Fledge Page 4

  “No, Instructor Bardzecki, I did not.” He didn’t even look at me! Invisible again, I might as well have been at home.

  I forgot Winslow the moment our instructor spoke. “If Commander Clarke did not disclose the reason for your being here, then you aren’t meant to know.” But for a moment I saw something on his face, and when coupled with his watchful gaze, I knew that he was curious. So his comment encompassed the both of us, though that was also something I wasn’t meant to know.

  He rummaged through the desk’s drawer again, giving us only partial notice. “I’ll give you the same speech I give to all the fledglings,” he said, not pausing from his search. “It’s not easy to live on a half-dead planet with hostiles nipping at our heels, but we do it, and every day we live on Providence is just another day we’ve survived. It is vital we train every pair of hands to hold a weapon, so if the worst should come, we’ll be ready.”

  I wanted to ask if when he said ‘every pair of hands’ that included the people from utopias. Did they train to protect themselves? I was always curious to know more about them. But mostly I just wanted to know where I fit into all of this. I wanted to scream: Why am I here?

  Instructor Bardzecki was not interested in what I wanted—that much had become obvious. When he pulled a sheet of paper from his desk it was triumphantly, having finally found what he was looking for. He held it across the desk to Winslow, saying, “Here is her schedule and rank, she’s your problem now.” And with that, we were dismissed. And once again, I was thrust from one person to another, only this time I felt a hairsbreadth of relief.

  Chapter 6

  “That back there is the West Field,” Winslow said, pointing over his shoulder to a flat expanse I could barely see behind all the buildings. He’d named them too, explaining where I would take each lesson. Winslow continued my cursory tour while I struggled to keep up, two quicksteps to every one of his long-legged strides. “That’s the armory, and behind it is the range. We do our weapons training there. This is the North Field,” he said, indicating the lush green stretch of land we were now skirting on a red walkway. They snaked throughout training camp, perfect flat paths, connecting each destination.

  Our own destination was still unknown to me, aside from his terse tour, Winslow had said nothing. I fell back a step, surreptitiously scanning him from the corner of my eye.

  Winslow was really something to look at, that much was plain. He was very befitting of all my sister’s princely fantasies. She would be in raptures over his rounded, strong shoulders. His height caused them to blot his face from my view. No matter, I’d already noticed the tiny dip in his chin and the symmetrical dents—almost but not quite dimples—on either side of his face that separated square jaw from sharp cheek. Something less obvious than his handsome features were his emotions, they were absent from his face, and from his voice. I was naturally reserved, but he, he was cold, moving forward like a machine, purposeful, but without feeling. This aspect of Winslow intimidated me far more than Commander Clarke or Instructor Bardzecki ever could, because I knew he was more capable of making my daily life a living hell. And if there was one thing that managed to ooze through his stiff exterior, one thing I felt, it was unwelcome.

  I got the impression we’d reached the hub of camp when we came upon a large, squat building. It was a compilation of smooth adobe and patterned brick, very red and imposing. The exterior seemed to stretch forever, interrupted only by the tall, narrow deep-set windows. There were stairs leading up to a large set of double doors, both propped open, a gaping maw to the dark cavern within. Winslow passed by, saying, “During first-year training, soldiers are split into manageable camp sites, they’re spread all over the Triangle Patch. This is the largest central building in camp,” he said, pointing at the broad structure we walked beside. “It’s called the convene, and it’s where you will eat and get supplies. There are approximately 600 soldiers per convene, and those are split into groups of twelve called formats.” He rounded a corner and disappeared down a flight of stairs that had been carved from the earth, our destination the convene basement.

  “You are Soldier Frost from the forty-fourth format in the seventh convene of first years, that is your official position in the military. Repeat it back to me,” he commanded.

