It’s times like these we need a new punctuation mark. Before emojis, we had emoticons. (Did you know Cindy Crawford has her own emoticon? And I don’t!?) Well, before emoticons, we had these things called punctuation. We used them to provide additional clues as to how to read our words. For example, “You smell.” and “You smell?” and “You, smell!” all mean different things due to those little marks after and between the words! Crazy, I know.
For the year 2020, I’m thinking something like, “!?!!!??!??” We can call it the WTF mark. Just kidding. We already have like 685 ways of expressing honked-off incredulity. It’s actually getting a little out of control. I’ve heard people say the Inuits have fifty words for snow. That’s nothing. The social-media-savvy of today have 5, 621 words for “I’m not sure what you just said, and I don’t want to accidentally learn something while trying to figure it out… so, you suck.”
“We also have 695 ways of saying, “OMG, I didn’t fact-check (or even completely read this), but it’s like the scariest thing ever. You have to read it!” Along those lines, I just have to pass along a Pandemic Graph I stumbled across the other day. It totally cracked me up. I dare you to trace the red line on the graph with your finger and not laugh by the time you get to the end. I did it twice and laughed both times. (Laugh, dang you! Why won’t you laugh?!)
I’m also embarrassed to admit, my first thought when I looked at this graph was, “What in the world does B-R-A stand for?” But hey, the person who made this shouldn’t have used all caps. It’s confusing!
Anywho, if you replace “COFFEE” with “Tea” and then change “SWEATPANTS” to “No pants,” I’m totally in agreement with this statistical analysis of 2020. (While I don’t personally wear a “BRA,” I’m in a BRA positive household and I’m sympathetic to the cause.)
Now, I’m almost certain you’re asking yourself how in the world I wrote an entire email about nothing at all…and why “!?!!!??!??” you read it.
All that’s left to do is to forward this post to all of your friends along with a message something like, “This guy’s a total neo-maxi-zoom-dweebie, and I’m not sure what he’s talking about. But did you see how he’s hating on SWEATPANTS?! OMG!?!!!??!??.*
[* In actuality I’m just an agist luddite ranting about “kids these days” while sitting at my computer and living out my childhood dreams…or am I now being sarcastic?**]
[**The answer is no. I wasn’t being sarcastic before, but I am now.***]
[***J/K****]
[****Not really.]
At the Desk This Week
The kids are “going back to school.” (Whatever that means these days.) One thing it means is that I’ve got to find some sort of routine so I can buckle down and start cranking out the words. This week has been good so far. I’ve finished Episode 2 of Season 3 of the Green Ones, complete with a surprising twist. It’s always fun when I get blindsided by a plot twist! It’s a sign that my mind is finally starting to live in the world at a deep enough level to challenge my initial ideas in order to ratchet things up a notch or three. Here’s blood in your eye! (That’s what we authors say to each other. You know, after staring at the computer for hours on end.)
Boundaries: Ep.2, Scene 1—6
[Click here to start at the beginning.]
“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.
“Then from now on, we’re in this together.” Turon steps inside the lift and lets the doors close behind him.
“What are you—”
“In time, Ms. Bluehair.” He presses the button for the deepest level of the compound.
“But I thought we were, what about—”
“In time,” Turon repeats himself without raising his voice.
I clutch Zorrah and back into the far corner of the lift. Our descent slows before I can think of what to do next. Without knowing why, I know everything about my relationship with Instructor Turon has changed. His posture slackens. As if resigning himself to an undisclosed course of action, he slumps with his back against the wall. He props up his right foot, letting the sole grip the plasteel surface behind him. As a result, his knee juts into the cramped space.
It’s a sloppy display of unpreparedness—totally out of character. As if to punctuate my thoughts, Turon releases a low rumbling belch. “I’ve been feeling that since we first stepped on the lift.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know, Ms. Bluehair. That is indeed the help I am trying to offer.” The lift stops. Turon straightens. “Ah, here we are. Finally, I consider it my duty to warn you: understanding begins with one simple truth.” The doors open. This time Turon does nothing to stop me from exiting the lift, thus raising my suspicion even further.
“And that truth is?”
He winks. “Sorry kid, that’s for you to discover.” With a sweeping arm, he gestures toward a darkened room beyond the open doors. “This is the time.”
“Right.” I creep forward while repeating two words to myself—for Zorah. Every hair on the back of my neck and arms raises as I scoot further into the room. For Zorrah. I’ve no idea what I expected beyond the door marked “No admittance.” Certainly none of what has happened so far.
