down, striking the base of his neck with as much force as I could muster. He was supposed to crumple—that was what Lee had said would happen. I must've been slightly off, because he only lurched forward, practically collapsing on top of me. Catching his shoulders, I held him upright, refusing to let him fall. _Then_ I brought my knee up, and this time he didn't block.

Winslow chose that moment to be the hero, running up the incline, a concerned expression etched across his face. I think when he saw me standing over the writhing soldier he realized what I already knew: the hero had arrived a bit too late.

"What ha—" he stopped. "Nevermind, it doesn't matter. Just make him surrender so we can move on."

I knelt next to Gridleigh's mate. "Do you surrender?"

He cursed at me, a word so foul I blanched, turning to Winslow for support. His face had blackened, but he didn't offer up any advice, allowing me to handle things in my own way.

I glanced down to where he was cupping himself and roughly tapped him there with the back of my hand. He seemed to get the point because he ripped off his flag and flung it at me.

Holding the flag helped the truth to settle—I had bested someone. _I had actually bested someone!_ My fingers shook (but in a good way) as I clipped it onto my belt, proof of my accomplishment. I then transferred the red victory flag from my belt to Winslow's, taking my time about it, enjoying his nearness.

An instructor had already been and gone, taking Gridleigh's mate out on a stretcher. They must have been watching. I was embarrassed to imagine the instructors seeing the fight as it had played out. But now it was just the two of us under the pillar, taking a moment before we moved forward. Before we ended the war games once and for all.

# Chapter 34

I rambled through the arena at a steady pace, making sure to stay out in the open. I felt eyes on me, the instructors in the towers, the spectators, all watching. They were probably wondering why Winslow had sent me on ahead, why he had separated his format in the final hour. For them it was a show as the numbers whittled down. Stew had been keeping track of the announcements, and there were only a few formats left. Gridleigh's was one of them.

Ahead I noticed a mushroom-shaped formation. The column was overshadowed by an umbrella of rock that could shade me for a time. The day had been exhausting, both physically and emotionally, and it wasn't over yet. I sunk against the adobe base, grateful for a reprieve from the heat. It was getting late, but the sun was stubborn, burning hot even as it fell toward the horizon. I put a hand over my stomach, trying to calm the churning hunger. They'd promised us a feast tonight. I just hoped my mates would feel like celebrating when all was said and done.

My eyes were closed. I might have even drifted off for a moment, but his voice pulled me from the edge of sleep. Expected, yet unnerving.

"You look tired," he remarked with smug satisfaction. First Gridleigh stood not more than a pace away, a red flag dangling at his hip.

"I surrender," I blurted.

He stepped closer. "I haven't even touched you yet."

Pushing myself upright, hands shaking, I hurried to unclip my flag. "Yes, that's the point," I answered.

The shove he gave me was so hard I didn't have time to disentangle my hands from my waist, didn't have time to protect myself. A bolt of pain flashed from my temple as it cracked against the rock, my shoulder next, but nothing after that because I collapsed. I felt a trickle of warmth slip down the side of my face. It bled into the white rag. Crumpled like me, it had slipped to the ground just after Gridleigh's assault.

His face was a blend of emotion when I looked up. Anger and regret. Hate and shame. I wanted him to be a villain, wanted to hate him without remorse. But watching the emotions flit over his features, a contradictory mix, I knew things weren't that easy. He swallowed once, his throat dipping up and down. It was the last sign of uneasiness on his part before his face went blank. It was the perfect imitation of Winslow, only it scared me. I had wanted him to be the villain. Perhaps he figured he might as well play the part.

"I saw an instructor not far from here," I lied.

He knelt down beside me, watching with interest as I shuffled back. He reached out slowly, curling my messy braid into his hand. The ropey muscles under his skin twitched and danced as he pulled me closer. "I don't believe you," he whispered. "They can't see us. We're alone."

I picked up my flag and threw it at him. "Take it, I surrender."

He slapped my hand, the sting ringing up my arm. "I don't want your flag."

"What _do_ you want?" I asked, though it sounded more like a plea.

His free hand curled around the back of my neck, possessive and frightening as he touched strands of my loose hair. "I want to be your first choice," he admitted. The intensity on his face was unexpected; everything he was doing was unexpected. This was never part of the plan.

I lashed out, hating the intimate way he rubbed my skin. I couldn't stand to be touched by him a second longer. My arm was ineffectual, blocking my fist easily done. But it was my words that struck. "You don't want to be _my_ first choice," I contradicted. "You want to be Samona's first choice! And Bardzecki's! You won't rest until they love you best and even then you won't be happy," I spit.

