Beginning | tīmata
“Love is rarely roses; often it is silent - and it hurts.” - Captain Ambrose.
The scent of green tomato vines fills the air around me as I work my sore fingers deliberately through the branches of the plants, pinching off the unnecessary shoots to encourage more fruit to grow. I work through each plant methodically, thinning out the undergrowth and pressing my fingertips into the soil. Normally, these exercises are calming and I weed the busy thoughts from my head, but today my heart beats too fast and I keep yawning, probably my body telling me to stop holding my breath. The sores on the pads of my hands and the cracks on my knuckles from the last three months of annual infantry training sting uncomfortably. The more I try to ignore it and sink into my rhythmic gardening the more tightly the knots in my stomach wind and twist.
I squat down low in spite of the burn in my exhausted legs, pinching the bridge of my nose as I try to steady my breathing. The damp, warm air of the large glasshouse feels close and oppressive today where usually it is calming. Not that it's the plants’ fault. It’s the fault of the notice sitting in the pocket of my shorts like a hot coal, burning its urgency into my thigh.
I search down the long aisles of the glasshouse and locate my father at the very end, bent over the seed bench. I can see him muttering under his breath as he fidgets with seeds and compares them with a notebook splayed out in front of him. His hands are like calloused paws, impervious to thorns, and his fingerprints lined so permanently with mud they look like tattoos on his fingerpads. Despite that, he has the gentlest, softest touch of any person I know.
“Ana,” cuts a stern voice, startling me from the garden.
I stumble to my feet, nerves bolting through me, and salute my mother Captain Ambrose and her two aides.
She narrows her eyes at me, one green and one blue just like mine but with heavy inset tired bags underneath. She holds out a pen. Heterochromia might be the only gene we actually share, and hers are boldly accented by her close, sharp crop of black hair. I pull my notice out of my pocket, and rest it on the narrow wooden border of the row of tomato plants. I adjust it so the blank space at the bottom for a signature sits on the wood. Here it is, the moment I forfeit the gardens, in writing.
Pen still in hand, my mother recites the notice without looking or blinking.
“You are hereby notified that you were, on the 18th day of December, year 712, legally drafted into the services of Rangatiratanga in accordance with the acts of Governance for enrolling in the national force. You will accordingly report on December 28th, 712 at the place of rendezvous or be deemed a deserter and be subject to the penalty prescribed thereafter.”
She then checks the date on her watch pointedly. Her slightly bloodshot yet fierce gaze makes me wither and part of me expects to see even the plants wilting behind me too. I reach to accept the pen but I’m moving too fast and somehow miss as she releases it. It falls clumsily through my fingers onto the gravel underfoot.
Heat flames up my cheeks as my mother sighs loudly and clicks her tongue with impatience. My sun-bleached hair falls in front of my face as I pick the pen up, which I tuck behind my ears hastily before I sign my name to the notice.
‘Analise Ambrose.’
I fold the notice and glance over at my father again. He’s stopped what he’s doing and is staring at my mother, his brow furrowed. My heart drops further as I look back to my mother, who doesn’t even acknowledge him.
Heart pounding, I hand the letter back to her, hoping she doesn’t notice the smudges of dirt I leave on its folds.
“Ensure you are at the assembly courtyard before the hour,” she orders, my signed notice in her hand, as she turns on her heel sharply to leave. I glance at the clock - it’s half past.
“Don’t do this, Maggie,” my father calls suddenly, clearing his throat and stopping her tracks. “We need her here,” he argues, gesturing to the plants around him. “This is critical, and it’s what she’s trained for.”
Mother of Moao. Nobody addresses the Captain like that. I see her aides stiffen at her sides. I spin around to face him, but I bump the side of my knee into the planter beds, which sends me stumbling into a sitting position directly in the soil. Great.
“I beg your pardon?” she sighs impatiently.
He flashes me an apologetic look.
“For a start - Ana has the hand-eye coordination of a blind fish,” he continues.
An ironic smile tugs at the corners of my mouth in amusement. He’s not wrong. Out of the corner of my eye I see two other gardeners cringing in sympathy behind the pea trellises they're tending.
My mother turns around slowly, and I think I see her eyes soften for a moment as she looks at my father, before she quickly masks her face.
“The Consul have tolerated your research to improve our food supplies but they cannot tolerate studies of magic. You know this. Yet you covered her hands in your intentions anyway and still have done nothing to help feed the kingdom,” she counters calmly. Her most dangerous tone.
“Now hold on-” he starts but is quickly cut-off.
“The Consul presumes you have not progressed because you have split your focus. Your agenda is under question,” she continues, eyeballing me with distaste. “Consequently, other solutions to the food crisis are now being pursued.”
Father inhales sharply.
“My way is the only way to find a solution - by working with our natural system - not whatever disturbing proposition Enconi’s pitching at the Consul table this time,” he argues back.
“Careful now,” she warns sharply, instantly stiffening up.
I frown in uncertainty. Enconi has a gilded seat on the Consul. My mother’s aides share a glance.
“If we never recover the lost knowledge, we will be lost,” he says simply.
“One day the wards will fall and we won’t be able to put them back. You know this. Why waste her graduation? Why re-school her now?” he persists.