Several strides into the darkness, I sense an obstacle impeding my progress. I squint in effort to maximize the dim light escaping the lift. The slightest outline of a rectangular shape forms. Then the doors to the lift slide shut, taking with them the only motes of light.
“Have you ever wondered what the immortals do with the long years of their lives, Ms. Bluehair?” Turon clucks his tongue. “Of course you have. I know, because I once wondered the same thing. This may surprise you, Calli, but it was not that long ago I dwelled in Worker City—less than a hundred years.”
Crouching in the pitch black and unsure of what danger awaits, I stretch my hearing in every direction. With little choice, I continue to listen to the instructor in hopes of gathering a clue as to his intentions.
“Earlier, when you questioned the fate of those who have opened the door—technically, I suppose my response was less than honest. I apologize for that. In fact I know a little something about two of the cadets who have dared be so bold. One of them, I assume you have deduced, is yourself. The other is me.”
A long silence fills the darkness. For several seconds, Turon makes no effort to continue his story or to move. The waiting isn’t getting me any closer to helping Zorrah, so I prompt him. “I’m listening.”
“Good. Anyway, for reasons quite different than your own, I crossed the threshold. Fast forward and here we are today.”
“For an instructor, you’re not a very good story teller.”
“Yes, well, I’m afraid everything in between is a rather long and tedious story not much good for the telling. But it’s what I’ve got to say next that you’ll want to hear.”
“As long as it leads to helping Zorrah, please, continue.”
“Wait, Zorrah’s still alive?” The tone in his voice shifts dramatically.
I tense as I hear him moving. The lights flick on.
I blink through the sudden glare and scan my surroundings for immediate threats. Nothing or no one is moving except Turon. He stops a full stride from me. As my vision clears, I realize his face is etched with concern.
“Good God, girl. Why didn’t you say so before?”
I clutch Zorrah protectively and growl, “I thought I made myself perfectly clear at the door.”
“You requested medical attention, I assumed for a tragically terminated cadet. You did not mention emergency resuscitation!”
“And why would you assume Zorrah was dead!?”
“My instructions dear girl. Because of my instructions.” He stops short and strokes his chin.
“Whoever instructed you to meet me at the door, that person thought Zorrah was dead?”
“It would seem so. Now no more stalling unless you wish termination to be Zorrah’s actual fate.” He sticks out his arms. “I’m afraid I must ask you to surrender her into my custody.”
I hesitate. There is no way for me to know if Turon is the mystery man, or if he is in cahoots with him, or if he really is a sympathetic underling following orders.
“Xoxochueyi!” Turon stamps his foot. “If you can save her on your own, by all means do so. If not, hand the dear girl over.”
Biting the inside of my mouth, I relinquish Zorrah in a single movement.
Cradling her, Turon moves swiftly across the room. “Nothing to fear. As fate would have it, we’ve come to exactly the right place.”
Following on his heels, I focus my attention on our surroundings for the first time. “The morgue!?” My misgivings get the better of me, and I clutch at Turon in an effort to retake Zorrah.
A gentle green pulse of EM energy deflects my scrambling efforts. “Calm yourself, Ms. Bluehair. The morgue was the floor above, where I had originally intended to stop. This,” he pauses, “this is the gateway to Nirvana.”
Before there is time to process Turon’s last statement he continues, “We can stabilize her and safely store her here until I figure out what to do next.”
“Store her?” In blind hysteria I trip on a thick cord and topple on top of one of the hundreds of containers evenly spaced throughout the length of the cavernous room.
“I’m sorry, there isn’t proper time to explain.”
“Xoxochueyi! They’re people!” I roll off the polished container onto hands and knees. I blink in effort to erase the haunting eyes I had seen staring back at me from beneath a glass barrier.
Jumping to my feet, I spin to take in their sheer number. “Hundreds of people!”
“There are thousands, Ms. Bluehair. Be careful not to unplug one of them!”
Overcoming my initial shock, I focus again on Zorrah. Across the room, I watch with horror as Turon opens one of the metallic sarcophaguses and places her inside.
Mindful of the chords, I sprint toward him. “What are you doing?”
“Each of these stasis pods serves as a medical monitoring devise capable of diagnosing and remedying a myriad of maladies and injuries. Short of a medical expert, they represent Zorrah’s best chance of survival.”
I reach Turon’s side as the lid to the pod containing Zorrah seals shut. “But wait. You can’t.”
