Fledge Read online

  “The southeastern fields used to be bigger,” Winslow explained. “This was a recreational storage shed, but now they just keep extra beds here.”

  I glanced behind my new home where training camp loomed, like everything on Providence it was red on red, a smudge of crimson buildings and pathways in contrast with the forced grass that grew naturally nowhere on this dusty planet. I tried to imagine the southeastern fields, situated off to the right, and how they must have stretched all the way to my new home’s doorstep. But I couldn’t, the space between was now so utterly barren.

  I continued to relax, bit by bit, the tension leaving my body as I realized that this storage shed was mine and mine alone. I’d never had my own space, having slept in the same room, the same bed even, as Elizabeth since I was a small child. To be honest, it was kind of wretched looking. It seemed to spring up from the dirt, the once smooth adobe surface now cracking under the evening sun. But at least there was a door, wood even, with thin graying planks hanging crooked and framed by gaps. Nestled beside it was a tiny window, the corners crusted over and collecting grit and grime. The structure’s shoddy condition didn’t bother me though and I wanted to go inside and poke around. But I couldn’t without Winslow giving me the say-so, and since he hadn’t even given me permission to set down my things, I knew better than to ask.

  As if he knew what I wanted, Winslow withheld it. If for a single moment I thought I was going to set down the bundle and relax into my private new home, then I was dead wrong. Instead I was given an introductory lesson of everything military.

  First I was informed that I was late (which was no longer news to me) and apparently I’d missed the vital first stage—the fledgling period. This was when a fledge had every aspect of their life dictated to them by an instructor, and as I inferred from Winslow’s description, it was rather unpleasant. After the first stage was complete, soldiers had shed their ego (or had it beaten out of them) and learned discipline, along with their routine and what would be expected of them.

  “Because of your gender certain exceptions must be made,” Winslow said, and I knew he was thinking of earlier.

  Before leaving the infirmary, Dr. Pruitt had asked Winslow if he should fetch someone to cut my hair, a standard practice for the newly arrived. Winslow had stared at my hair, a thick braid that flopped to one side and hung over my shoulder, before shaking his head. Dr. Pruitt seemed to agree that it didn’t feel right, a statement which Winslow hadn’t appreciated. I didn’t care one way or another about saving my hair. I would have cut it long ago out of convenience if I’d thought for one moment my mum would have let me. But if my gender got me a shed all to myself, then I ought to be grateful, even if I didn’t feel like it.

  Our lesson skimmed over rankings, and by this time my arms began to ache from holding the bundle. My upper muscles seemed to burn while my hands shook from exertion, but I refused to be distracted. I paid attention as Winslow outlined the military rankings, for which could be applied to even office jobs. I remembered everything, filing it away and focusing only on pertinent details. For example, most of my interaction would be with other soldiers of my rank, the exception being firsts, the next highest rank. Firsts were chosen and appointed by their instructor after the fledgling period came to an end, at which point firsts assumed responsibility and authority over their format. Instructors ranged in rank, most having once been soldiers themselves, but switched to a less physically demanding job because they were either injured or getting on in years. Although rank was signified by patches on the uniform, and outside of camp one was expected to recognize and address each person properly in accordance with said rank, here instructors were given the same deference and title. I surmised that most of this rank information was only important for those who wished to pursue a career in the military, but I made a point to remember every detail nonetheless.

  “Set your things down over there,” Winslow said, pointing to the spot where he’d dropped my flour sack. I hurried to comply, sighing in satisfaction when my arms were free. It was a mistake to relax. “Drop to the ground and do as many push-ups as you can manage.”

  “Uh...”

  “Drop to the ground and do as many push-ups as you can manage,” Winslow repeated, his voice taking on a slightly louder and more forceful tone.

  I sank to my knees and lurched forward, holding myself above the ground. Winslow’s booted feet shifted around me, moving out of sight as I relaxed, letting my body descend to the warm earth.

  “Slower,” Winslow said, interrupting my progress. “Don’t just let yourself drop, lower yourself. It’ll work the muscles better.”

  I did the best I could with my arms as weak as they were, stopping when my face hovered just inches over the dust, elbows jutting sideways.

  “Straighten out,” Winslow commanded, “you’re sagging. Go on, straighten out and push up.” He hadn’t yet realized I was pushing up, unfortunately nothing was happening. “Your back should be flat.” Something moved against my waist, a tap tap as he used the tip of his boot to push my middle up into place. I was startled by the gesture and instantly collapsed into a heap at his feet. I glanced up, unable to see him as he was backlit by the beating sun. “A new low for the forty-fourth format,” his darkened outline proclaimed. “Now let’s see if you fare any better with sit-ups.”