I have trained in the same research as my father my entire life - horticulture, botany and biology. Despite the science, he believes with absolute conviction that anything other than the pursuit of magic is redundant because if we don’t recover magic then we risk losing everything.
“Her conscription is necessary,” she replies trimly, folding my signed conscription notice into the inner pocket of her uniform.
Wielding magic today is essentially taboo, which is a non-issue for most. My mother is one of a slim handful of people who can actually touch magic at all and only in very minor ways - but it’s mostly forbidden unless you’re of a lofty rank like her. I found magic last year by pure accident, but all it did was burn my hands.
“Only individuals which meet the criteria for tenure, seniority and experience may hold their positions in the Universitat. All junior staff members are called for conscription unless they have injury or disability that prevents their participation. Likewise, junior roles in the Universitat will be reserved for those no longer able to support the war academy,” she recites the clause word-for-word from the legislation set forth in the Code.
I roll my eyes. My father’s appeal for mercy appears only to have eaten up her patience.
“I don’t want you to drag her away just for me to see her again in a weeks’ time missing a limb,” he persists.
I open my mouth to protest the blunt lack of faith in my military competency, but I change my mind as her gaze darkens. In response my father stands up straighter, as if his posture is compressed by the narrowing of space between them.
Before losing the war our enemy razed all our farmland, and the magic in the earth which inspired our crops perished forever. Now, the kingdom thrives only on what it can engineer from the earth and the relics of the magic lost. It’s never been enough for the kingdom to thrive on its own though, hence my father’s advocacy for studying the natural world above all else - magic included. He was always reluctantly supported, but something has changed in the last year. As mother points out, the Consul no longer believes magic could still be the answer to the growing starvation crisis or to the Ammit beating down the wards. In fact, apparently it is now outlawed even here, in the tiny, private Universitat research facility.
“She will no longer be kept cushioned in the glasshouse like a delicate flower,” mother says with finality, raking her gaze up my body.
Her eyes pause on the unhelpfully eye-catching silver scars that trace my hands like vines, a stark contrast to my tanned skin. Burns from magic I never meant to touch, and never managed to again.
“You are an Ambrose. You will achieve rank in the sky fleet and I will see you driving the war effort with us,” she continues.
“Are the Ammit finally penetrating the wards?” I ask curiously.
Captain Ambrose opens her mouth to say something but changes her mind and presses it into a thin line instead. She does not shift her gaze from my father when she answers my question.
“We are open to war every day that we continue to allow twenty-six-year-olds to play with flora instead of throwing them into the combat academy at eighteen with everybody else. We are vulnerable from the moment we place priority in the privileged notion of higher education and the pursuit of fantastical powers which may or may not still exist,” she replies.
Ouch. A deflection from my question, but it works. Perhaps we do need the knowledge, even the magic back - but we need to be able to stand up without fear more.
My father takes a sharp intake of breath and scrunches his face in displeasure as he turns away from her.
“How can you be so willing to risk her after everything?” he accuses quietly.
The glasshouse fills with a stony, frozen silence that spikes my nerves.
“Excuse me?” she bites out, her face a smooth, impenetrable mask.
It’s hard to breathe through.
Instead of responding to her, he looks at me, and the pain scarring the creases of age and weather on his face fills my chest with tight pangs of hurt.
“You are an Ambrose,” he affirms, repeating my mother’s earlier words with pride. “You are capable. You already have it in you,” he presses, looking past me at the rows of mature tomatoes, heavily laden with plump fruit behind me.
Mother scoffs spitefully as he pulls me into a quick hug and squeezes me tight against his muddy shirt, rough stubble grazing my cheek. Then without looking at my mother, he turns and walks away.
I swallow audibly and nod once as my heart sinks. There’s nothing he can do.
My mother leans slightly to look behind me, her expression unreadable. I twist my gaze to follow her line of sight but it’s just the tomato plants, which now look in need of a good watering.
I turn back around quickly.
“I will sign in promptly,” I confirm to my mother, and stand at attention while I wait for her to leave.
“I’ll see you in no less than fifteen minutes,” she says sharply with a short nod.
I force myself not to allow my eyebrows to raise themselves. Fifteen minutes, even though conscription is open all morning.
Her eyes narrow until I nod in agreement. Then she turns and marches away.
The fitted, trim uniform and fast, deliberate steps are a sharp contrast to the soft light and warmth of the glasshouse. I wait, and then follow twenty paces behind until I reach the door. I snap a jasmine flower from the trellis framing the archway, pausing only to cast a final look over my shoulder at the world I am about to leave behind.
Crossing the courtyard, I exchange the warm humidity of the glasshouse for the dry heat of the sun on the exposed brick, and cool breeze moving through the shady archways. Squeezing the jasmine petals gently to better smell the perfume, I make my way up the sandstone stairs of the tower my room is in. It’s a beautiful cluster of buildings, the Universitat. Nestled within what feels like a sub-tropical forest within the heart of the Citadel itself, it is both a school and a research facility. Only the gardeners, some of the tenured lecturers, and my father and I actually board here.
My legs feel on fire as I climb the stairs, and by the time I reach the door of my room I’m breathless, sweat beading under my arms and on my chest. I’m fatigued just from the recent infantry training. There is no way those three hellish months are going to hold me up against peers that have been training for the fleets since early adolescence. I have no option but to hold up anyway.