“I can, and I will. And if you care for Zorrah, you’ll shut up and watch me.” Turon types a series of commands on the pod interface.
I bite my lip, overwhelmed with hopelessness. Through the square of glass, I watch as a swirling gas obscures Zorrah’s face. “At least explain to me what’s happening.”
“The gasses are inert. So far I’ve sealed the pod and insured the absence of foreign entities.”
“Like germs?”
“Exactly. Now she’s ready for the initial scan.”
A brilliant blue light strobes from inside the pod, forcing me to shield my eyes.
“Sorry about that. I should have warned you to look away.” Turon grips me by the shoulders. “If healing her is beyond the pod’s ability, at the very least it will stabilize her condition. She’ll be safe here.”
“She’s alone.”
Turon tries to laugh. The sound comes out as half-sneeze and half-burp. “Well, not exactly.”
I follow his gaze along the length of the room. The far wall is over a hundred meters distant with pillars running from floor to ceiling every dozen meters. The entire room is filled with stasis pods. “You know what I mean. I can’t leave her.”
The pod beeps, and Turon turns his attention toward the readout. After a long few seconds, he exhales.
“What? How is she?”
He grimaces. “She’ll make it.”
“What does that mean?” I want to punch him in his enigmatic face.
“The pod can fix her, but it will take time. She’s been electrocuted badly, but I suppose you knew that much. The majority of her burns are internal, focused around the lungs and heart. By the looks of it, her heart should have burst. She should be dead.”
He turns toward me slowly. “You had something to do with that, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know.” The directness of the question alerts me to the dangerous waters I’m navigating. For all I know, Turon could be the same man who tried to kill Zorrah. Having failed, he’s storing her in a dusty basement. “I tried to help her.”
Turon nods while stroking his chin. “I would say you succeeded. In time, her scar tissue will regenerate.”
“How much time?” I watch Zorrah’s sleeping face through the glass as Turon finishes his routine at the keypad.
“Days, maybe weeks.”
“Weeks!”
“In the meantime, as I said before, she’ll be safe here. Remember, she’s supposed to be dead.” He intensifies his gaze.
After a deep breath, I understand his meaning. “Your superior, the one who instructed you to meet me, thinks she’s dead.”
Turon nods. “That means no one will look for her here.”
I can’t make the pieces fit. Maybe Turon isn’t the mystery man. Even so, he obviously works for him. The only question is where his loyalties lie. To find the answer, I need to keep him talking.
“Earlier, you were going to tell me about this place, weren’t you? You were going to tell me what the immortals spend their hundreds of years doing.” I take a seat on the stasis pod behind me. “If this room is the gateway, then what’s this Nirvana?”
“Well, it’s not actually Nirvana,” Turon says. “Technically it’s known as the eighth dimension.”
I stare at him, unimpressed.
“Forget it. Let’s just stick with Nirvana.” He pinches the bridge of his nose before waving his hand dismissively. “I’m sorry for being a little melodramatic with the lights earlier. Sometimes the whole instructor gig goes to my head. Anyway, I was trying to make the point that the immortals have been keeping Worker City in the dark.”
“By not telling us about this so-called Nirvana?”
“They’ve used the working class to build Nirvana.”
“Now you’re sounding like a propaganda poster.”
Turon shakes his head. “You don’t understand. The working class are nothing more than slaves. The immortals oppress the workers in order to maintain their lavish lives.”
“No. It’s the twitch that oppresses us. The twitch is what divides us.”
Turon sighs and plops down on the stasis pod across from me. “I suppose we better both sit for this part.”
“Okay, we’re sitting.” I gesture for him to continue.
“There’s a cure, Ms. Bluehair.”
“I know. If we can master mind over—”
“A simple cure, a plant.”
“You mean the divine herb?”
He nods.
I laugh out loud. “But that’s just an urban legend, nothing more than a myth. Trust me, my mother—” I stop myself from sharing too much.
“I assure you, Ms. Bluehair, the plant is very real. A single dose of the divine herb is why I’m still here today. I was chosen. I was invited to join the ometeotl. Over one hundred years old, I am living proof.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” I stand to distance myself from him. “If the cure is so simple why wouldn’t the regime administer it to everyone?”
“Not everyone can live forever, Ms. Bluehair. The demand for resources would be too great, and there would be no one left to provide those resources.” Turon gestures toward the rows of pods. “Look around you. Of course you’ve wondered why there are so few immortals at ballgames. Perhaps you’ve wondered why we play such a passive role in your Masa training?”
