8.1 Muscle pain
Maeven’s hand is shaking. It’s more obvious now that she’s holding her spoon. Wobbling and wobbling.
Every muscle, every fibre aches, and every second is a mental protest to stay awake. Captain Eyeshot, who’s standing by the far wall, is eyeing her down, and despite her success with the replenishment last night her Resonance sears more than usual. It’s the same result, whether she fucks up, kind of fucks up, or doesn’t fuck up at all.
The captain even had a fiery edge at the leader’s assembly today. She ordered them to do combat drills out in the cold ocean morning. As Captain Eyeshot was yelling into her ear, again and again each time she crossed a lap around the deck, Maeven quickly realised that the drills she used to do at the Academy were not as challenging as it gets. She gulps down a spoonful of eggs and plant-based meat. Her assignees are staring at her.
“You look like shit,” says Gunner.
Of course he’d say that.
For better or for worse, Maeven won’t be sitting with her company in the cafeteria long. After she eats, it’s tidy up with Holly; then at 1100, the team down at the engine room need her help; then it’s lunch prep with Holly, and while she eats lunch she’ll have to finish that report on the broken span wire and promptly hand it to Captain Mills (hopefully she’ll write it off as equipment failure); then, finally…Maeven yawns.
From the other side of the table, Gunner dips his head into her field of view. “Up and at ‘em Riel. Top of the morning!”
Another spoonful of eggs. She thinks about the soldier she met last night.
“I’m here,” she says.
“I swear you’re like…dead,” says Gunner.
“I’m just thinking.”
“’Bout what?” says Callum.
She pauses before a, “Nothing.” It’s followed by a despondent silence; during which Howard’s words ping from somewhere in the back of her head. Give a damn, that’s what he said. Fingers wrapped around the plastic, her grip steadies. “Well—"
The assignees look at her.
“We need to reorganise the dorm closets,” she says. “Captain Eyeshot demands we follow a standard system of organisation.”
“Okay!” says Forrest with crumb-sprinkled cheeks, at the same time Gunner shouts, “Fuck that!”
“Gunner!” Forrest punctuates. “I think we should help reorganise the closets.”
“How ‘bout you reorganise the dick from your balls.”
“How about I order you,” says Maeven. She pauses, then reclines. “I’m supposed to brief you on some things. I thought I could do it then. I don’t know.”
“Let’s do it!” says Forrest.
“We already know you don’t have information about the campaign,” says Gunner.
“I might have heard some things last night,” she chimes. Gunner shuts his mouth. “And,” she draws, figuring it out as she says it. “I’ve seen our firearm supply. I know what kind of rifles we might be using when we get off the ship. I can show you how to use them. I don’t think the captains will have time to teach you.”
Gunner perks an eyebrow.
It’s probably the closest to a yes she’s going to get.
8.2 Empty hangers
----------------------------------------
“Snug against the shoulder, left hand on the…” Maeven stops.
Gunner has perfect side grips. The stock pressed against his shoulder and his cheek, his head ducked in line with his optic. He’s even flicked his thumb at the safety switch. He’s done this before. Many times. It’s almost too bad she couldn’t bring a real rifle from the stock shed, for fear that one of the captains might find out. Instead they’ve had to demonstrate on a wet mop, with its dirty mop head dripping grey water over the dorm floor they just cleaned.
“Why did you want me to teach you?” says Maeven.
“Only to see if you knew what you were talking about,” says Gunner, flashing his teeth with a grin.
They’re sitting together on the floor. It didn’t take long for Maeven to get through the information from each of the leader’s briefings, which had accumulated throughout the days as she failed to relay the lessons to her team. She thought it wasn’t worth the effort, explaining things that would probably bore them, like VR principles, military strategies and the ROS. To her surprise, Gunner had shut up and listened, so did Callum without falling asleep. Forrest is much smarter than he makes himself out to be, and as for Win, well, Maeven thinks he’s paid attention.
“So do you remember the closet rules?” she says. “Uniforms on the right, clean boots up on the top rack, bags lay flat on the bottom.”
“Empty hangers must be stowed in the bottom drawer!” recounts Forrest.
“That too.”
“Yeah, yeah. Blah, blah, blah empty hangers.” says Gunner.
Well, she never expected them remember it. “I’m just going to call my Will for a second. Don’t be alarmed,” she says, raising her palms. “Sketchy, could you come out?”