I saw his fist clench just before he opened it to backhand me. I couldn't even jerk away because he'd gripped my braid, holding me in place. My vision blurred around the edges, graying in and out. I should have kept my mouth shut, and I definitely shouldn't have mentioned Samona. I'd just ripped open a black hole in Gridleigh, and already I regretted it.

He hauled me upright, fisting my vest as he abandoned my hair. I watched his fingers curl, his arm cock back, knowing what would come next.

"That's enough," Winslow said, cracking the moment in half.

Gridleigh's face jerked around, though his fingers loosened not at all. "You can't interfere or you'll be disqualified," he all but hissed.

"Interfere—no, intervene more like. She surrendered the moment she saw you," Winslow answered in a soft but deadly voice. His eyes pointedly strayed to where my flag lay in the dirt, then shifted to my bloodied face. "It's you who should be disqualified. How dare you!" His veneer was cracking, the core of him a burning anger. He paused, the gravity of his next statement underscored by the heavy separation of seconds. "Your father would be ashamed."

Winslow had known that Gridleigh would keep his format's victory flag, just as he'd known that Gridleigh would use the games as an excuse to seek me out. He'd even known just how to distract his cousin, how to get him to release me. It all clicked into place as Gridleigh's hands fell away, his body tuning up to charge, incensed and out for blood. He rushed forward, unthinking in his anger. Winslow bent at the last moment, catching Gridleigh in the chest with his shoulder, lifting him up off the ground.

He spared a brief glance in my direction as he struggled to hold Gridleigh, but his message was clear. I took off like a shot, scrambling out from under the overhang as I tried to untangle my surrender flag.

I didn't hesitate to leave the two of them behind. Gridleigh's hatred had never been about me, it wasn't really about Winslow either. But he would never rest until they had settled things once and for all. If it happened to be on a grander scale, playing out in the war games, then so be it. Let the best man win. I didn't hesitate because I already knew who that would be. So I left, running from the arena with my white flag held high.

* * *

Chaos reigned outside of the arena. Instructors were threading through the clumped soldiers yelling, "Return to your starting positions!" No one listened, not even me, but then, I had no idea where my starting position was. So I drifted through the crowd and for once nobody seemed to notice me. They were all too busy talking over each other. I caught snippets of conversation as I passed, but they were all saying the same thing, sharing the day's exploits to anyone who would listen.

Someone tapped my shoulder. Snapping around warily, I saw that it was only one of Jackson's farmer friends. What was his name? Maybe Bucher... Butler?

"Are you alone?" His face was openly concerned.

"Yeah, do you know where my mates are?"

"No, but I'll help you find them," he offered. I was instantly relieved. I hadn't realized until that moment that I was uneasy, not used to facing the crowd alone. At some point I'd grown used to my mates shadowing me, especially Roth with his intimidating mass and faithful friendship.

"Thank you," I told him sincerely.

Together we lapped half the gaming site before stumbling upon Swan. His face was swollen and bruised, both eyes runny and closed up. His nose had been bandaged, the tape holding it in place as it spanned both cheeks. In addition, he had three fingers splinted on his left hand. He looked awful, but I was glad to see him. I rushed through the hastily erected cots and wounded soldiers, hurrying to reach him.

"Frost!" He sounded pleased to see me, but his expression didn't change, swollen in place. "How did you fare?"

"Still in one piece."

His eyes traveled past me. "And who's this?" He no longer sounded pleased.

"You remember...uh—"

"Butson," the soldier supplied.

"Right," Swan said. " _But_ son."

My mates were unpleasant to any soldier that dared speak to me. It was embarrassing. "No need to get hostile," I chastened. "I didn't know where you were, or our starting position for that matter. Butson was helping me."

"I'll take it from here," Swan said, standing slowly. "Dr. Pruitt said I could go."

I wanted to apologize for Swan's obvious discourtesy, but I couldn't really apologize on someone else's behalf, especially not with them standing there looking surly. So when Butson and I parted ways, I didn't feel good about it. I'd have Jackson thank him for me later. Swan led me out of the makeshift infirmary, passing one angry soldier with an icepack on his crotch. I pretended not to notice.

"Have you kept track of the announcements?" I asked as he led me toward our starting position.

"Four formats left," he answered.

"Four! I thought it was down to us and Gridleigh's."

He shrugged, clearly unworried.

" _Ugh!_ It's my fault," I admitted, realizing the truth. "I was supposed to stay on top of that pillar longer, but I came down. If I had waited then—"

The speaker crackled to life and we stopped mid-step, still as statues. "Format thirty-eight's victory flag has been surrendered. All mates of format thirty-eight are to leave the field immediately."

I sagged, sighing, "Two to go."