I check my watch - ten minutes until the hour.
I open the door and find the room bare, with only an empty rucksack and two folded uniforms sitting on the stripped bed. I had already boxed up my belongings and moved them to my father's quarters, so it's not a jarring sight. A small note sits on the desk requesting I leave my key there.
Am I supposed to get changed now? Probably. I leave my room to look out of the window at the far end of the corridor which overlooks the courtyard, the rendezvous point for conscripts like me and for the brand new college graduates. Hundreds of people are already milling about in uniform.
I hurry back quickly to my room and pull off my cotton shorts and jumper, rolling them tightly into the backpack and unfolding one of the uniforms - the colours reassure me I’m assigned to sky fleet. Better than ground fleet probably - at least if I fall out of the sky my departure is guaranteed to be swift.
The uniform is a thin, grey long sleeve t-shirt and tough navy combat trousers, with black flight jacket and boots. No silver for me yet - this uniform is to show I’m in training wheels. I pull them on hastily, slinging the jacket over my shoulders but without putting my arms through the sleeves - I’m dreading how hot it will all be in the courtyard.
I scan my room to check it really has been stripped of everything. Nothing in the wardrobe, nothing under the bed, nothing on the desk. When I pull open the desk drawer I find a packet of seeds and a diary. Odd, because they aren’t mine.
The diary I flick through briefly - it’s from father, I think, though not all of the handwriting is his and weirdly most of the pages are blank. I don't have time to look at it now so I slip it inside the leather-lined inner pocket of my backpack, which has a zip to seal it firmly shut.
The seeds I press with my fingertips and rattle slightly, and I notice one hard lump much bigger than the rest. I press the corners of the sachet inwards to widen the opening and peer inside before pouring the contents out into my hand.
The lump is actually a silver thumb ring, with fine stars etched into it. Oddly, it’s warm, and it is also too small for my thumb so I slip it onto my right ring finger and palm the seeds. They look like flower seeds, hardly bigger than grains of sand - round and black in colour.
What am I supposed to do with these?
I pour them back into the sachet and fold them into the inner pocket of my rucksack as well before slinging it over my shoulder.
When would I next see the glasshouse again, my friends, my father?
A small voice whispers in my head that perhaps I would never see any of them again. I try to squash that down, but it’s there. A third of conscripts don’t make it a year and they’ve had more training than me, have better dexterity and strength than me, and don’t tread on their own feet or tumble backwards into plant pots. I tug on my shirt sleeves and tuck my thumbs into them, feeling slightly sick, like I may not make the walk downstairs. I drop the room key on the desk with a heavy thud before closing the door behind me and running down the stairs towards the courtyard. I’m so preoccupied wondering whether I’ll be judged for the telltale silver scars on my hands that I don’t hear the footsteps echoing off the stairs below.
“Oof!” I exclaim as I bounce heavily into a large flash of blue and silver, which sends my left shoulder into the curved stone wall of the staircase. The momentum and the surprise unsteadies my feet and I slip off the step and start to fall downwards, but a broad pair of hands catch me before I fall over.
“A-Ana?” says a confused voice, hands still clutching my arms to steady us both in the corner of the stairwell. I look up into the concerned face of an old friend.
“Flight Lieutenant Roderic Romello, hey,” I greet as I find my footing, smiling at the familiar face.
“Ana,” he repeats, with a relaxed smile this time.
“The silver looks good!” I say playfully, referring to the stripes marking his rank.
His uniform is a smart blend of blue, grey and white, which looks a little odd within these stone walls, but in the sky it serves for excellent camouflage. I don’t have to really look at Roderic to know it all looks good on him. Plus a certain confidence comes from achieving flight lieutenant status within two years of service, and everything looks better when it's imbued with confidence.
He squeezes my arms and paces down a step without letting go, his sun-bleached brows furrowed as he takes in my conscript uniform.
“Where are you lining up?” he asks cautiously, though he already recognises the uniform.
“Sky fleet,” I reply, watching his face carefully for a response.
His expression pinches in concern.
“Really? You’ve still just been working with your father though, haven’t you?” he asks dubiously.
“Right,” I admit, feeling a little defensive.
As my mother says, these days to the fleets - which Roderic has been a part of for two years - I am a waste of space, a waste of resources, playing with plants instead of adding muscle to the front lines.
“I was notified of my conscription notice last week. My mother collected it today,” I say.
“Right,” he accepts easily. Captain Ambrose sits on the Consul, and she didn’t earn her seat from her warm kindliness and sensitive nature.
“Well, you know to watch your back right? It’s not kind to anyone, conscription. Especially…” he trails off and looks away.
“Especially to the soft kids that think knowledge has the potential to be more powerful than brute strength?” I offer sarcastically, smiling at him so he knows I’m teasing.
Roderic doesn’t find it funny and refuses to look at me.
“Something like that Ana, but look this is really serious for you,” he replies tightly.
New conscripts to the sky fleet compete in teams for the opportunity to join the fleet, and it's widely known - encouraged even - that weaknesses and differences are culled at the very beginning to strengthen the team. Statistically speaking, losing lives during training to cut out incompetencies protects considerably more lives when in the field.