  Things continued on like that. He stood on my shoes while I did sit-ups, considerably less humiliating than the push-ups, and then he showed me how I should stand at attention during flag ceremony. The way he casually moved me into place, nudging my shoulders back, tapping my chin up, it was... Well I don’t know what it was, because I can’t remember a time when anyone, let alone a male, ever casually touched me. It was unsettling, but I can’t help reliving the memory, as if hoping to experience it all over again. My mother would die. I can’t ever let her read this journal... I feel silly even writing these things, like I’m Lizzie and not Fiona, but I can’t stop. It helps to write. It provides clarity in this uncertain situation. Even if I don’t know why I’m here and what tomorrow brings, at least I can figure out how I feel. And I feel... I feel like I’ve done something wrong and I can’t figure out what. But I must have, because being here feels like a punishment, a terrible punishment. I’ve never felt this low. I’ve been crying and I can’t remember ever crying before. Strange, but I really can’t. Lizzie is the crier. I’m turning into Lizzie—soft. At least I can cry in private. Winslow left after teaching me the basics. He brought me a dinner tray but quickly went away again, saying he’d fetch me in the morning. So I have until morning, and then... who knows.

  I can hear them, the other soldiers, and I’ve never heard so much noise in all my life. Their bursts of laughter, their echoing arguments—I’d say these are the sounds of my loneliness, except being alone has never been this frightening.

  Chapter 8

  Once upon a time I was little and clumsy, just beginning to understand what it meant to be a farmer, the care it entailed. But my hands hadn’t yet caught up with my brain, my muscle memory still developing, and as I said, I was clumsy. So one day I set aside a long-handled hoe, propping it haphazardly against the wall before turning my attention elsewhere. It fell of course, the noise startling me backward, right into an open sack of horse feed. The feed spilled everywhere, mixing in with the reddust and straw.

  “What starts with a bang, ends in a groan.” It was my father, his voice giving me more of a scare than the hoe had managed. I’d hoped to clean it up before he noticed. I was always afraid to disappoint him. He never seemed to laugh off my folly like he did with Lizzie and Mum. To me he was always sober, withdrawn. But I liked that saying of his. It managed to put things in perspective and somehow smooth over my mistakes. It was just an expression, the meaning almost meaningless. I was too little to know truer words had never been spoken.

  What starts with a bang, ends in a groan.

 
; Bang, bang, bang.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  I woke up disoriented, the hammering sound feeding me a sense of urgency as I scrambled upright, glancing around wildly, trying to put the pieces together. Ah, camp, that was it. I was serving a year, or what was left of a year, learning what it meant to be a soldier. I followed the noise to my door. It rattled on its hinges, fluttering like a leaf in the wind. I pulled it open to find Winslow on my step, large and imposing as ever in the weak, thready morning light.

  “You have to shower before the others wake.”

  I nodded, not caring to argue. “I’ll just put on my uniform,” I said, gesturing behind me lamely.

  “Don’t bother, just bring it to change into.”

  * * *

  My morning routine was firmly established. I was expected to wake up early and sneak in a shower before sunrise. It was still dark and brisk out as I hunched over, hugging the wadded uniform for warmth as Winslow led me through camp. I had no more than fifteen minutes to wash and groom, he’d said, along with a cryptic statement about the chain and how it only goes for seven minutes. He mentioned it like I should know what he was going on about, though we both knew I didn’t. I pretended anyway, nodding before I dashed inside the latrine.

  There had been a single light above the outside entry, a buzzing greenish-yellow lamp that flickered as if slowly dying. The lighting inside was no better, shadowy and dim. But the smell was heavier than the shadows, pungent from years of male sweat and musk. Along one wall was a bank of sinks, the other side a series of open chambers done in russet tile. When my face puckered it was not from the smell, but the realization that I would not have a private stall to shower in. I checked to make sure, thinking surely one of the stalls in the back was a shower, but it wasn’t so. Leading me to another discovery—the chain Winslow spoke of. Each nozzle had one and I simply had to give it a tug to start the water. So with that I began and endured the most uncomfortable shower of my entire life. There was no curtain to conceal me, and though I chose the furthest chamber from the door, if Winslow was so inclined, he could march in and get an eyeful, which was why I suppose he was standing guard. I ought to be grateful, but I just couldn’t manage. So I kept one eye trained on the door while I shivered through a quick seven minute shower and hurried to towel off and dress.

  Winslow looked me up and down when I stepped out to meet him. My uniform was new, my skin freshly scrubbed, and my hair pulled back into a thick damp braid, but I didn’t look sharp and well put-together like him. No, I looked raw, my face too pale, my clothes not fitting quite right. The seams were made in lines that would never shape to my body. His face gave nothing away, but I was sure he agreed and found me lacking. But he only said, “Go back to your shed and wait for me.”

  Camp came to life while I did just that, the noise drifting to meet me. It made me terribly nervous, the anticipation. I had an entire day ahead of me, and no idea what to expect. I began to chew at the inside of my mouth, biting the already tender skin as I paced back and forth. When Winslow came he had damp hair of his own, the short cut glistening wetly. “Come on,” he said. “It’s time to meet your format.”