When we reached our starting position Jackson and Edwards were waiting, along with Dutton and Roth. I didn't wait to hear the stories of their surrender; I was too tired to care. Collapsing to the ground, I rested my back against Roth's legs, or maybe it was Jackson's...

Sometime later I was jostled awake. "What?" I slurred.

Roth smiled down at me. "You missed the last announcement, thirty-fourth bit the dust. It's down to forty-fourth and sixth."

Winslow against Gridleigh. How could they have possibly been fighting all this time? My drowsiness disappeared, and suddenly I wished I could watch the fight, begrudging the instructor's their convenient watchtowers. "Where did everyone go?"

"The instructors finally got everyone back to their starting positions. They want everyone ready to board the ships when the games are over," answered Edwards. He'd sidled up close during the few minutes I had drifted off.

The sun dipped, a golden globe hovering just over the horizon. The temperature was finally dropping. "It'll be dark soon," I observed.

"The games will be finished before then," Swan promised.

Crackle.

I held perfectly still, hoping for the best, anticipating it, but never quite believing it.

"Format six's victory flag has been surrendered. All mates belonging to format six are to leave the field immediately." A pause. "Format forty-four is the last remaining format. Congratulations, you've won the war games. Please quit the field and return to your starting positions."

Swan exploded, jumping into the air while letting out a triumphant wail. Edwards hugged me and laughed. Roth, Dutton, and Jackson took turns thumping each other on the back, smiling broadly. None of them could hold still, happy enthusiasm making them babble and laugh.

The droning male voice that spoke with little inflection continued to belch from the speaker. "All formats please wait while your instructors come to collect you for the return trip to your convene."

Sounds erupted from nearby and I turned just as a large pair of tanned hands pulled me up off the ground. I was tossed into the air, plucked out of it, and pressed into a sweaty tunic. Mar's raucous laugh rolled through me as I pushed weakly against his chest, my protests muffled.

After that I was passed about like a doll, my feet never touching the ground. Everyone was in high spirits, happy—beyond happy. For once Winslow didn't have a guarded expression on his face. Fitallion seemed more animated than usual, his reticent personality melting away before our eyes. Dutton smiled, exposing small, even square teeth. I'd never seen them before. Lee wasn't standing off to the side as was his usual location, but surrounded all around, congratulated, included. Pumphrey was giving liberal doses of praise, the hard glint in his eyes replaced by a less sardonic mirth. We existed in a world of our own, everything around us receding into a distant haze.

# Chapter 35

After winning the war games everything seemed to whirl by. First Bardzecki came to collect us. As he led us to the awaiting Scarlet, he took notice of my flag.

"Heard they were still trying to scrape up Paulson's balls," he commented. I flushed. It was the closest thing to a compliment I'd ever get from Instructor Bardzecki. Unfortunately my mates had overheard, and they harassed me for details mercilessly. I rolled my eyes and gave them the story.

Again we were on the last ship to depart. As I climbed the ramp, I started to worry about the return flight. Was Gridleigh already aboard? He was probably feeling like a failure, and his mates wouldn't hesitate to agree. They had only offered him begrudging respect, sticking together so they could win. That had been the uniting force on their format—winning. They would be a miserable lot, and I had no desire to ride back strapped in the same cabin with them.

It turned out we didn't have to. As the winning format, we were honored for our accomplishments by riding with the commander. While the ship trundled along, he came to congratulate us as promised. My mates were a bit awestruck. Winslow shook his hand with smooth deference, face calm as ever, but I saw the aspiration in his eyes. It was like he was shaking hands with the future, seeing in one man everything he hoped to achieve. It made me sad, because I knew that he would never look at me like that, no matter how much he might admire me. Swan and Stew were next. As the most irreverent of our mates, I was surprised by their quiet and respectful greeting. Jackson and I shared a glance. Being the only two farmers on the format, we were not impressed by rank.

Commander Clarke came to stand over me, tall and imperious as ever. I wanted to ask about my future, but knew it wasn't the time. It would appear impertinent to question him, so I shook the commander's hand and let him move on without a word.

After landing at the air base my mates raced ahead to the convene, pulling me along in their wake. We were instantly assailed by soldiers the moment we arrived. Losing hadn't spoiled their mood, and overall everyone was in high spirits.

Food had been prepared in advance and hot cider was passed around liberally. I was tired and tried to sneak away a few times, but my mates wouldn't let me slip off. They shoved a cup in my hand and told me to relax. And I did, finding myself sluggishly content. I had a perpetual smile after a while, and laughed at things I knew weren't funny. That was about the time Winslow pried the cup from my fingers, explaining that a few of the soldiers had diluted the cider with a batch of the fermented stuff they'd smuggled down from the dunes.