“Yes I am aware that being weaker and at least six years behind in training makes me a target as obvious as a bonfire on a moonless night,” I reply dryly, shrugging the backpack more squarely onto my shoulders as I work to stifle my chagrin. I can avoid dealing with being shunned as an oddity in the glasshouse, but I won’t be able to do that any more. Roderic pointing that out doesn't feel helpful.
“You know you can trust me, right?” he asks, looking at me intently, a look I’ve known since we were both toddling.
“Of course,” I confirm, responding with a smile. We lock gazes lovingly, and the corners of his eyes crease sweetly as he smiles back, growing a feeling of warmth in my belly. He has a few new lines in his face since I saw him last, but they only really accentuate his smile even more.
He sighs and pulls me into a hug.
“It’s really good to see you Ana,” he says after a moment, pressing his cheek into the top of my head. I sink my face into his shoulder and close my eyes.
“You too,” I respond gently.
“There’s more than one way of being strong,” he mumbles into my hair. “It’s the dragons’ job to be powerful. It’s your job to be fast, decisive, and deliberate.”
He palms a knife into the pocket on my inner right thigh. I can’t help but lean in to him as he does so, and I think his hand lingers for a moment longer than he needs before pulling away slowly. Heat blossoms where his fingers touched.
“The military kids won’t be fond of you, even if only because your father….” he trails off.
“Left my mother? Condemned our militant focus in favour of…science?” I offer, avoiding mentioning magic with a false lightness in my voice. A lot has gone down between my parents over the years, and most of that dirty laundry has been aired quite publicly.
He presses me closer.
“I’m sorry. Something like that. And the other conscripts? They might act in desperation to succeed in spite of their own weaknesses,” he continues.
“Weaknesses, like mine?” I tug away, half joking, half nervous. He opens his mouth to say something but pauses and stands down a step, placing cool air between us.
I twine my fingers around his forearms but it occurs to me it’s a familiarity that might not fit so well any more.
“Look, I get your studies,” he reassures vaguely if not in any way convincingly, “but lots of people don’t and they’ve been in one regiment or the other for several years already. Just, be prepared to be challenged. I’ll be around as much as I can,” he says.
“That’s nothing new,” I point out with an eyeroll. I cannot allow myself to rely on Roderick to carry me through.
“True, but you’ve never been competing for survival before. It brings out…” he trails off, searching for the right word. “...the strength in people,” he finally lands.
I smirk instinctively.
“I thought you were about to say it brings out the worst in people,” I reply.
“I nearly did!” he admits, and one corner of his mouth pulls up in a smile before it falls again.
“I’m serious Ana. You know you’re not competition for them, so just keep your head down as much as you can. I’ve got your back.”
I can feel my expression sour.
“Thanks for the pep talk,” I reply insincerely.
He’s my friend, a handsome sweetheart, I remind myself. He doesn't mean to undermine my strength - it just feels a little that way. Plenty of that going around today.
His brow puckers in response.
“Look, I should get going,” I say before he has a chance to reply, tugging myself out of his grip and shifting down the stairs until I’m further down the staircase than he is.
“I’ll see you on the other side?” I offer.
“Absolutely. Mind over matter, remember?” he says, smiling a little nervously as I start down the rest of the staircase.
“Yep!” I call behind me, where I know he is watching me go. After a moment, the sound of our joint footsteps bounce off the stone walls and I pause for a moment.
“Wait, what are you even doing in this tower anyway?” I shout back. There is no reason for him to be here - it’s only living quarters.
“Don’t show fear!” he hollers behind me, already sounding like he’s at the top of the staircase.
“I’ll see you on the other side!” he repeats.
Yep, got it. I make my way down and leave the tower, the last time for a while.
The courtyard is chaotic and swelteringly hot in the midday sun, filled with chatter and nervousness as childhood friends prepare to follow their different military career pathways, and conscripts step up to submit their signed conscription notices. Stewards work furiously to organise the crowds mostly from the raised steps in the centre of the courtyard underneath with the statue of the Citadel’s founding royal family, and their clutch of dragon eggs. The magical, animal kind of dragon - not the steel machine dragons that we fly.
The young college graduates will either be accepted into the pathway they applied for before their exams, or be called out to a different pathway by the stewards based on their exam results. The older conscripts are all in attendance to register for the ground fleet, but any who took the opportunity to register with the sky fleet earlier in the year and were accepted to go through the rigorous entry process are only now being redirected to the sky fleet desk instead.
War demands effort in all areas, from medicine to engineers to food scientists to tacticians to fighters. While the youngsters apply for their roles based on the results of their college exams, the conscripts are converts from whatever non-military position they’ve been in previously. They get pulled up every few years if we’ve lost a lot of bodies in the fleets or if we’re anticipating more skirmishes than usual and want to bulk up our odds. Statistically, most conscripts end up in the ground fleet and serve mainly as buffers to give the skilled fighters another year or two to land some real punches. Acceptance from the sky fleet requires qualification, and unlike the ground fleet it has a rigorous onboarding process before you actually succeed in joining.
Fighters naturally take home the most glory, and everyone else is really considered either cog or lubricant in the war machine. Our entire Consul and governing Code is highly militant, with twin core objectives to harness power for our kingdom and to entirely remove it from our enemies.
