9.1 Bad dream
One, two, three.
Aries does the same thing every time she applies lip gloss. She follows the contours of her upper lip in two fluid motions the shape of an “M”, then she closes the loop with one swipe over the bottom lip. Then she repeats two more times, then smacks her lips three times, always audible. Does she notice the way she does that? She even leans on the sink the same way, tip-toed with her left hand gripping the edge of the sink. And just like now, Maeven has to wait for her in the Larosa bathroom. She’s picked up her own habit of leaning against the wall and drying her hands with a paper towel, one finger at a time.
“I’m tired,” Aries says, rolling her lip balm shut.
“So am I.”
She doesn’t really say it, she hears herself say it.
“Graduating wasn’t what it was cut out to be, huh?”
We’ve graduated already? Maeven looks up to the mirror. She’s wearing her navy blue.
“Just a few more weeks. I’ll get through my apprenticeship,” Aries says. “Then I’ll probably just end it.”
Now the mirror shows herself in that off-white sweater she always wore when she was at home. Her black wavy hair is long, messy. She’s holding the game controller in her hand.
“What about you?” Aries asks. “You don’t actually want to keep going, do you?
In answering that, she hears her voice start to echo. “Not really.”
Then it’s her bedroom door again. The crack between where her door ends and floor begins.
Her eyelids rip the image apart. The ship’s faint pulse returns. Atop her mattress, Maeven rolls from her side to her back. She rubs her face and keeps her hands there for a while, pushing down. She’s had that same dream for days.
“She’s awake,” Forrest whispers. Her curtains have been opened. That explains why her bunk is so intrusively bright.
Ocean is looking up at her, silent and blinking. Waiting.
“You didn’t have to wait for me,” Maeven says, exiting her bunk and shutting her curtains just so she can make a point.
“Forrest said we should, since there’s no leader assembly this morning,” Callum says.
“What time is it?”
“0900,” Forrest answers. “Are you excited? We’re going to see Mortareste today.”
Holly’s probably wondering where I am. She picks her uniform off the floor, thinking she must’ve kicked it during her sleep. “Why aren’t you at breakfast?”
Forrest doesn’t reply. He glances at the rest of the team.
“Wow. You’re welcome. What was the point of this? We could’ve ate by now.” Gunner gets up from sitting on his bunk. They follow him out the door. Maeven picks up her boots.
“I want extra potatoes this time,” Gunner says, holding the door sill. “Waiting for your sorry ass…”
9.2 A loaf of bread
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“Halcutt,” says Maeven. “Gunner. I need to be in front.”
The port is twenty steps ahead and Captain Eyeshot is six, five, now four steps behind. Maeven jumps a step and forces herself in between Gunner and Assignee Fourteen, the gangway clanking and swaying under them. Gunner curses, reaches around her, and pulls her jacket zipper halfway down.
“Fifteen,” Captain Eyeshot asserts, her face uncomfortably close as their boots sync on the platforms. She whacks Maeven’s chest with the back of her palm. “Is it really that difficult for you to follow instructions? Zipper up.”
She pulls her jacket to her sternum then runs her hands along the creases. The captain may have been more absent as of recent to prepare for first engagement, but her fastidiousness—towards Maeven in particular—has only grown.
“The country of Mortareste occupies a humble peninsula of the East Empire. It’s got these clustered cities that are really far apart from each other, most with miles of absolutely nothing stretched in between them.”
Meanwhile, Victor Stendhal is giving Sky Company and adjacent the run down on the geography of their campaign location.
“They have a growing GDP, two distinct seasons, and a friendly, religious culture. The wildlife here aren’t too dangerous, aside from snakes and scorpions.” Sky Company oohs and aah’s. He just knew that. Captain Mills took their pads away the day after they departed into the Indian Ocean. She wouldn’t have given them away for an internet search.
“May we see the enchanting Arabian horned viper?”
“I’ll ping you if I see one, Forrest!”
Maeven notes the distinct sandy buildings. She also spots what appears to be a mosque; from a colourful dome that peeks grand above the muddled rectangles.