Truthfully, I didn't care.

Curfew had been lifted, night-watch duties suspended, and the instructors had announced the following day would be a free one. No one was in a hurry to sleep. My mates socialized in the convene for hours, and when they finally retired to their hut, a slew of soldiers followed. I collapsed onto the nearest bunk, wishing I could contain the lassitude within me forever. The last thing I remembered was Mar describing his most perilous fight to a handful of soldiers I didn't recognize.

* * *

My eyes felt glued shut as I woke up, my mouth dry. I had an ache for every muscle, though the pounding under my forehead was predominate. I tried to go back to sleep, not ready to deal with the day, but after a while I sighed and opened my eyes—the sight was unwelcome. A bare shoulder glared at me from the next bunk over. A quick glance around confirmed my location as I spotted each of my mates in various states of undress, half-hidden beneath their blankets, all still asleep. Soft snoring drew my attention to the corner where Dutton bunked, and opposite him I couldn't help but notice the dribble of drool running down Edwards' chin. Lovely.

It was my mother that I always pictured during these awkward situations, imagining her scandalized and indignant reaction at the impropriety of it all. She could never imagine my life here, and the reality of my family seemed so far away.

Creeping from the bed so as not to wake them, I nearly stepped on Swan's face. He was splayed between the bunks, his head propped up by a heavy waterskin. He looked awful, the skin beneath his bandages looking purple, blue, and tender. I felt terribly guilty having taken his bed. Why didn't he wake me? Why hadn't any of them? Stepping around him carefully, I skimmed the bunks, my eyes settling on Pumphrey. Like me, he was still dressed in the clothes he'd worn the day before. Oddly, he was even wearing one boot.

I nudged his shoulder, whispering, "Walk me to my shed."

He grunt-moaned and turned his head.

Sighing, I flicked him in the ear.

He jerked and tried to shift away.

A bruise had blossomed on his jaw. I poked it.

He swatted at me and turned over.

Having lost all patience, I pushed him off the bed. He thudded to the floor but was up in no time, snarling, "What the hell?"

"Would you please walk me back to my shed?" I picked his other boot up off the floor, extending it towards him.

He grabbed it with a growl, muttering under his breath.

"Do you mind if I borrow your waterskin? Mine's empty."

He pulled it from his bunk and thrust it at me. "Take it." His anger puttered out during the walk over, I could tell. He scratched the back of his arm and mildly inquired, "Were you afraid Gridleigh was going to get you?"

I shrugged.

"Everyone's asleep, Frost."

"You're right," I admitted as we reached the threshold of my shed. "Sorry I woke you."

It was his turn to shrug, walking off where he would undoubtedly tumble back into bed.

I began my morning ritual, changing into a fresh outfit while taking stock of my new bruises. I used the waterskin Pumphrey had loaned me to clean the crusted blood from my hairline, carefully wiping up my scraped hands. The pillar had not been kind on the climb down.

After that I brushed my teeth outside, spitting into the sand. It was already light out, and it felt too late in the day to take a shower, so I bathed my face, neck, and arms with a wet towel. I had just stepped into the shed to tie my hair back when the door shuttered heavily, someone pounding on the other side.

My first thought: Gridleigh. But he wouldn't have bothered with knocking if he'd come to harass me. When I pulled the door open I was surprised to see Instructor Bardzecki waiting on my steps.

"Good, you're awake," he said curtly.

I panicked, thinking maybe he'd seen me sleeping in my mates' hut. I didn't let any of that show on my face. I blanked it like Winslow, staring back into his icy eyes.

"Come with me," he said. "You're to attend a meeting in my office." That was it. No explanation, no nothing. He stepped down into the dirt, crunching off as if there was no doubt I would scurry after. And since it was Bardzecki, I did.

* * *

It was Commander Clarke who'd scheduled the meeting. He stood outside Instructor Bardzecki's office speaking quietly to another man. As I approached they both fell silent.

I was ushered inside, but Bardzecki was not, succinctly dismissed at his own door as the two men took over his office.

Commander Clarke sat behind the desk. The stranger took up a seat just behind him. I plopped down too, thinking how nothing good ever came from being in Bardzecki's office. It occurred to me that they were acting very ominous. I blurted, "Is my family alright?"

"Your family is fine," the commander replied. "Your replacement is doing well, and by all accounts your father is pleased with his work. But that's not why I've called you here." He paused, stealing a moment before he continued.

My brief encounter with Commander Clarke the night before had not reminded me what he was really like. While he would never fill me with admiration (like my mates) I was not immune to his presence. He was tall and straight, his uniform all crisp lines and perfectly fitted, boots and buttons shining. _I should have showered_ , I thought, sitting straighter in my chair.