The grey cat floats out of her chest (really, it’s her brother’s Will that she’s calling, but explaining that would probably be too complicated).
“Give them the diagrams,” she says to the floating cat.
Gunner veers back and takes the paper with a cautious hand. The assignees look at the grey feline with a mixture of fear and fascination. Hunter’s minion was originally made as a drawing assistant, but it can do anything so long as it involves an implement and a flat medium. Write notes, paint pictures and so on. She had the minion draw a closet diagram, with arrows indicating what goes where, and that each used hanger should be spaced apart by three fingers. She dictated it as she washed this morning’s dishes.
Once Sketchy hands to them a Will-manifested diagram each it flies back into her chest.
“OK, that’s it,” says Maeven. “I need to pick up some things from laundry.”
About to stand, she stops to see Gunner wagging his finger.
“You’re forgetting something,” he sings.
The list of briefing topics scroll past in her mind. What could she have forgotten? Did she mention the porthole? Captain Eyeshot’s going to throw their things out of the portholes if they’re out of place.
Gunner passes a look to the rest of Ocean Company. She can’t read it.
He sighs and raises his hand.
“Hello everyone,” he says. Over-enunciating as if she’s audibly impaired. “My name is Gunner Halcutt. I am 20 years old. I’m from The United Lands. I like hunting with my dad on weekends.”
Callum laughs. It’s deep and throaty. “You never introduced yourself to us, Maeven,” he says.
Maeven responds, “Yes I did. I said my name didn’t I? I said Maeven.”
“That’s not really—”
“That’s an introduction.”
“It’s really not. It was an answer,” says Callum, muttering, “A forced one at that.”
“I am Forrest Xin and I’m from The East Empire!”
I already knew that!
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“Why do you wear those dog ears all the time?” asks Gunner.
“They’re real.”
Forrest tugs at his furred appendages and his scalp tugs with it. For a moment, that shuts them up.
“I’m Callum Mcray. 38. United Lands. I used to be a wrestler,” says Callum. Gunner echoes his age in disgust.
“I’m Maeven Riel. Um, 17 years old. United Lands…” Her voice trails off. She feels weak.
“It's finally nice to meet you, Maeven,” says Callum, shaking a limp hand.
Their eyes sync on Win. After a couple seconds he lifts his head from Sketchy’s diagram and answers, “Win. 20 and United.”
“Last name?” Gunner presses.
“Miura.”
He says it with an accent, and she barely catches the braces on his teeth.
“Fantastic. I have another question,” says Gunner. “Sky and Sand keep saying you’re from somewhere called Larosa Academy and uh—what does that mean?”
“I just went to a good school, that’s all,” answers Maeven.
“Your parents loaded?”
“No.”
“Are you a Creationist?” says Win.
“I’m not,” says Maeven. She decides to clarify after all, “Sketchy belongs to my brother.”
Wow. It’s like they’re real people now. Callum a wrestler, that’s kind of cool.
“Ocean Company…” says Gunner. “I can dig that. The ocean has sharks and shit right? What does Sky have? Helicopters?”
“Sand’s got crabs,” says Callum. Gunner laughs.
“Actually, most crabs live in marine environments,” says Forrest.
“Seriously, though. We don’t bite. Sometimes Maeven you look at us like we’re gonna steal your lunch or something,” says Callum. “We should be scared of you, technically.”
Maeven thins her lips. She didn’t know she looked at them like that. “Sorry,” she says. Callum waves his hand as if to say, “Don’t be.”
It’s time for her to head to laundry. “I need to go. See you guys.” She stands up.
“See you,” they say back.
8.3 Sketchbooks
----------------------------------------
Next morning in the kitchen, Maeven asks the cafeteria assistant, Holly, “Have I ever introduced myself?”
The cook blurts in response. “No.”
She had probably been holding it in this whole time.
“I didn’t know your name for three days,” says Holly.
“Why didn’t you ask?”
“I was scared.”
“So I’m scary?”
“I mean maybe a little bit.”
Scary? Maeven mules.
Captain Eyeshot is scary.
She leans off the counter and decides to extend a hand. “Maeven Riel,” she says. Holly accepts it. “Holly Pip. How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Oh—me too! And you’re a User right?”
“Yes.”
“Cool. That’s cool.”