I picture the empty streets of Immortal City and remember Izel mentioning the lack of scheduled residents in her building.
“Most of us only return to New Teo for brief shifts to recondition our physical bodies. The rest of our lives are spent in a paradise—no war, no work, no virus. Remember the truth you asked about earlier? The kernel of understanding you need to put everything else together? If you are ready to believe it, Ms. Bluehair, I’ll point you in the right direction.”
I realize I’m overly tense, as if preparing to attack Turon’s lies physically. I breathe deeply in effort to focus my mind. First, the mystery man tries to take Zorrah. Then Turon shows up behind the unlocked forbidden door. I can’t be sure whether the instructor is being genuine, or if this is all part of another elaborate trap to test my loyalty. “Why are you telling me this? Why bring me here?”
“Like you, I once wondered why the only door in the academy marked ‘No admittance’ failed to have a simple lock. Like you, I opened that door. Like you, I think everyone should have the option to live a full life.”
“If you’re so like me, then you know I don’t believe a teocuali bit of the teocuali trash dribbling from your mouth. For all I know, the people in these pods could be part of a drug trial to cure the twitch. The immortals could be sick, or maybe not so immortal after all. Maybe this is a prison camp full of our enemies.” I blot a bead of sweat from my brow and steady my breathing.
“All viable scenarios,” Turon nods. “In the end, only you can choose what to believe. While you ponder the possibilities, let me remind you of the reality in which I live.”
I glance from Turon to Zorrah’s stasis pod before nodding my head.
“You and your friends have already willingly submitted yourselves to the regime’s sifting process. The gears of Masa Academy were set into motion hundreds of years ago and haven’t stopped since. Unless the right someone stops them, those gears will continue to grind up the most promising resistance the working class has to offer.”
“Who? Neca?”
“Neca, you, your brother, even little Zorrah.”
“No, you’re wrong. There is no resistance. If there was, I wouldn’t be part of it.”
Sorrow returns to Turon’s eyes. “Perhaps you’re right.” Suddenly he slaps his thighs and stands. “Well, never fear. There’s still hope. The administration chose the likes of me despite my misgivings. Maybe they’ll choose you as well.”
He steps closer, assuming a menacing air for a second time in as many hours. “Meanwhile, Zorrah remains our secret.”
“But I have to tell—”
“Only you and I are to know she survived, unless you wish to place her life in jeopardy afresh.” Looming over me, his presence expands until the air crackles. He nods toward the lift. Obediently, I retreat.
On the way back to the cadet portion of the academy, I focus intently on my surroundings, memorizing the path back to Zorrah. The bio scan on the lift doors is the only real measure of security. I’m shocked to discover myself speculating whether Turon’s severed hand would still activate the scan.
Then again, he could be an actor on a stage. Even if his words are true, his intentions could be false. It hardly seems possible the immortals are currently dwelling in some paradisiacal dimension. If that were the case, only the masazin would remain to defend New Teo from external assault.
Turon stops a meter shy of the door separating administration from cadets. “Beyond this door, I am your combat instructor. I will show you no favoritism. Neither you nor I are to mention this experience again.”
“I figured that on my own.”
“Ms. Bluehair, watch yourself.”
I shrug. “We’re not on the other side of the door yet.”
Turon pinches the bridge of his nose. “Well observed.”
“How will I visit Zorrah?”
“When Zorrah is fully recovered, I will initiate a rendezvous with you, here, on this side of the door. In class I will question you, ‘Have you pondered the possibilities?’ That night you are to open this door precisely one hour after lights out.”
“But what if—”
“You are not to initiate a rendezvous under any condition. If you pass through this door at any other time, you are on your own. Understood?”
I chew the inside of my mouth and nod.
“Very well. Unless there is something else, I suggest you scurry back to your barracks and scrape together whatever precious sleep you can before today’s tournament.”
“The tournament!”
Turon shushes me. “Lower your voice, Ms. Bluehair. Despite what I said earlier, there is still a contingency of immortals in this facility.”
“Sorry.” I quickly sift through the barrage of questions I have in regards to the tournament. “You know about the unfair conditions in the combat chamber, don’t you?”
Turon grins. “There are no such concepts as fair and unfair in combat, Ms. Bluehair. There are only factors known and unknown. Tonight, you and your team managed to transfer one of those factors from unknown to known.”