"Congratulations on winning the war game. It's quite an achievement, something you'll always remember." He gestured over his shoulder. "This is Mr. Hagan. He's not an officer, but he does work within the military, specializing in research."

I had known he was no soldier. He had a paunch, though the rest of him was reedy. His hair was in the process of leaving him, and he sat with his shoulders down but not quite hunched. It occurred to me as I took in his relaxed posture, that even though I was a woman, I looked like a soldier, having subconsciously adopted the stance. His assessment of me was much more thorough, his stare acute and prolonged. "It's good to finally meet you, Frost. I've been looking forward to it."

"Mr. Hagan is from Earth. I guess you might say he is a consultant of sorts. His job is to make our military more efficient." The commander paused once more, taking his time, making sure he had my full attention. "I know you've wondered why you're here, and since Mr. Hagan has managed your situation from the start, I thought it best to let him explain."

Mr. Hagan's eyes flipped from the commander to me, fingers smoothing over the folders in his lap as he inched his chair slightly forward. "It is irregular, I know, that you were asked to serve in the military, six months late, no less. The reason for that is quite simple—you are here because of the hostiles.

"The Union is moving forward with the utopias. I can't say much on the matter, but Providence will be undergoing some changes. Taking the recent hostile attacks into account, it is imperative that we increase the military force here. That's where I come in. My research will help integrate the positive aspects of various militaries from Earth, strengthening the system.

"As of now, gender roles are stiffly defined on Providence. It's archaic really," Mr. Hagan said, throwing the commander a glance. He wasn't telling me anything my father hadn't already taught me, and I thought it odd that he was looking the commander's way. It wasn't like _he_ imposed those rules. It was the Union, Hagan's employer, that did that. "Of course it was necessary at first," he quickly back-pedaled. "Providence was a rough frontier, survival demanded simplicity." My father held a distinctly different opinion, but I said nothing. "But as I said," he continued, "things are changing. I have no doubt that years from now, Providence's military will be open to women."

"What!" I cried, incredulous. "It doesn't matter if women live in the farming sector or military districts. They get married young and have children. That's all they know how to do."

Mr. Hagan seemed oddly sympathetic. "Yes," he agreed, "that's how they live now, but they're capable of more."

" _I_ know that," I said in frustration. "Is that why I'm here? Some sort of experiment? Did you drop me into a training camp to see if I could cut it?"

"On Earth women work in the military, we already know they can handle it. What worried us was how everyone else would handle it. That's why you were brought here. We wanted to see how your family would take it, your community back home, but most importantly, the other soldiers here at camp. We needed to see how they would receive you among them."

"But why _me_?" I asked. "Why not a soldier's daughter, someone familiar with the lifestyle?"

"I wanted a female the correct age who wouldn't be undone by the experience, someone, how shall I say?"

"Tough," offered the commander.

"Yes," agreed Mr. Hagan, "I was looking for someone tough. You were the obvious choice. A female farm hand, the first and only. Your father made you famous when he petitioned for your share of land. I looked for other candidates, but I knew no one better suited would come along, and no one did."

I was feeling oddly detached and numb; none of his explanations were what I'd imagined. Distractedly I wondered, "If I was supposed to be experiencing basic training like every other soldier, wouldn't it have been fair for me to start with them instead of dropping me in six months behind?"

Hagan nodded, his hands fluffing the already orderly stack of files. "It wasn't an ideal situation," he admitted. "The case had to be approved, had to go through the proper channels, and couldn't move forward until a representative from the Union had seen to it. Things were delayed and it all came down to postponing your enrollment until the next year or starting you off incredibly late. I recognize that being six months behind everyone was difficult for you, but we felt it was the better alternative. You would have been eighteen if we'd waited, and that may have been inconvenient for the project as a whole."

"How so?"

He looked uncomfortable, shuffling the files nervously. "The next year of basic training wouldn't have started until well into your eighteenth year. I thought perhaps you might form some sort of attachment seeing as you would have been of age."

"You thought _I'd_ get married!" I laughed in his face, uncaring if it was rude. "That's ridiculous."

"I didn't want to risk it," he muttered, glancing down.

"And what did you find?" I asked, losing my temper. "What are the results of all my effort?"

He glanced nervously at the commander, who nodded as if giving permission. "We predicted that a lone female would create some attention and interest, so that wasn't surprising. But I grew worried when Dr. Pruitt indicated that you were physically harmed on a number of occasions. At the time I considered terminating the project, but your mates became tolerant after that, protective even. And after watching your interaction after the war games, I must say, I find the soldiers' attitude concerning you overall quite promising."