They’re still shaking hands. Maeven doesn’t really know how to stop, in fact. Suddenly, her stomach rumbles, and they end up flinching away in mutual embarrassment.
She glances at the back room. Mrs Briggich is there sitting, she’s eating an oat bar and snickering over today’s pick of the same three Women’s Week magazines she rotates every morning.
She’s hungry, and it sucks. Waiting until everyone else gets their meals first takes so, so long. She takes a ladle and scoops the potato tray. The potatoes are always gone first.
Entertained by an idea, she turns to Holly.
“Open your mouth,” she whispers.
Holly stiffens, glancing at the tray. “We’ll get in trouble!”
Maeven urges with a push of the ladle. “You did make it,” she says.
Holly does a quick in-and-out check of the backroom. She slowly opens her mouth.
Maeven flicks the ladle and the cubes fly uniformly on her tongue. Holly chews. She brightens, cheeks puffed, then takes a scoop of baked beans in return, its sauce dripping over the floor.
Maeven waves in polite refusal.
“At least try one of the potatoes,” says Holly. So Maeven picks one and pops it in her mouth. It’s perfectly crispy on the outside, salty and herbed. She takes a container from under the counter.
“What are you doing?” whispers Holly.
“Saving some,” says Maeven. Mrs Briggich is still giggling into her magazine in the back room. She should have thought of this earlier. After wrapping the container in a napkin and tucking it back under the counter, she brings a paper towel to the bean spill.
She’s reminded of something.
Crap!
“I’m sorry Holly, I’ll be back I forgot I left our sheets in laundry.” She scrunches the paper towel and bins it. They have cabin inspections today. Captains check their dorms to make sure they’re tidy and sanitised lest pathogens go flying around and the non-Users get sick. Most importantly for Maeven, it’s Captain Eyeshot’s turn to do the inspections after breakfast, and she forgot to revisit laundry yesterday because that same captain spotted her in the hallway and she was promptly swivelled to engine room duty—
“You’re leaving me?”
“I won’t be long.”
Maeven rushes off, down the hallways slowing only to pay mind as Captain Leichman passes her on her way to laundry. Nothing to see here!
Sheets bagged, she arrives at their dorm.
Nobody’s here. The rest of Ocean have already left for breakfast.
She crouches by Win’s bed. Her hands stop when they motion for his duvet. These are Win’s things, after all. She doesn’t imagine the assignee being too pleased with her touching his stuff.
Let’s start easy then.
Her fingers are like tweezers picking at Gunner’s belongings. His odour smells of something like rust. A magazine is tucked under his pillow, and it definitely isn’t Women’s Week. She’s careful to position it back how she found it after his sheets are replaced.
She fixes Callum’s bed above. Minimal. Nothing out of the ordinary. Forrest’s bed looks fine as it is, so all she does it trade his pillow covers for new ones. After that, she fixes her own bunk. She has a book that she still hasn’t finished titled: Resonance Manifestations. She leaves it atop her duvet.
Her motions become slow and deliberate by the time she returns to Win’s quarters.
Maeven takes a fresh set of sheets from the laundry bag and pulls his pillow aside. A fan of notebooks propped against the wall topple on their backs. She takes them to shuffle them in line again, and she can’t help but notice that they’re filled to the brim, with beautiful drawings. They're like her brother’s drawings. Except, while Hunter’s linework tends to be clean and precise, Win’s is haphazard, unfiltered, with the picture coming together at the very end.
Before she knows it, she’s curiously flipping through. Ripples of his vivid imagination embedded into charcoal; some places mindfully smudged, darkened and erased to capture a fleeting essence. It’s cool. Maeven could only ever draw basic things.
One page catches her attention, titled "Will for Creation". The rest reads like a mix of a dot-pointed diary log and an encyclopaedia.
He knows about Will theory. But Maeven was sure he isn’t a User.
She keeps flipping. There are brilliant creatures, folkloric with modern touches here and there. They look Eastern-inspired. And each creature is prescribed with their own strategic purpose. Defence, stealth, restraint, close-combat…
He’s trying to develop his own Concept? One that incarnates the creatures in these books? The forms are complicated and intelligent. Each manifestation would require a substantial IQ to function as designed. Assuming he’s not from a Will Academy, achieving this would be nearly impossible. Even the simplest of prototypes could at least take years.