He sighs. “But you did so at a cost. What you do with the knowledge bought by Zorrah’s sacrifice is up to you. Likewise, your boldness and dedication to save Zorrah has bought you additional knowledge. Use it wisely.” He clutches his hands behind his back, assuming the statuesque pose I’ve grown accustomed to in his classroom.
I stop with my hand on the latch. “I almost forgot. Zorrah disabled the security.” I pause to ensure I don’t give away the presence of the icpitls. “Only she knows how to enable it again. She was going to do it after we got back to the barracks.”
Turon raises his brows, apparently impressed. “I wondered how the lot of you expected to move around at night without getting caught.”
“What if no one else can fix it?”
Turon shrugs. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
“Just promise me you’ll ask whether I’ve pondered the possibilities as soon as Zorrah is better.”
“I promise.”
With a whoosh, I slide open the door and cross back into the cadet half of the academy. By the time I turn to close the door, Turin has strode several meters in the opposite direction. For a few seconds, I watch him go. But like the watching eyes mounted on the walls, he doesn’t seem concerned by what action I’ll take next.
Exhausted and unable to deal with Olin and the others before allrise, I stretch out on the cold floor of the common room and close my eyes. Two blinks later, the lights have risen and I’m being rolled over by multiple sets of hands.
“Where’s Zorrah?”
“What are you doing out here?”
“We were worried when you didn’t come back.”
I bury the heels of my palms into my eye sockets and try to press my dreams back into my subconscious before they soil my waking thoughts. But it’s too late. I remember dreaming of Zorrah awake inside her pod—entombed and staring through a window of glass. I shouldn’t have left her.
Someone tugs me into a seated position, and I blink open my blurry eyes. Everyone’s there: Olin, Yetic, Cera and Neca. Throughout the barracks, Serpents stream from their dorms in order to begin their various morning rituals. I realize I have no idea what I’m going to tell them about Zorrah. I’ve no prepared story. Staring Olin in the eyes, I know I can’t possible tell him she’s dead. “I—”
“Sorry.” Olin provides me a temporary reprieve. “It’s not that we aren’t glad to see you.”
“I know.” I place a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have made you wait, but I couldn’t deal with it last night.”
Olin’s shoulders sag. His eyes go vacant as he retreats inside himself.
I’m losing him, and I can’t afford to lose him. Especially now that it’s only the five of us. “They took her. I don’t know where.”
“So she’s alive?” Cera asks.
“I think so. I don’t know.”
“What happened?” Yetic kneels beside me and doodles on the floor with his finger, as if he were drawing up a battle plan for the tournament. The behavior is engrained even though we all know Zorrah never reinitiated the watching eyes.
Yetic’s gesture reminds me I need to transition the conversation to the tournament as soon as reasonably possible. An idea I must have formulated during my sleep begins to creep into my awareness. I put it on the back burner for now. “I opened the door at the end of the hall.”
“No admittance?” Yetic asks.
I nod. “I was apprehended immediately by two Ometeotl Guardsmen. They took Zorrah. There was nothing I could do.”
“Why were you gone so long?”
“They held me for questioning. Or at least that was what I assumed, but you know how they are. No one ever asked me any questions. After a couple hours, they explained Zorrah had been moved to a medical facility. Then they shoved me back through the door.”
Olin stares at the floor. “That’s it? That’s all they said?”
“That’s good isn’t it?” Cera jumps in. “Medical facilities are for the living, right? They’ll fix her up, and she’ll be back in no time.”
“I’m sorry.” In my mind’s eye I see Zorrah asleep in a pod among a thousand other pods in a dark room in the bowels of the academy and struggle to hold back tears. “I should have done more.”
“Forget it.” Neca pushes Yetic aside and pulls me to my feet. “You acted bravely beyond all measure. You refused to quit until you were faced with no other option.” Neca pulls Olin up as well. “We’ll see our Little Fox again. She’s stronger than the rest of us combined.”
I nod and embrace my little brother. When I pull back, I see hope in his eyes. I acknowledge Neca gratefully. Coming from anyone else, the encouraging words would have seemed hollow. But Neca’s genuineness in regards to Zorrah cannot be ignored. And it’s true. Zorrah is the strongest among us.
Wedging himself between me and Neca, Yetic clears his voice.
I stretch and place one arm around Yetic and the other around Olin. “Of course Zorrah wouldn’t want us to be distracted at a critical time like this.” I start the whole of us toward the center of the commons. “She took one for the team last night so we could regain the advantage today in the tournament.”