"But my performance never mattered, did it?"

"On the contrary!" he hastened to assure, flipping open his files. "I interviewed your instructors on a number of occasions, and each time Instructor McMoore sung your praises. He swears that you became fluent in Shetheerie within months of your arrival, and even proficient in grindt, which you studied in your spare time." He looked at me expectantly.

I was so angry then, but hurt too, and I had no idea why. Thoughtlessly I lashed out, "Would you like me to perform for you?" sarcasm dripping from each word. Swan and Stew would have been proud.

He shuffled to another folder. "Instructor Bardzecki said your aim was much improved," he added, hoping to appease me.

"High praise from Bardzecki," Commander Clarke noted.

Mr. Hagan waited for my reaction, hoping to see me happy. His sallow features were easy to read. When I only stared at him stonily, he continued. "The rest of the convene won't hear the news until later, but I see no point in keeping it from you. We've combined the trial exam scores with the outcome of yesterday's game. Your format's performance has by far exceeded the others'. Your mates will be sought out, and I'm sure they'll all end up in privileged careers."

"And me?" I asked. "Where do I go from here?"

Commander Clarke sat forward. "A ship is ready to take you home. I'll escort you northward to the airfield when this interview is finished."

"Just like that?" I asked, growing angrier by the minute. I hadn't wanted to come in the first place, and now that I was being forced to go, I recognized with clarity that I wanted to stay.

"Yes," the commander confirmed. "Winslow will be informed of your absence and he'll reveal to your format that you were sent home a few days early. Your things will be sent along later."

"There's nothing I can say to convince you to let me stay, is there?" I asked in a voice devoid of emotion.

"No, there's nothing you can say." He let out a breath, leaning back in Bardzecki's chair. "Shortly after I brought you here your family was notified of your true situation. They were told you would only be gone for six months. It was necessary for you to accept that your circumstances were set, but the same wasn't true for your family. They know you're coming home today. They're waiting for you.

"The farm hand your father acquired from your absence will be given the chance to remain if that is your father's wish. Your family will receive another share of land if that is the case. It's a gift from the military, meant to show appreciation for the sacrifice you and your family have made."

I ignored him, refusing to give up. "Academically I'm gifted, I could be useful—"

"No!" Hagan cut in. Shocked, he looked to the commander for help. "It never occurred to me that you might want to stay! Well, I'm sorry but that's quite out of the question."

I stared at him blankly.

"Integrating females into the military will take years. This was just the first step, a trial of sorts, to see what response your presence would elicit. And while promising, it was also very disruptive."

"Disruptive?" I had done my best to blend.

"The soldiers talk—constantly. Every instructor I interviewed could attest to that, how they heard you mentioned before class, after class, during PT and practice. The laundry ladies, the cooks, _they all_ gossip about you. In addition," he continued, clearly exasperated, "you receive special treatment, even when you don't ask for it. The laundry women plied you with additional day to day materials. Winslow ordered a shadow rotation on your behalf when he felt you were threatened. During the war games, your opponents were often seen fleeing to avoid you. In one case, the soldier chose to fight a larger, more skilled opponent rather than challenge you." He closed the folder with a flick, having made his point.

"I would like to apologize," he continued, giving me a level stare. "We hadn't realized the severity of your situation until only yesterday. We'd believed the shadow rotation was an overreaction on Winslow's part. But after my reading, I see that he was only taking the proper precautions. And rest assured, First Gridleigh will be held accountable for his actions these past six months."

I sat up straight, frowning. "How did you find out about any of that?"

Hagan flushed deeply and looked down at his file. "You should have reported him to Instructor Bardzecki," he said, desperate not to answer. "You should have said something."

"After being forced from my home and into the military without explanation, I was feeling somewhat distrustful of its authority, as you can imagine," I said harshly. Repeating, "How did you find out about Gridleigh?"

"I'm truly sorry for the sacrifices you've made for this project. But now you get to go home, be with your family, knowing you served a greater purpose. This information is valuable, and it's only a small step towards better things to come. Your great-granddaughters may be able to join the military, serve their year and go on to be officers," Mr. Hagan said, sincerely passionate. I didn't care.

"How did you find out about Gridleigh?" I had a sneaking suspicion that I already knew.

Commander Clarke was brave enough to answer. "Your journal," he said. "It was taken from your quarters while you were away at the war games."