The college graduates are already in their uniforms - the conscripts, not having yet been formally accepted into any quadrant, are still in their plain clothes. Except for me.
At one end of the courtyard sit several registration desks for individuals to score their names, each with a unique flag to denote the quadrant. The sky fleet flies a navy flag embellished with a silver icon representing the wind. My mother stands still and controlled behind the registration desk and the two staff members manning it, her hands clasped behind her back.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, “sorry,” as I weave my way through the uncoordinated bodies towards the desk. There is a solid line formed for the sky fleet desk, with a peculiar number of people milling around nearby. I slide in behind a short young woman with blonde twin braids, bouncing on the balls of her feet in the same uniform as mine.
“Hey, you’re in line for the sky fleet?” I check, tapping her arm lightly.
She turns and grins at me, mouth open.
“Yep!” she confirms, sounding far too cheerful.
“Great,” I sigh.
“I’m Annie!” she says, holding out her tiny hand.
“I’m Ana,” I reply, taking her open hand in my comparative paw and shaking it lightly.
She glances down at my silver-streaked hand and her eyes widen momentarily before she lets go. Anxiety twinges in my chest.
“Are you a conscript or from the college?” I ask, deflecting her attention.
“From the college!” she replies, eyeing my uniform but clearly wondering why she doesn’t recognise me. “You?”
“Conscription,” I say.
“Oh, but you’re already assigned?” she asks, glancing at the other conscripts still in their normal attire.
“Yes,” I confirm. “My mother stands just behind the desk,” I admit.
“Oh, you’re Analise Ambrose - lucky you!” Annie replies, looking at my mother admiringly.
I smile because in a lot of ways, she’s not wrong.
“What’s her dragon like?” she asks.
“I’ve never seen any up close, although we studied them all last semester. I think my favourite is the Viperfang, they’re the fastest!” she chatters, facing the front of the line again in anticipation with all the bubbles of an enthusiastic twenty-year-old.
“My mother’s Thundermouth is softer than she is,” I jest.
Thundermouth dragons are built larger than typical, with metalwork designs inspired by shark form. They’re additionally weaponised with an energy outlet that can rapidly expand and contract the air in front of it, stunning anyone in the strike zone like a roll of thunder. They’re less common because they require two crystals from our finite supply.
“Oh, a real fighter, good for close combat, stunning the enemy, and extremely strong for long-distance journeys too,” Annie remarks approvingly. “I wonder if you’ll be assigned a thundermouth as well,” she muses.
“Not so likely,” I reply, as we near the front of the line.
My mother meets my gaze.
“Dragons are assigned based on your strength and competency.”
Her eyebrow flickers at me.
“Huh,” Annie says absently as she steps forward to sign her name on the roster at the front desk. “Maybe I’ll be assigned a thundermouth then!” she replies excitedly.
My mother switches her gaze from me to Annie and locks eye contact with her.
“One fourty two,” my mother says without blinking, and hands her a small pin.
“Next.”
Annie looks at me questioningly as she shifts to the side so I can step up and scribble my signature down.
“One fourty two,” my mother repeats again, passing me a pin. I join Annie to the side of the desk.
“What was that?” Annie whispers, looking at Captain Ambrose nervously to check she isn’t listening.
“I’m not sure,” I reply, spinning the pin between my fingers. My mother never gives away information unless it’s critical, which makes this definitely, without question, critical.
My heart rate starts to speed up again in nervousness - I can’t embarrass myself here, in front of her. I start to tuck my sleeves down over my thumbs anxiously when my watch catches my eye.
My watch catches my eye.I stare at the time for a second and am jostled out of my reverie by a young man twisting around on the spot in confusion. I touch his forearm gently to get his attention.
“Hey,” I say, bringing him to a halt.
“Do you know where we’re supposed to go? We’ve been waiting here for ages,” he replies, worried.
I catch his pin, and note it states “one twenty two.” Ours state one fourty two. Then I realise there is actually a very fine double colon in between the one and the four.
The loud bustling and chatter around me becomes muffled and muted as nerves squeeze my chest, and it dawns on me what it is. It’s a time.
I grab Annie’s hand and pull us away from the registration desk to the northern side of the courtyard, where a clock face sits high above the central archway. It says one thirty two. Oh crap. That man has already missed his time. Who knows what that means for his initiation.
As I realise this, I look back at the registration desk and watch a postgraduate step up and lock eyes with my mother confidently.
“Captain Ambrose, an honour to meet you,” he greets, smiling arrogantly and pausing in front of her. She blinks at him without responding, and his smile falters slightly.
“I’m Damon de Welde, General de Welde’s eldest,” he continues, before signing his name. As he leans over the roster with pen in hand, he glances back up at her in seeming disbelief at her lack of interest.
“One fifty two,” she says robotically, locking eyes with him briefly before turning her head away to mutter something to one of her aides manning the desk. Damon de Welde drops the pen and mutters something under his breath, face pinched angrily. He turns suddenly and looks at me, and his anger darkens. Nope. I can’t deal with that right now.
I turn away from him, my nerves pretty shot already, and look at Annie, who is bouncing uncertainly next to me.
“Annie, it’s a time.” I say, glancing again at the clock. “And I think we’re probably late.”