Touching ground for the first time in two weeks, they line themselves along the dock. She shuffles and sand particles scrape under her boots, still feeling the ghostly sway of the ocean.
Captain Leichman exhales as he speaks, “Alright assignees.” and walks along the planks. Across them, they are gathering an audience of Mortaresis. “We’ll first be setting base at Rosca and preparing to secure the city under our sanctuary. It’s about two hours away from here, follow me to the main road.” He rolls up his map and holds it under his arm. “Look lively. You’re representing the Reserve and The United Lands,” he says (out of obligation, she presumes). The assignees follow.
Smiling citizens approach, mothers and daughters, mostly. Colourful shawls are garbed around them. A woman clasps her hands over Maeven’s and shakes. Then the woman gestures, and then again more forcefully, at a girl shadowing a few metres off to the side. Eventually the girl walks over with an aluminium tray in held her arms, nudging it outward. Maeven takes it. “T-thank you.” The girl pulls her knuckles over her mouth and hurries away.
“Nice,” Gunner comments, referring to the girl.
“Mmh,” she agrees, referring to the bread. Some sort of loaf. The crust is coated with something that makes it glisten and it has a sweet, fruity aroma.
They walk further into the city. Maeven wants to pull her jacket down again, to let the breeze dry the humidity off her skin. Behind the port is a market, flanking the road with layers of blue tarp, exposed cabling and the scent of fish. Curious onlookers sync their turning heads as the Reserve assignees pass by.
They stop at a road.
Captain Leichman clicks his briefcase open, takes something from it, and places a few of the items in a row on the dirt, several metres apart.
They look to be nothing but tiny cars, the size a toy would be. Then with a warning hand and a burst of Will, the figurines expand to the size of ordinary, functioning vehicles. Field buses. Five of them, scaled up with Leichman’s Will for Optimisation.
Perhaps that explains how Peacemaker seems so implausibly big.
It’s a bumpy ride. Soon the sanded buildings give way to an expanse of flat yellow desert. Inside the bus, the assignees never stop talking. Some of them stick to the windows and point at passing goats and berms. When they see the city of Rosca ahead, it’s a compacted version of wherever they laid port. A cluster of dusty orange infrastructure amidst miles of dirt, just like Victor explained.
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Leichmann drives over a bridge, and she finds its frictionless texture a welcomed but temporary relief. The buildings start to loom over them. Maeven clutches her loaf tray tight. She feels her heart jump with the road.
9.3 Senior prom
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Maeven really wants to leave, especially before they announce the Best Couple Award. She tugs at the skirt of her uniform, imagining how much more uncomfortable she would be if she were wearing a gown, and pushes on the table.
Her chair drags outward. “I’m going to the bathroom…” she says, though it catches no one's attention.
LAROSA ACADEMY
YEAR SIXTEEN
She slips between the tables, eyeing the plates that have been abandoned by the other students. An untouched bowl of gnocchi, pappardelle, someone even skipped the carbonara—perhaps they didn’t want to get it on their suit. There were a lot of abandoned tiramisus and, to her luck, un-melted semifreddoes. Who would want to look piggish on the date of their academic lifetime?
She lifts her head to see past the stack of stolen plates lining up her forearms. She even managed to swipe a glass of wine (Sergeant Mayhew didn’t drink, anyway). She pushes on the doors of the hall and carries her food all the way to the fire exit. The roof will be much better.
And it is.
Beyond, the city is peppered with colourful streetlights. The air is crisp and light. She can hear the rushing of the grand fountain ten floors below, and sitting on its edge, her heel brushes against the divots of a renaissance column. Maeven fishes the cord of her earphones from her carbonara. She had saved all twelve episodes of Will Idols just for this occasion. She see-saws her pad on her knee before she positions it, excited to finally begin what she’s been waiting the whole night to do: to eat in lonesome peace. But a Willed presence brings her agenda to a disdainful stop.
“I know I said I dislike alcohol, but having my beverage stolen by a minor is probably worse than having to drink it.”
Sergeant Mayhew from the WEAP faculty walks out from the fire exit.
It’s gross, anyway. She pays him mind, in this context the gesture says something like, “Oh, hey,” and, “Well what do you keep staring at? Move along,” at the same time. He stiffens and takes a seat adjacent, wide legs dangling over the roof.