I felt my blood boil, my jaw clench, my muscles tense, and I desperately wanted to break something. It was humiliating to have been pulled like a puppet, living so long for the convenience of someone else. I felt guilty for getting gifts on my family's behalf when forgetting them had been so easy. I felt madly irrational. I didn't like these men, didn't like the military, and yet I wanted to stay—desperately, and for that I was irritated with myself. But the journal made me crazy; taking it had been a violation of my mind. I was irate, and there was nothing I could do about it. My one consolation was knowing that I'd gone back and scribbled out anything that might be deemed suggestive concerning my relationship with Winslow, inking over those subtle entries after Gridleigh had leafed through. Our secret was safe.

Stealing myself to speak calmly, I stood, my calves pushing the chair back with a scratch. "I'm ready to go if that's all?" But I didn't wait for an answer. I walked out, dismissing them. Hating them. I was yet again reminded that I had no control over my future. I might be stronger, faster, but I was still helpless.

# Chapter 36

I walked a pace behind Commander Clarke, knowing it would forfend conversation. I didn't dare speak. A lump had formed in my throat and my eyes burned, brimming full with hot tears. I stared at the ground, struggling not to shed a single one as I marched after.

Regret sat heavily with me, my dumpy companion. I didn't want to leave like this, without the goodbyes. My mates would never know why I was here and why I'd left. I would have begged the commander for this favor, but I knew it was no use. After hearing Hagan harp on about how much of a disruption I was, I knew this was premeditated on their part. They didn't want a dramatic departure with angry soldiers, so they were sending me off quietly, while the camp still slept. I hadn't even been given the chance to collect my mirror, but I knew Winslow would take care of it. He knew what it meant to me.

I suspected Commander Clarke knew why I had withdrawn into myself. How I was upset by the things I couldn't control. He wouldn't delude himself as Mr. Hagan had, thinking I would be grateful to go home. He'd read the reports, and as a military man, he would understand my experience better. I'd made friends, accomplished things, grown. And now I was heading back to the farming sector where my biggest accomplishment would be to marry.

A blasting siren broke through my thoughts, ringing from a distance. Men in sapphire uniform scurried around the Scarlets, the ships' crews making ready. Something was happening, and it didn't take long to find out what. A soldier came barreling over, meeting us at the edge of the airfield. He skidded to a halt, kicking up dust and huffing from exertion. Breathlessly, he said, "Shether just made contact. The ship hasn't arrived yet."

"Over an hour behind schedule," Commander Clarke grimaced. "The fleet is still primed from hauling soldiers, we'll send out two sweepers from here."

"Already prepared, just waiting for the go-ahead."

The commander turned, taking my arm in his hand. "I have a situation to attend." He pointed. "Over there's the ship that will take you home. The crew is expecting you. Go."

I plodded slowly down the line of evenly spaced ships, Commander Clarke's voice growing faint behind me. And when I could no longer hear him barking orders, I turned, finding him gone.

The airfield had emptied, the stillness broken only by the tapping of booted feet. To my left I could see an old soldier's uneven gait as he jogged down the center of the red paved strip, framed on both sides by well kept grass. He was moving towards my destination, the ships furthest down the row. I watched as he raced up the cargo ramp of one, into the under-gut. The Scarlet was breathing deeply, letting out hissing sounds all over, preparing for takeoff. In contrast, the surrounding ships sat deserted, a few ramps let down but with no activity, appearing to be asleep.

Following after the lone soldier, I stood at the foot of the ramp. My feet rebelled, unwilling to step forward. A moment of wild possibilities flitted through my brain, but then they were gone. Most had involved running back to camp and telling my mates what had happened. The commander was nowhere in sight. I could do it. But no, my family was waiting, waiting for me.

I stepped forward with resignation. I hadn't taken more than a few paces when the metallic grinding prefaced the rise of the ramp. It took me by surprise and I tottered to the side before going down on one knee, my splayed hands braced beside me. And when it was raised in place, I was no longer on a ramp, but kneeling in the cargo hold.

The large space was empty, a gaping dark hole lit dimly by little lights that lined the floor and ceiling. The familiar black netting I'd seen before still hung, suspended from above. It swayed, grazing the bulkhead.

I searched through the shadows for the ladder, knowing it would be attached to the wall opposite of where I'd entered. I easily spotted the patch of light overhead, watching as a pair of legs went through, disappearing up into the space above. I stepped forward, preparing to climb after. Suddenly the hatch clattered shut and the room grew even darker.

Miserably, I called, "Hello?" I didn't think anyone would hear me with the ship humming so loud. I began to climb. Halfway up the ship started to vibrate, then shake. The noise had gone from a muting hum to a shrieking whine. I had never heard a ship so loud, nor felt it shake so. The implication was not good.