“A time? For what?” she asks.
Continuing my scan, I spy some conscripts in their plain clothes heading quietly out of the south archway of the courtyard. There isn’t much in that direction beyond residential housing and shops, except…
“What keeps time on a ten-minute schedule, Annie?” I ask distantly, starting to move in that direction too.
“I-Captain Ambrose?” she answers nervously.
“No… no, normally, nothing. But today? Trains, Annie,” I reply. “There’s a train. And we have…” I glance back up at the clock, “seven minutes to get on it.”
Her eyes widen and she starts running towards the northern gateway nearest to us which would lead us towards the automated tram network that shuttles people up and down the steep hills. You’re never waiting more than two minutes for one of those.
“Annie!” I call out, and she stops. I nod my head towards the south archway and start moving off quietly, trying not to draw too much attention and inadvertently cause a stampede. She catches up behind me.
“Not trams,” I whisper. “Trains.”
Her eyes widen and she nods in agreement. The old rail line is a known hangout for college students, and I used to hang out there with Roderick sometimes too, before we grew up and everything changed. We used to study the old city maps and timetables. Before the closures, trains would run from the inner city to the coastal border town of Mangawhai every ten minutes. I’m now certain that’s what the time is for. Are we going to Mangawhai, or stopping somewhere on the way?
When we reach the south archway, Annie and I start sprinting towards the old railway track.
As we start twisting through the sandstone streets I catch glimpses of grey uniforms ahead of us, also sprinting furiously around the street bends.
The cobbles underfoot are absolutely lethal and I wince every time my ankles threaten to roll or I catch my weight wrong. I glance behind us momentarily but don’t see many other uniforms behind us. Hopefully the others work it out.
We press on, bouncing off elderly bystanders and the corners of the walls, feet pounding loudly on the smooth stones. Every time we have to make a decision on our direction I feel like my heart might stop. Annie and I take it in turns to drag each other one way or the other, shouting instructions to avoid various obstacles and to prevent from hurting any unsuspecting bystanders. I never heard of this initiation test before and it doesn’t look like anyone on these streets has experienced anything like this either, as they chase us with shouts of objection and curses.
My heart roars loudly in my ears as we race on towards the final gap between two more modern buildings sitting in front of the historic railway line. They must have been built there well after the railway was supposedly shut down fourty-six years ago - when our crystal repository became too depleted to justify the expenditure.
The momentary shade in the narrow alley provides temporary relief from the heat of the sun, but in one blink we reach the end of the alley and spill onto the old train platform.
The platform is chaos, filled with cries of fear, argument and the heavy thundering of wheels splintering along the old track. A scuffed, dirty freight train is rattling rapidly along the track, each carriage with a wide opening where a doorway might usually be closed to contain its freight. It’s an unbelievable sight, a relic of history brought back to life. Flashes of green and white rattle by from the chipped and weathered paint still clinging to its exterior.
I whip my head up and down the platform until I find the clock, fighting down the panic working its way up my throat. One fourty one. We’re almost out of time. My finger prickles harshly and I’m not sure whether it’s real, or the fear thumping adrenaline through my body.
“Let’s go!” I yell at Annie, letting myself get swept up in the current of other bodies surging anxiously towards the train.
I try to block out everything else around me and hone my gaze onto one carriage - my carriage. I pump my arms furiously, air firing in and out of my lungs until I’m running side by side with the train. There’s so much traffic around me though, so many bodies pressing to get into position to jump in, that I don’t know how I’ll ever make it. Elbows dig into my arms, feet scuff the backs of my heels, and sweat rakes the inside of my nostrils.
A young woman in uniform in front of me launches herself at the train a couple of carriages ahead of mine but she misses in a horrifying slip of judgement. Her carnal scream rips through me as she stumbles under the carriage and gets caught in the fast-moving train. The brutalisation of her body is cut off from my vision quickly by the mob ahead, and Annie’s blonde head peels in front of me. Before I know it she launches herself into our carriage, light as a feather. I keep pumping my screaming legs, wondering how I’ll copy that. Her head quickly bobs back out and she stares at me frantically, holding out her hand.
“Jump, Ana!” she cries above the roar of the train, palm outstretched.
I pump my arms even more furiously, but can I really jump that?
I shove my fear aside as well as I can, sweat dripping into my eyes. I brace and tense like a coiled spring but as I go to launch someone shoves me out of the way. I stumble, falling behind.
“Ana!” cries Annie as the guy lands harshly next to her, making her cringe against the frame of the aperture.
“Mother of Moao,” I mutter breathlessly as I recover and force my feet to keep pummelling the concrete. Other bodies jostle around me, fighting to get closer to the carriage. I recover the lost distance but fear strikes through me as I realise I’m rapidly approaching the maimed woman whose legs are chewed up by the train. A woman that could easily be me.
Without thinking, I leap.
A cry launches out of my chest as I hit the carriage, and feel Annie’s hands scrabble at the clothing on my back, hauling me in. I roll all the way into the carriage and stare at the ceiling, panting heavily.
The travel of the train shakes my bones. I can’t believe it. I’m in.
Annie’s face appears above me, red and sweaty from the exertion, wild curls sprung free from her blonde plaits. She grins in relief and gives me a thumbs up before collapsing on the floor next to me.