With a shake of her head Maeven stifles her thoughts. She shouldn’t be taking up time sticking her nose in Miura’s things, Holly’s waiting for her. So she claps the notebook.
8.4 Brawl on deck
----------------------------------------
Ocean Company lies down in a line on the deck of Peacemaker during a particularly uneventful day, second week since embarkment. Maeven takes in the sea air through her nostrils, feeling the sensation of the ship’s rocking, while Gunner Halcutt exhales so deeply it morphs into a grunt.
He props himself up with his hands behind his back. “Oh my god, Riel.” He shakes her arm. There’s a seagull perched on the gunwale and he’s just now noticed it, watching it like he’s in the desert, dying of thirst, drooling at the sight of a distant lake. Gunner flicks his cigarette butt. After realising it’s not mistaking it for a bread crumb, he hands her a lighter.
“What for?” she says.
“Throw it at it. Use your Will User Super Strength,” Gunner says.
“No.”
“Kill it,” he says. “Do it and I’ll never talk to you again.”
“You’re not supposed to use Will like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like all—willy-nilly’
“Willy-nilly.” He scoffs. “I’ll show you willy-nilly.” He raises a fist. She looks away.
“Fight me, Riel. I’ll let you have the first punch ‘cause I’m a gentleman.” He jumps to his feet, the seagull flies away frightened. “Lay it on me Larosa Academy!” he says, basking his arms.
Maeven closes her eyes, feeling the sun rays tingle her skin.
“Oh, you can’t? All you can do is make that dumb little cat doodle?”
Silence.
“I’ll fight you.”
Maeven opens her eyes at the voice. Everyone peers over.
Win is up, tossing his jacket on the floor.
“So he speaks,” says Gunner.
Gunner rolls his shoulders and pulls his neck side to side. Win wipes the dust off his hands by patting his pants.
“I wouldn’t bother with that. You’ll be on the ground again in about a second,” says Gunner.
Forrest and Maeven sit up, and Callum walks somewhere around the middle of the fighters. “Let’s take it easy guys, we don’t want to get hurt before—”.
The blond man lunges forward. It’s already begun.
“Gun!”
Gunner reaches with an outstretched fist and Win palms it. He tries again with an overhand right but Win backs away from it.
Win catches the next jab right by the sleeve of his VR jacket, then shoves it down by the assignee’s pelvis. He clutches the zipper of Gunner’s open jacket, swivels him, then ducks and picks his ankle off the floor. Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, gi style, Maeven thinks, recognising the technique. They drop to the floor. Win hooks his arm under the blonde’s head and leverages the ground to help him squeeze the choke. Gunner grunts, squirms, limps a little, then finally, taps.
As Win withdraws, Maeven realises that the muffled noise coming out of Gunner’s mouth is laughter. “Hooey!” he exclaims as he flattens, eyes up at the sky. The assignee damn-near died.
“You might want to get up, ground’s dirty,” says Win.
“That was a tight darce Win, I didn’t know you knew BJJ,” says Callum.
“Dude. I was thinking more stand-and-bang, you know? I didn’t think you’d pull the freaky shit.” Gunner gets up and zips off the rest of his jacket. “Alright, round two,” he says, shadow boxing to warm himself up. Callum extends a look to think about it. He allows them space again.
Gunner starts as the aggressor, throwing one hook after the other, exhaling with each attack. Sh! Sh! Sh!. This time, he doesn’t give Win the chance to think through it. Win dodges and holds his guard for a while, but after being backed up against the outside wall, he leans right into a swing.
Oof.
Win’s cheek ripples on impact and he catches himself with off-balance steps.
“Yeah that’s right baby!” Gunner hunches over him and flexes his arms while Callum cuts the space between them. “Alright that’s enough,” he calls.
But it isn’t enough for the blond assignee. Gunner storms towards her. “It’s on Maeven,” he growls, rolling the sleeves of his black undershirt.
She ignores him.
“Applicants,” a voice cracks through the speakers on the ship’s exterior. “Please return to your cabins. Arrival on Mortareste is due to occur at 1700 hours. Applicants 1 to 500, you are to remain at your cabins until further notice. Applicants 501 to 1000, please await further instructions.”
Forrest looks elated. “Did you hear that Maeven?”
“Oh yes,” she says, grinning at Gunner as he begrudgingly un-tucks his sleeves. He swipes his jacket and swings it over his shoulder, and Ocean Company heads back to their dorm.