  “Soldier Frost from the forty-fourth format in the seventh convene of first years,” I rattled off, following him inside. There was certainly nothing wrong with my memory, that was what my da always said, his dry tone conveying a subtle compliment. I’d liked hearing him say so. It was not something he could’ve attributed to Lizzie, who had once come back from the chicken coup, having forgotten why I sent her in the first place. As if there were that many reasons to go to a chicken coup... Thinking of Lizzie brought a sudden pang to my gut, a reminder of what I was already missing.

  It was darker indoors, the cool adobe walls eating up all the light. Our footsteps shushed across carmine colored tiles, everything seemingly quiet and still except for the penetrating laughter that echoed down the halls. Winslow followed the noise to where it emanated from a group of women who stood together, chatting and smiling on the other side of a window set in the wall. Winslow rapped on the glass twice with his knuckles, breaking the moment to get their attention.

  I had an aversion to gossipy women. Old habits die hard and my reaction to them bustling forward was to turn away, studying a crack in the wall. The glass partition slid open with a resisting squeak, and still I didn’t look.

  “Is this the new miss then?”

  “She’s a soldier now, not a miss,” Winslow contradicted. Continuing, “Instructor Bardzecki said you would have her things.”

  “Oh, aye we do. Bring her back so we can check the fit.” I looked up then, straight into a pair of hooded brown eyes. A few women were clustered around the sliding glass, but this one was clearly in charge as she’d done most of the talking. Her voice was surprisingly high and girlish, not matching her short, thick figure. “Edna,” she said, “go and get the bundle. Susan, go with her. It’s heavy and she’ll need help.” No one moved right away. She glanced at Edna and Susan, then me and Winslow. “What are you all waiting for, get moving!”

  Winslow seemed unable to ignore an order. He turned on his heel and marched to the closest door. I, of course, followed. We were ushered into the room, now standing on the other side of the glass. Long tables were pushed side by side, leaving only a narrow gap for the women to squeeze into. Two stood there, a pile of uniforms and faded white sheets in front of them which they pretended to fold. The remaining women didn’t make any effort to look busy. Instead they hovered near the brown-eyed woman who seemed to know what she was about.

  “Taller than I expected,” she said, giving me the eye, for which I was all too familiar. “May have to go one size up on the uniforms.”

  Edna and Susan returned, pushing through a set of swinging doors, grappling a large sheet bundle between them. It was dropped unceremoniously at Winslow’s feet. Together, he and the brown-eyed woman pulled the knot apart and began to root through.

  What followed made me feel somewhat uncomfortable, though I’m not entirely sure why. The brown-eyed woman, they called her Mave, began to hold the uniforms against my frame. I didn’t like her being so close, it felt invasive. Winslow didn’t notice (I suppose I should be grateful) because he was too busy throwing things out of the bundle, claiming they were unnecessary. A few of the women who had gathered around to watch (what was slowly becoming a spectacle) tsked, arguing that I would need hair cream or whatever else...

  “Not the journal,” Mave said, just before Winslow tossed it aside. “She’s meant to keep that, he specifically said so.” Winslow dropped it back into the bundle and Mave’s attention settled back on me. “A female fledge,” she said, shaking her head in disapproval as she held a pair of trous to my waist. “Well don’t worry, deary, even if the soldiers aren’t fledglin
gs anymore, they were all just as miserable in the beginning.”

  Thanks, I thought, that makes me feel so much better. Luckily Winslow had gathered up my uniforms, shoving them into the bundle and tying it closed. The women eyed the pile of discarded items, looking sympathetic and forlorn on my behalf. It was ironic because I didn’t even care. The truth was I didn’t need hair cream or any of the other luxury items I didn’t recognize.

  “Here,” Winslow said, thrusting the off-white bundle into my arms. It was large and surprisingly heavy. I lurched under the unexpected weight, my hands reaching to get a grip.

  “Careful!” one of the women said, indignant on my behalf. I wasn’t sure who it was, I could barely see over my new things.

  Someone else said, “Oughtn’t make the miss do it, not with your arms carrying nothing but air.”