We each hold our pins up. Seven minutes. Seven minutes it took us to catch the train from when our times were assigned by my mother. We share a look and grin triumphantly. We passed the first test. I’m already doing better than expected.
I fasten the pin to my sleeve.
Lying there on the dusty steel of the freight carriage being jostled about on the ancient tracks, it hits me how threatening this initiation is. There was no warning, no preparation, no hints given. It was pure do or fail. Go or be left behind. Succeed or…the image of the maimed woman hits me and saliva fills my mouth with the nausea it brings.
To think, this is just the enrollment.
My head spins as I sit upright, hauling air into my lungs. I wipe my damp hair off my forehead and waft my shirt out from my body in a vain attempt to air out the sweat. I can’t believe we just did that.
Annie giggles next to me and I look at her shaking her head, a grin splayed across her face. I start to smile back but I falter as I catch sight of the man that almost cost me my chance to catch the train. It’s Damon de Welde, and he’s glaring at me, his face blushed and sweaty. He’s already caught his breath and isn’t sitting like his muscles are on fire - unlike me.
“I recognise those eyes,” he says loudly over the rattle of the train. “And those hands,” he continues, eyes narrowing on my silver scars.
I tug my sleeves down automatically.
“Finally decided to leave the nursery, did we?” he scoffs.
Heat flames my cheeks in embarrassment, and I’m unsure what to say. I glance around the carriage at the four others recovering from their own leap, and note two of them look quite interested in how this is going to go. My heart sinks.
He kicks his foot out at me mockingly. I flinch away in reflex, which only makes him laugh. My stomach clenches. No more flinching. I must sit on that reflex from now on.
“Pathetic,” he says to the room, shaking his head and looking at the others for agreement. Somewhat reassuringly, he doesn’t get any obvious applause, but nobody exactly disagrees either.
“So what’s your plan, Ambrose? Going to lean on outstretched hands all the way through are we?” he mocks, crouching on his feet and moving closer. There is hardly room to breathe in the confined space between him and I as we hurtle rapidly down the track.
“Or perhaps just mummy?” he continues, cracking his knuckles as he locks eyes with mine.
I’m tall, but he is a huge brute of a man. I could count the faded acne scars on his cheeks he has so recently only left adolescence, but here he is looking about ready to rip my face off.
“I could ask you the same thing about daddy,” I counter, unwilling to show inferiority. His lips curl back in aggression.
I don’t know whether this man thinks I’m a problem to get out of the way early or if he just fetishises violence, but he takes one step forward menacingly then rocks back onto his heels and I just know what's about to happen.
I bolt up and roll onto the balls of my feet just as he launches himself at me, knocking me backwards into the rear wall where I crack the back of my head on the steel frame. My vision fades for a split second, which is all it takes for Damon to slam a fist hard into my face.
Pain explodes in my jaw and my head whips to the right, the taste of blood immediately filling my mouth. I rake in a breath in shock. I’ve never actually been hit before, not seriously. I’ve also never hit anyone, either.
I pull my knees abruptly up to my chest and try to kick out at him to knock him away from me. He catches one foot in his left hand but the other connects well with his gut. It doesn’t knock the wind out of him but he does rock backwards, losing balance as the carriage rattles around a sharp corner. Thankfully, he tumbles off to the side. He doesn’t let go of my right foot though, and pulls me dangerously close to the open frame of the carriage.
“Ana!” shouts Annie, and I see her moving in the corner of my eye.
I scrabble backwards to my feet and see an opportunity as Damon recovers his balance. I send my foot into the side of his left knee and it doesn’t topple him, but it clearly hurts. He roars at me in anger and in two steps he has a hold of my shoulders, whips one foot behind my legs and instantly has me flat on my back, slammed against the carriage aperture. No. There’s no way this arrogant brute is throwing me off this train.
The wind whips through my loose hair, tugging at me like it wants me out. I can smell the creosote and friction of the wheels on the track.
Damon shifts his grip and starts to lift me up. My hands grasp wildly for an opportunity to knock his vice grip off my body but he’s too strong, so I change tactic as he yanks me down onto the ground again. My shoulders are almost entirely out of the carriage now. Without thinking, without time to blink, I find there is enough space between my body and his to repeat my maneuver.
Fold the legs. Heels up. Kick. Kick.
As I kick, Annie appears above him and smashes her hands into both sides of his head, stunning him instantly. He flails out sharply, catching Annie with a heavy backhand that sends her sprawling easily onto the floor.
A different pair of hands pulls me abruptly back into the carriage but I don’t take the time to acknowledge who it is because I need to knock Damon down before he tries to throw me out of the carriage again - and succeeds.
I pounce my weight at him, reel my right fist back and with all my strength slam my clenched knuckles into his face.
There is a sound like a hammer hitting an anvil and I feel a sickening crunch under my knuckles. His nose explodes, blood pouring down his uniform and bruising immediately blossoming on his cheekbone.
Did I really do that?
I rock backwards in shock, feeling all the blood drain from my face even as the adrenaline from nearly being thrown out of a moving train continues to race through my body. I sit crouching on my heels numbly and look at the others in the carriage while Damon howls and holds his hands to his face.