Had I boarded the wrong ship? No, of course not. The commander had pointed to this ship. The only ship ready for takeoff. The only aircraft that had showed signs of life. It had to be this ship. But I wasn't entirely able to convince myself. I reluctantly admitted that I didn't know exactly what ship the commander had pointed at, only a general direction. And other ships had been waiting with their ramps down.

It was becoming more obvious by the second that I had boarded the wrong spacecraft, denying it was useless. I began to panic in earnest. I had to tell them I was here, had to stop them from taking off, because I knew with a certainty that this ship was not staying grounded. It was going to space.

Wrapping my left arm around the rung I held myself in place, using my free arm to beat against the hatch. There was a lever on the underside and I tried it, but it wouldn't budge. I was locked in the cargo hold and no one could hear me, the ship was only getting louder.

A series of ticks went off making me all the more frantic. But it wasn't until the ship began to tilt upward that I gave up calling for help and rushed to climb down the ladder. I didn't make it. The ship had turned upright and I was no longer climbing vertically, but hanging under the now horizontal ladder. My hands turned white and I tried to lock my arms through the bars. My feet were slipping and I hooked them around the rungs desperately.

The ship was only going faster, speeding up every second. I knew I should be belted in, no—harnessed in, like the rest of the crew. The velocity was working against me, pushing me harshly. There was no seatback to save me, only a gaping hole that was the cargo hold. Faster, and faster still, it felt as if the driving pressure was increasing against me.

With a whoosh the ship seemed to leap forward, my feet slipped from between the rungs. I clung to the bar, my forearms locked behind the ladder, my feet suspended and dangling. I'd never been so afraid in my entire life. My mind screamed to hold on. Falling would be equivalent to death.

A scream tore from me as I was flung backward. There had been no warning, no slow slipping. The speed had finally won, ripping me away in an instant. My body slammed into something, my neck snapping brutally with the shock. My arms and legs became tangled. A foot lost resistance, slipping through. It was the netting; it had caught me up like I was a butterfly. Grateful, I grasped at the meshing, forcing my free foot through the opening and pushing my arms to follow.

I relaxed into the netting, feeling overall secure, but somewhat uncomfortable. I no longer felt like a butterfly; this was akin to a bug stuck in a spider's web. But I should be grateful. I should focus on positive thoughts.

Positive thoughts: _I am not dead._

I had unwittingly embarked upon an out of atmosphere flight, the most likely destination being a toss up between Earth and Shether. I tried to think back to the commander's conversation. What had they been talking of? I'd been so angry and oblivious, even the siren hadn't gotten my full attention. Shether had been mentioned, I was somewhat sure... Yes, it was true, things had taken a turn for the unexpected, but everything considered, it could be worse.

* * *

The screeching crunch of metal jerked me awake. The ship shuttered beneath my cheek. I was resting, tangled in the nets, but they were now sagging to the floor. The ship had righted itself at some point, which meant we had reached space. But when? How long had I been asleep?

The aircraft jerked. I slid a foot or so across the floor, tumbling around, stuck in the mesh. The metallic groaning grew louder and I worried this was not normal. But I didn't know what normal was. I'd never traveled through space. After all, takeoff hadn't seemed normal either.

The walls wailed in protest around me as if they were being crushed and the ship began to shutter more violently. This did not feel like the smooth hum or vibration of a healthy ship. It felt like the sputtering failure of a dying one.

The floor tilted and I slid a few feet more, clinging to my black safety net. The dim white lights flickered once, twice, and then went out. A blast of air came rushing in from unseen vents. It was incredibly cold.

Alarms shrieked unexpectedly. I cringed and tried to move away from the speaker. Flashing red lights came on where the soft white ones had been minutes before. I had my answer—something had gone wrong. This was not normal.

As if to emphasize my thoughts, a grinding sound drowned out the alarm. I worried the walls were caving in around me. A series of explosions sounded from above, the ship lurching in time.

My stomach plummeted at the facts. This was not a normal flight, and these noises did not come from a mechanical malfunction. The ship was under attack. And I had no doubt who was responsible. _What_ was responsible.

The spacecraft seemed to be wheezing its last breath beneath me, convulsing unevenly. I thought it was all coming to an end, but then crackling broke out. Roaring followed from above, and the smoke left little doubt—fire.

The floor went out from under me, but the netting held on, keeping me suspended until the ship pulled up. It did so with sudden force. I was plastered flat, head cracking down.

Black fuzz ringed itself around my vision. I knew the pain was there, could even feel it, but for some reason I didn't mind. The alarm that had seemed so loud was disappearing, moving away. Just like the rest of the world. Before I passed out, my last thought was: _No one has ever survived a hostile attack_.

* * *

Read the second installment of the Fiona Frost Trilogy— _Captive_ —available now!