  “She’s a soldier, not a miss,” Winslow repeated. He said this to Mave, which I thought was odd. Her look seemed to chastise, but she hadn’t actually reproached him aloud. I would have recognized her high, childish tone.

  To me he said, “Come on,” before striding towards the door. I struggled to keep up, walking at an angle to see over my awkward armful.

  “Winslow,” Mave called at our backs, “don’t cut her hair.”

  I don’t know if he heard, but his steps didn’t falter as he stalked out the door.

  Winslow snatched my flour-sack-luggage from the hall as he passed, with me bumbling after. Just moments after leaving the convene he said, “You are not to seek out the laundry women for any reason.”

  “Why would I?” I asked, surprised into speaking.

  “Special treatment will not be tolerated,” he curtly replied.

  I was offended. It didn’t happen very often, I tended to be pretty thick-skinned, but Winslow had managed, and in the first hour of our acquaintance no less. Impressive. Implying that I would go hunting for handouts... Just thinking about it made me want to, well, put him in his place. I was about to say something I’d probably regret, but he spoke first, totally ruining the moment. I felt myself deflate a bit.

  “This is the infirmary. You have to see a medic.”

  “Why? I feel fine.”

  “Don’t question me, just do as I say.”

  I was annoyed by the commands, but not surprised. I was starting to notice that Winslow didn’t look at me when he issued them. What did it say when someone could order you about, but not meet your eye while doing so?

  The infirmary doors opened into a small foyer with closed rooms off to either side, but ahead was the main area. It was long and rectangular with neatly spaced beds along each wall. Rolling cloth divides and hanging curtains divvied the large space into smaller, more private sections, though they were useless at the moment. None of the beds were occupied, for which I was grateful.

  I had yet to see another soldier, something I thought was strange. During my walk down from the airfield I had seen them at a distance, lots, apparently 600, moving along the pathways like a bunch of busy bugs. But since leaving the instructor’s office I hadn’t seen a one, not that I minded in the least. No, as I said, I was relieved.

  As if the thought extended to my fingers, I relaxed, letting the bundle in my arms drop to the ground.

  “Pick it up,” Winslow immediately said.

  I picked it up.

  “Stay here.”

  I stayed while he went back into the foyer. I heard him knocking on one of the doors, and then muffled voices. Winslow returned shortly with an older gentleman. He didn’t look at all like a hardened man of the military.

  “This is the medic, Doctor Pruitt,” explained Winslow. “Doctor Pruitt, this is Soldier Frost.”

  “Pleasure to meet you,” the doctor said, extending his hand.

  I stared at it, then at Winslow.

  “Set down your things.”

  After dropping the bundle and shaking his hand, the doctor suggested we walk back to the far end of the room. He pulled a curtain closed, effectively banishing Winslow from my sight. I settled on one of the beds, sitting sideways with my legs dangling over while Doctor Pruitt went to fetch a rolling chair.

  The first thing he wanted to know was how I spelled my name. The question seemed innocuous enough, so I answered. He then wanted to know the date of my birth, which I again answered. Things got trickier after that, question after question about the previous state of my health.

  “Why is this important,” I finally asked.

  “It’s just in case you have a problem while here at camp. Treating patients is easier if I have their medical history.”

  So I told him about the few hurts I’d experienced over the years. He wanted to know what medications I’d been given and if I remembered the physicians who’d treated me. I remembered them all by name—their occupation had made an impression. You see, doctors were recruited from Earth, men and women, and they had a rare privilege on Providence. They could treat people in the farming sector and military districts; on occasion they were even given access to the utopias. That kind of freedom was hard to come by on Little Red, and as I said, the occupation left an impression.

  Doctor Pruitt jotted down the last of his thoughts before flipping the notebook closed and setting his clipboard aside. “Alright, time for your physical.”

  We left the cloister of our partitioned area, Doctor Pruitt leading me to the scale where he could record my height and weight. From my peripheral vision I could see Winslow waiting by the foyer, but I ignored him the best I could, refusing to turn my head in his direction. After that we returned to the curtained cubby where he took my blood pressure, temperature, and checked my reflexes.