A man in plain clothes - a conscript - in the rear corner of the carriage who I realise now is the person that pulled me back in, looks at me with surprise smeared across his face.
“Don’t ever try to throw Novice Ambrose out of a moving train…got it,” he says humorously, throwing me a reassuring smile.
“Damon you arsehole,” shouts Annie, kicking at his leg angrily.
He pulls his hands away from his face for a moment and spits a bloody glob of saliva at her feet.
“Piss off,” he mumbles pack, the pain clear in his face.
Annie starts berating him in her fast, rapid way but I can’t take in her words. All I can do is stare at Damon’s face. Before he covers his nose back up with his hands in a poor attempt to slow the flow of blood I notice something - but it can’t be right. I look down at my right hand and see the ring on my right hand glowing slightly, like it’s been sitting in a fire.
I shove my hands into my jacket pockets and slide backwards away from him like he has a contagious disease. He doesn’t of course, but what he does have is an unmistakable burn mark in the shape of my ring down the side of his nose, where I have caved in the bones of his face. I hardly learned any close-range combat skills in my three months of infantry training, and I can barely throw a punch. I don’t have a particular stomach for hurting people. But I did hurt him, with far more power than I’d intended.
I run my thumb over the ring, still sitting warmly on the fourth finger of my right hand. As I do so, the skin on the knuckle of my thumb grazes the leather pocket lining and I notice not only is it rough but it’s tacky, sticky too. Puzzled, I scrape my index fingernail against it and pull it out for inspection. The leather has melted a little.
I look up and feel Annie’s eyes on me, looking at me in a mixture of concern and mistrust, for which I can’t blame her. I don’t really have any explanations for Damon’s face nor my melted pocket lining, and I’m worried about both. Nobody else is looking at me though, they’re watching Damon’s face with fascination. The ring glows palely, so I dig my hands back into my pockets for the rest of the journey.
We all sit quietly in the carriage after that, and as the adrenaline wears off a pounding throb builds up in the back of my head where Damon smacked me against the steel frame, and my mouth keeps filling with saliva in response to my split lip and nausea.
Glancing out of the gaping entrance of the carriage I can see we’re nearing the coastal town Piha, where the sky fleet academy is located. We trundle at a gentler speed now through thick bush - undergrowth of flax, ferns and grasses covered by slender kanuka trees, kahikatea, and occasionally enormous grandfather pine trees tower above it all. Annie shuffles over cautiously to sit next to me.
“How many do you think made it?” she says quietly. I look at Damon, the two conscripts and one uniformed guy in our carriage.
“I felt like there were dozens of bodies pressing against me on the platform, but there are only six of us sitting here no…,” I trail off. “What did it look like?” I ask her.
“It looked like dozens of people, pressed all around you trying to get to the carriage,” she replies, a tinge of darkness in her voice.
“Dozens of people trying to get to every carriage,” she continues, trailing off and looking at the four of us that made it - Damon, Annie, the guy that saved my arse, and a woman perhaps my age, also in plain clothes. Surely the success rate is better than half of us. If three conscripts can make it onto the train then most of the college graduates must have as well. Surely.
“I wouldn’t have even worked out that I needed to be here on my own,” Annie interrupts my train of thought fearfully. “You’re the reason I’ve even made it to Piha,” she says.
“She’s the reason,” interrupts the conscript that pulled me back into the carriage, and points at Damon, “that he made it here too. I watched him follow you all the way from the courtyard,” he says, looking at Damon with repugnance.
I smile at him gratefully.
“I’m Ana,” I say, offering my hand. “Conscript from the Gardens.”
He offers a guarded smile back and takes my hand.
“Rory, from the Library,” he replies.
My hand freezes mid-hand shake and he winces, letting me go. They’re shutting down the library now? Or downscaling, at the very least?
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say finally. I look at him properly, and see a man in his mid-thirties perhaps. He has fair skin and slight grooves in his nose from where glasses must usually sit, and a thick mop of brown hair swept back that falls just below his ears.
He offers me a half-smile.
“Likewise,” he says.
“Great punch,” he adds, looking down at my right paw, eyebrows raised.
I blush in awkwardness.
“I didn’t mean to cause so much damage, I was just trying to not fall out of the train,” I explain.
He lets out a short laugh and looks over at Damon, who is still glaring vehemently and bleeding steadily.
“I think foul play like that deserves it,” he responds reassuringly.
“Plenty of fabled heroes have done considerably worse for the same or less,” he adds.
Yeah well, I definitely don’t feel anything close to one of those.
“By the way,” he leans close to me, speaking quietly now so that nobody else can hear him. “Your ring is really hot. How do you wear that?”
I look at him in confusion.
“It doesn't feel hot to me,” I murmur nervously. “It's probably from the sun, although the fear coursing through me right now does make me feel like I might burst into flames at any moment, so perhaps it's me,” I joke feebly.
“Well unless you have a magic ring, you pack a really good punch,” he replies.
He smiles but I can see thoughts whirring behind his eyes, and he's not very artfully trying to hide a frown.
I worry he might actually be fishing for something, but I can't wield magic. The scars on my hand are proof of that. I just hope he doesn't say anything, and compound the judgement I'm definitely going to receive from the fleet anyway. Great start, Ana.