“But without her,” Olin says, “how are we going to—”
“I’m glad you asked,” I cut my brother off. “I have a plan, but it’s going to involve the entire barracks.” I turn toward Yetic. “Can you and Neca hoist me up? I have an announcement to make.”
Standing on Yetic’s and Neca’s thighs, I address Serpent barracks as its captain. “We lost one of our own last night on a mission I authorized and led.”
The common room falls quiet except for the few cadets emerging late from their dorms.
After a pause of several seconds, I continue, “Zorrah, cadet 775, and I left the barracks after lights out to gather critical intelligence in regards to the last minute tournament scheduled for today. The two of us obtained that intelligence the moment before a security measure inflicted a lethal electrical shock to Zorrah.”
I close my eyes and allow my genuine emotions to sell the minor alterations to the story. “The discovery for which Zorrah gave her life changes everything. The combat chamber, it turns out, is not an impartial stage set with scenery. It is not simply the container in which we fight. It is operated and manipulated by a member of the administration.”
“Manipulated how?” A familiar voice near the opening of Serpent 8 asks the relevant question.
“Thank you for that, Brutah.” I use the interruption as an opportunity to smile. A few snickers ripple throughout the otherwise rapt group of 390 cadets. “The manipulations include everything from shielding to energy distribution. The operator can create storms or any other form of EM disturbance.”
A gasp of disbelief erupts across the room.
I cut it short. “It seems the administration has determined Serpent barracks to be the most competent and therefore most dangerous barracks in the academy. During yesterday’s combat training between Serpent 6 and Jaguar 4 the administration pulled out multiple stops in an effort to deal Serpent its first loss in two weeks. They failed.”
I smirk and allow a scattering of hoots and trademark Serpent hisses before continuing, “It was because of these unreconcilable discrepancies that I and the rest of my leadership decided to investigate. The totality of these experiences has taught me something important.”
“Preach it!” The words reverberate from the general vicinity of Serpent 1 and 2.
I smile and nod. “Alright, I will.” I look to the ceiling and breathe deeply as if gathering strength from the distant and forgotten sun. “We think we’re the best.” A few cadets respond with timid agreement. “The administration thinks we’re the best.” The voices grow in number and volume. “I know we’re the best.” The clatter grows louder until I slash my arms through the air, demanding complete silence.
“It’s time we prove it, until there is no one left to argue otherwise. Today we change the rules. I’m tired, like I know the rest of you are tired, of trying to abide by a set of invisible and unspoken rules. The only way to know what the rules are here in Masa Academy is to make them. From here on out, that’s what we’ll do!”
A few fists pump in the air. The rest of the cadets stare at each other in confusion. I’ve taken them to the edge of releasing their bridled emotions, but the hint of outright rebellion is too much.
“What about the loyalty test, I hear you mumble to each other. Only the best survive. Only a few are chosen. We are the best!” I thunder the words. “We are the chosen!” I pound their skulls with the power of my will.
“Not just a few of us. Not just Serpent 6 or Serpent 1 or Serpent 8.” I jab my finger in the direction of each dorm as spittle flies from my lips. “No single 49 is enough.”
“Remember,” I shake my head and lower my voice until I feel the cadets in the back squeezing forward to hear every word, “I’m not suggesting we break the rules. Up until now we’ve only been parroting rumor and hearsay.” Gradually, I raise my volume. “There isn’t one among us who even knows what the loyalty test is.”
I close my eyes and look inside for the right words to conclude. I think of Olin and his disgust of all things Masa. I think of how he enlisted anyway, because I thought it best for both of us. “Well starting today, there is a new loyalty test. We are going to envision it. We are going to implement it. And we’re going to pass it with flying colors—all 391 of us.”
For the first time during the speech, I look to those closest to me. I try to read what Olin and Yetic and Cera think of my using Zorrah to rally the troops. I even look at Neca. The direct eye contact seems to wake each of them from a trance. I realize they had been listening—waiting for me to explain my plans for the tournament—just like everyone else.
Without further hesitation, I plow into the matter. “As you all know, today’s tournament is to take place via two rounds. During the first round, each barracks is to battle internally until a 49 emerges for the second round during which that 49 will be pitted against the surviving 49 from each of the other four barracks. Sound about right?”
Affirmations roll across the commons.
“Until now, we have interpreted this to mean we should fight each other until only forty-nine Serpents remain. The other four barracks will do exactly that. Serpent will not. Today, all 391 of us will win by battling once instead of twice.”
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