  Doctor Pruitt hovered around, examining my ears and eyes. I tried to be helpful, holding very still and saying very little while watching the doctor work. He had an overlarge head, extremely round, and when he flashed a penlight into my eyes his crown tilted backward, chin thrust up, revealing a prominent Adam’s apple. But overall I thought he had a kind face to match his gentle nature.

  He clicked the penlight off and stepped back. “Healthy as a horse,” he declared. “I’ll just go and get your first.”

  “My what?”

  He’d been reviewing his notes, but at my question he looked up distractedly. “Your first,” he repeated. “You know... your format leader—Winslow.” At my blank look he waved it all away with one vague hand gesture. “Don’t worry, you’ll catch on. It won’t be long before you find your place.”

  The problem was I believed him. I just worried what that place might be.

  Doctor Pruitt wasn’t even gone for a whole minute before Winslow pulled the curtain aside, stepping through and filling the tiny space with his empty presence. “Put this on,” he demanded, tossing a uniform into my lap.

  The dictates I could manage, but I wouldn’t tolerate much more of the throwing. I glanced down at the cloth heap in my lap, thinking the uniform was not entirely unpleasant. It was comprised of a pair of tan trous, cotton white undershirt, and a tunic of rich blue. Embroidered across the breast was a picture of Providence, the Triangle Patch prominent and enlarged with a star of hope to represent each of the six utopias. I rubbed at the stitching, waiting for Winslow to leave so I could change. Only he didn’t.

  Our eyes locked and I continued to wait, wondering why he didn’t go... until it finally dawned on me. He saw that I understood, couldn’t have missed that I’d just flushed red from head to toe. But still I didn’t move—I couldn’t. My mum would die if she ever found out, but she’d kill me and everyone in the military first. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t.

  Winslow must’ve sensed this because he faltered. “The instructors check to make sure no contraband is brought in, unauthorized weapons, that sort of thing. I just searched your bag, this is procedure.”

  I don’t think I had ever been truly embarrassed before that moment. I thought that embarrassment was what I’d hardened
myself to avoid, but I was wrong. It must’ve been something else, something other than this overwhelming mortification. My experience with the opposite sex was limited, leaving me utterly unprepared. Perhaps that was why I didn’t do anything, not a thing, not even breathe. We just stared, our bodies frozen.

  Finally Winslow exhaled. “If I find out you snuck something in...” The threat trailed off as he spun on his heel, nose nearly touching the curtain.

  Then it was my turn to exhale, rushing to change and managing in record time. I didn’t tell him I was finished, just scrambled past, hurrying through the curtain to escape an area that now felt stiflingly small.

  While I stuffed my recently shucked farm clothes into the flour sack, Winslow spoke to Doctor Pruitt. “Is she fit for service?” he asked.

  He didn’t fool me. The question might have been delivered in deadpan tones, but it was loaded nonetheless. I already knew he was going to be disappointed, and so was I.

  As if to prove my point, Doctor Pruitt said, “She is.”

  Chapter 7

  “You’ll sleep here,” Winslow said. He’d led me south through camp, away from the convene and infirmary, away from the big buildings and flat fields. The distant airfield and landing strips faded from sight, obscured behind a grid of adobe huts. They were identical, rows and rows of format housing, little squares of red. Above each doorless entry was a carved number, but luckily we passed by forty-four, and for this I was tremendously grateful. A knot had formed in my stomach, and the muscles only unknit when Winslow took me to the very edge of camp. The pathways had ended, the nicely manicured grass (a shock of green like I’d never seen) had long since petered out and we seemed to be walking nowhere, boots crunching over crumbled rock and slippery red sand. And that was exactly where my new abode was located. It teetered on the edge of camp, not a perfect square hut, but a pinched rectangular dwelling, narrow and long. It seemed to be facing away, entrance looking off into the nothingness, giving its back to camp.