“Maeven, why are you here, and not down there?”
Maeven twirls her carbonara.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to.” She gestures firmly at her uniform.
“I know you didn’t want to wear a lame dress like the other lame girls. But can I ask. Why did you bother curling your hair?”
She shrugs. “Why are you wearing sunglasses?” she comments under her breath. He always has the things on, it’s become a meme in their yearbook.
“Where’s Aries? You’re not friends anymore? You girls used to be so close.”
“I wasn’t.”
Sergeant Mayhew fiddles with his hands. Her carbonara is getting cold. “Ms Sirett told me she saw Grayman Adcut looking at you,” he says, jutting his elbow.
That’s because I stole his truffle gnocchi.
The Sergeant sighs. “Let me tell you about my friend Joe ey?” he says. “Joe was always playing these jokes on me, and he was darn good at it. He made me a fool every morning assembly.” Maeven resumes Will Idols: The Power Boys’ Season. “One day, I beat him up. Couldn’t help it, he pushed me too far. But in the end, we shook hands. Came to an agreement. No more jokes, and I don’t beat him up. A few years later, senior year in the Academy I needed a car. Turns out his father was a tradesmen. I ended up with a solid set of wheels for half of what it would have cost me anywhere else...”
Maeven is long redirected by now. “Maeven.” He tries again. “What theory of ethics is encapsulated in the words ‘science of duty’?”
She answers it like a question. “Deontological ethics.”
“See?” he goes. “Do you get what I’m saying?”
She doesn’t respond.
“That wasn’t in the subject outline, Maeven, any of them. It’s a difficult world out there, you need some friends. No amount of technical knowledge can make up for that.”
“I know,” she says.
“There’s a couple weeks left, maybe you could make amends. You know, everyone deserves a second chance.”
“I know.” She’s trying to sound unbothered.
“You are a great student. Brilliant, even. Possibly the best. However, and forgive me for saying this, you are the worst classmate.”
“I know.” Her voice wobbles. The Power Boys become a blurry mess. She lifts her head, hoping gravity will keep the moisture inside her tear ducts.
“A-anyway, it’ll be well worth it if you come back down before the dance,” says the Sergeant, clearing his throat. “Enjoy your night.” She hears the quick scraping of his boots and the ka-chunk of the fire exit door. She pulls her earphones out.
Why can’t they just let her be?
Maeven scans the sky for something to distract herself.
There aren’t many stars, just clouds.
9.4 First mission
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Maeven leans on the hood of their company’s four-wheel drive. The stars, bright and clustered, remind her of that night on MS Magician. Give a damn, Howard told her.
Far ahead, large metal sign is pitched in the sand: “UNDER SANCTUARY. PROCEED ON FOOT.”
Ocean Company have been handed their first mission: to hold watch on the back road that leads into Rosca. The city is being placed under Sanctuary, meaning that the Reserve is going to protect it for a temporary period and provide its citizens with a variety of help and resources. This involves street patrols, medical tents, education and infrastructure assistance, border protection, the lot. Tonight, it’s their job to prevent anyone from entering Rosca on vehicle, and redirect all attempts to the front gate, on foot, after conducting a search of their belongings.
The purpose of all this is to prevent the immigration of suspicious activity. But they are out of sweet bread and no one is coming. It is a small city, after all.
“Four.”
“What about this one?”
“Two.”
“Katy Perks?”
“Dude, zero.”
She wonders how long that magazine is, and what it is about Win’s taste that Gunner finds so amusing.
“You’re hard to please. But wait,” Gunner says. She hears the magazine ruffle. “You gotta tell me. Miranda Riley.” He punctuates each name with a tap on the paper.
“Huh…”
So far he hasn’t rated past a four.
“Three,” he answers.
Gunner slaps the magazine against Win’s shoulder, laughing. Something hard drops on the metal roof of the four-wheel drive.
“Ey, keep it down. We’re having a meeting,” says the blond assignee, knocking the ceiling with his fist.
“Sorry,” says Forrest.
