“No admittance,” I read the words out loud. As far as I can tell, the door is not locked. Without second guessing my current course of action, I wonder about the administration’s motives behind making this single imperative while failing to enforce it with something as simple as a door lock.
Every other door in the academy has a lock. Maybe it’s a test to uncover the rule breakers. Then again, every rule has its exceptions.
I check for Zorrah’s pulse. It’s steady but weak. “Hang in there Little Fox.” I shift her weight and place a hand on the latch. In a swift motion I slide the door all the way open and step through without pause.
“Good morning, Ms. Bluehair.”
In my haste to cross the threshold, I bump into a sentinel posted on the other side. Deflecting sideways, I gather my feet beneath me and brace for the worst before identifying the source of greeting. “Instructor Turon?”
“Indeed.”
I jolt as the door I’ve just stepped through slides shut on its own. The rest of the corridor is empty. Unnerved by the silence, I ask the first question that comes to mind. “What are you doing here?”
“I was instructed by my superiors to wait here for you.” We stare back and forth at each other for a long second before he continues, “So here I am, and here you are.”
“Wait,” I narrow my eyes, “are you saying you were instructed to guard this door?”
“A lock would be a more efficient deployment of resources for something so banal, don’t you think?”
I almost ask how the administration knew I would come here, but the question would reveal too much and promise little in return. Instead I ask, “Who instructed you to wait here for me?” I eye Turon suspiciously. Surely the man behind the mystery voice is the only person who could know of Zorrah’s condition.
Turon shakes his head, a sad look in his eyes. “A poor use of your second question, Ms. Bluehair. The answer is beyond the scope of your current predicament.”
“Of course.” My focus returns to the tiny girl in my arms. I breathe deeply while scanning the length of the corridor. The hall is identical on this side of the door, except there are no watching eyes and the lights are at normal daytime levels.
Resolved, I stand straight and assume formal airs. “Sir, Cadet 777 requesting medical attention for Cadet 775.”
“Very well,” Turon steps closer, “request granted. I shall proceed with Cadet 775 to the medical facilities immediately.” He extends his arms to receive Zorrah.
I back away.
“Your diligence in the matter and loyalty to your fellow cadet has been noted. I’ll take it from here, 777.”
“No.” I shake my head slowly, struggling to hold back tears.
Instructor Turon sighs. “Then I’m not sure what it is you are requesting, cadet.”
On the verge of breaking down, I grow desperate enough to reveal what I truly want without pretense or posturing. “Can you help me?”
“Ah, finally.” Turon relaxes, the sadness leaving his eyes. “A genuine question for which I have a positive answer—yes. Yes, Ms. Bluehair, I can help you.” He steps to the side and ushers me forward. “If you would follow me, I’ll see to getting you the help you need.”
As we proceed steadily away from the door marked “No admittance,” I glance once over my shoulder and ponder again why the administration has omitted the standard lock. “It’s a test isn’t it?”
“How so?” Turon continues his long, graceful strides.
I hurry to stay a half step behind him. “Has anyone else ever passed through the doorway?”
“A few, over the years.”
“And what happened to them?”
Turon stops suddenly and places his hand on an advanced lock, the kind that scans biometrics. I stumble to a halt as a pair of lift doors slide open. “After you,” he gestures toward the vacant lift.
I step on board.
Turon follows.
The doors slide shut, trapping me inside a space the size and feel of the interview closet. The similarities renew a burning question in my mind. While the timbre of Turon’s voice is different from the mystery man’s, their speech patterns are similar. Both utilize a strange cross between formality and intimacy. They could be one in the same. After all, Olin’s voice sounds different inside my head than it does in the open air.
Before I’ve time to ponder the matter, Turon withdraws his hand from the lift control panel. I’m surprised to note he has illuminated a button for a level even further under ground. “Would it come across as paranoid if I were to repeat my last question?”
He responds without looking over his shoulder, “I would judge the repetition as appropriate caution considering the risk you’ve taken.”
The exactness of his response sends a shiver up my spine. In the combat chamber, Turon’s precision comes across as discipline and diligence—a man committed to his work. Here, just the two of us, and with the repercussions of my actions being uncertain, his concise answers seem allusive.
“Okay.” I shift Zorrah’s weight. “In that case, what happened to the others who opened the door?”
“If I recall, each experienced quite a different fate.” He rubs his eyes. “I’m only familiar with one of their outcomes in detail.”
The lift slows in preparation for a full stop. “And that particular outcome?”
“Is still very much undecided.”
“Oh.” I gather he must be referring to me.
The doors slide open. Turning toward me, Turon swells to bar the exit. It’s his first aggressive gesture since greeting me moments earlier. “Ms. Bluehair, you must be certain of your path before pursuing it a step further.”
I crouch at the ready and speak through gritted teeth. “You said you would help me.”
“I said I would get you the help you need.”
“How are those different?” I scramble to decipher the subtle discrepancy that could cost me everything. At the same time I stretch to see past Turon—to catch a glimpse of what lies in wait.
“There is a cost for what you seek, Ms. Bluehair.”
“Why do you do that?” I’m suddenly struck with the inappropriateness of how Instructor Turon addresses the cadets.
He stares at me, a single brow raised.
“Why do you insist on being different from all the other instructors, referring to cadets by name instead of number?”
He rolls his head. A vertebra in his neck cracks loudly. “I have a poor memory for numbers.”
“Or you have a dislike for conformity.”
Turon closes his eyes.
I decide to bull forward blindly. “You discourage it, even as you acknowledge its necessity in a place like the academy.” I’ve no idea why I’m speaking the words, other than I’m confused and afraid, and I’m stalling in hopes of finding answers to make me less confused and less afraid.
“Very well, Cadet 777, are you willing to pay the cost required by your current course of action?” Turon stiffens, a sneer on his face.
Oddly, his small gesture of dislike toward me brings a modicum of comfort. Perhaps I need the black and white differentiation of friend and foe to ground my decision. Zorrah is my friend, and the academy is my foe.
Clutching Zorrah tightly to my chest, I nod. “I will pay whatever the cost to care for my own.” Internally, I’m daring Turon to be the one who tries to collect payment.
Thanks so much for taking the time to read this scene of Boundaries, Season 2 of The Green Ones. I’ll be publishing FREE daily scenes from The Green Ones until…I die…or something terrible happens. Seriously, I’ve got over 100 scenes written so far, and I’ll be writing more until the story reaches its natural ending. You are totally welcome to read the entire story for FREE! If at any point you decide you would rather finish the story in ebook or print format, just click the buttons below and you can do that as well. If you enjoy reading the serial releases, BUT you would also like to support me as a writer (my kids need wine!) please subscribe to my premium content for bonus scenes, exclusives, and insider access to my process. And of course, I’d be grateful if you would share this post with any of your reader friends who you think would enjoy The Green Ones. Happy reading!