Forrest is sitting on the roof. He’s holding a torch to the med kit and shuffling through it, looking for something.
“What do you need?” asks Maeven.
“Itchy cream,” he says. “My skin itches.” It’s too dark to really tell, but in the torchlight she swears his skin is already a shade darker than it used to be.
“Hey Forrest, what do you rate her?” Gunner holds a page open, then raises it through the window and above the roof.
“He’s sixteen,” she says.
“So?”
Forrest shines the page with his torch and frowns. Her name is Juicy Jesse. She’s curvy with tan skin, wearing a skimpy mechanics outfit and gripping a wrench.
Maeven cranes her neck to scrutinise it. She begins to answer, “Six point, no—actually…”
Gunner snaps the page shut.
“I wasn’t finished,” she says.
“I wasn’t asking you,” he says, “Besides, you’ve said enough.”
He’s clutching the magazine to his chest like a child.
Maeven rolls her eyes.
Meanwhile their teammate Callum is standing in front of the Under Sanctuary sign several metres ahead. He’s been switching his weight between his feet for a while now, she’s been thinking to trade with him.
Suddenly, Callum flashes his torch in their direction, signalling them. The sound of an engine begins to rumble in the distance.
“Someone’s coming,” warns Maeven.
They all sit up at once.
Already, Gunner is exiting the Humvee and shutting the door, the butt of his semi-automatic pressed against his chest. They can see the car now. It’s yellow, curving up the dirt road, headlights flickering in their eyes. It’s approaching, fast.
Callum wiggles his torch at the sign, trying to get the driver’s attention, but the vehicle isn’t slowing down.
Gunner steps forward. Maeven hops off the hood.
“Hey!” Callum shouts.
The car doesn’t stop. Not far now.
BANG, BANG!
Gunner’s fired. Patches of dirt erupt in bursts as the bullets dig into the ground. Callum bolts out of the way, shielding himself with his arms and Gunner raises his trajectory, rupturing a headlight; before Maeven angles the barrel downwards.
The car breaks and wheels around, revving so hard that for a split second it stays in place, kicking up the sand before rushing back the way it came.
Ocean Company watch the vehicle, unmoving.
Callum turns and begins to stride back.
“You were supposed to wait,” Maeven tells Gunner. His decision to fire was recklessly premature. Instead of acknowledging it, the assignee just rests his rifle on his shoulder and walks back to his seat in their vehicle.
She glances back at Callum, still walking towards them, feeling a chilling breeze as he passes by.
“Idiot could’ve hit me.”
Callum opens the Humvee door. He pulls Gunner out by his jacket.
“What the hell was that?” Callum says. “What did we agree on, Gunner? You're supposed to hold fire until they passed the sign.”
“You stood too close!” says Gunner.
“You shot the damn car!” says Callum.
“They shouldn’t drive that fast!”
“So you shoot them?”
“What are they gonna do? Sue me for a war crime? We’re just the VR, nobody gives a shit.”
Callum pushes him into the Humvee so hard it leans. Forrest is still sitting on the roof, and he slides off catching the med kit.
Then he lets go of the assignee with a shove. “You need to know when to stop playing games.”
“Get off my fucking dick,” says Gunner.
She notices Callum spacing his feet. “Listen, if you’re just gonna be the one we have to pick up after, you might as well take that Humvee and drive it back to the port,” he says.
Gunner grips his fingers; his arm starts to curl.
“How ‘bout you drive back? You’re fucking old anyway,” says Gunner. “Why are you even here, don’t you have kids?”
“You don’t ask why I’m here.”
“Where’s your wife?”
Once Callum shifts the weight on his back leg to the ball of his foot, and Gunner reacts by raising his arms, Maeven calls it.
She rushes between them, one hand grabs Callum’s shoulder and swivels him one-eighty, the other presses against Gunner’s sternum. They’re stunned. It takes them a second to register what’s happened.
“Get off me,” says Gunner eventually, shoving her hand away. He slides his hands into the pockets of his VR jacket and walks past them, towards the city.
Maeven takes a breath. She volunteers herself as the next sign-watcher without saying anything, all the while thinking, Screw you, Howard, for making it sound so simple.