  Soldiers milled about, most wandering to and from the latrine, preparing for the day. It was the first time I’d passed them while trekking through camp, and I was relieved to garner little attention. It was the uniform, I realized. It made me blend.

  When we reached the forty-fourth hut Winslow called out, “Is everyone decent?”

  I heard a few snickers from inside, and one outright laugh. Someone called back, “What’s the matter, Winslow, did you turn shy?”

  “Suit yourselves,” Winslow muttered, ushering me in.

  Stepping from the dawning light of day into a windowless enclosure forced me to blink, squinting through shadows while my vision adjusted. Meanwhile the hut had grown silent. “As I explained earlier, for reasons unknown, we’re gaining a thirteenth format member. This is that member, and her name is Soldier Frost.”

  At first there was silence, and still unable to see clearly I began to wonder if anyone was even there. But then someone said, “A girl?” And another soldier to the left scoffed, disbelief thick in the air. He asked, “Is this a joke?” The soldier next to him said that it must be. I continued to squint, trying to tie voices to the blooming figures. As my vision cleared the talking grew louder, a swirling storm of noise, a cacophony of voices all blending together. I expected Winslow to say something, to explain, or just make them be quiet, but he didn’t do any of that. He stood in front of me and slightly to the right, his arms crossed over his chest, relaxed but firm. The fact that he refused to acknowledge their ongoing rants only made the format louder.

  With my vision fully adjusted I could make out each and every format member. Bunk beds lined the wall with a few soldiers leaning against the frames, but most of my new format sat on their beds, no longer reclining as I imagined they had been, but strung tight with the news, leaning forward as they voiced their discontent.

  It was intimidating to hear their rejection. A part of me wanted to run out the door. Another part of me would have settled for stepping just a little to the right and hiding behind Winslow’s stalwart brawn. But I iced my face, making it an expressionless mask. I was trying to tune out my format when something twined around my legs, giving me a momentary fright. It was a cat, but not like any I’d ever seen, and definitely not a farm cat. It was large, coming to my knees. It appeared elongated and unnaturally thin. Its fur was short and sleek, the color of kidney beans, an odd shade of red. I found the cat’s presence strange, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to reach down and pet it. I might have too, but just then a voice broke out, startling me from my thoughts.

  “Get rid of her!” A bug-eyed soldier was speaking. His voice was so laced with disgust that it stood apart from the others. “We’ll never win trials with her on our format. Winslow, get rid of her!”

  Disturbed by the soldier’s obvious loathing, I shuffled back a step, realizing my unconscious move only when I bumped into something solid. I turned on reflex, knowing it was a person I’d accidently elbowed. And it was a person, only he wasn’t human.

  Chapter 9

  The soldier was so obviously not human and yet so similar, the oddities subtle. He stood just inside the doorframe, sunlight shining through from behind. The cartilage of his ears glowed blue instead of pinkish-red like a human’s would. The skin around his eyes and neck, so thin and delicate, had a faint blue under-hue too. Elongated and unnaturally thin, he was just like the cat that was now rubbing against his shins. His cat.

  I had heard rumors of the Shetheerie and their pets but never imagined to see a pair in person. I was quite stunned. My attention was consumed, the noise around us fading to nothing, and I just couldn’t look away.

  His hair was ginger-brown, his features exotic, and he stood extremely straight. On a human his stance would have been rigid, but somehow his stiff shoulders appeared graceful and elegant.

  My trance was broken by a short, chubby fellow that roughly pushed past me, muttering about how he didn’t care one way or another just so long as he didn’t miss his breakfast. It was as if magic words had been spoken, because the rest of the format followed suit as if enchanted, grumbling as they swept out of the hut and off to eat. I was left standing there with Winslow, a giant seventeen year old, and an alien.

  * * *

  The giant fellow, his name was Roth. I found out he was actually eighteen, having already celebrated his birthday since arriving at camp. Eighteen—and even that was hard to believe. He was just so gargantuan. His skin was very dark, eating up the light. When he shifted, his muscles moved and rippled under it, reminding me of Huron, our strongest workhorse. I felt certain Roth didn’t hate me, which was a relief, because I didn’t know what I’d do if someone that large was radiating anger at me. The Shetheerie didn’t seem t
o mind me either, though apart from telling me his name—Fitallion—he didn’t say anything. And I was too apprehensive of him and my mates to ask more.

  I couldn’t say what was worse, being ignored or being noticed. Here I got both. I trailed my format into the convene, Winslow leading the way while Roth and Fitallion flanked me. The room was large and pale, shiny tiles echoing the sound back at us as large, pillar-like arms lifted the ceiling up over our heads. It was like being inside of a hive, the soldiers busy little bees, flitting around long tables, some holding trays, others grouped together and laughing. But every soldier was present, pressed together, moving through the lines to get their meal, and I could no longer blend. Up close I was noticed, and I could tell the moment each and every soldier spotted me. First it was a casual glance, followed by a quick double take as heads swiveled ‘round. After that it was a case of wildfire, a subtle nudge or elbow to the ribs as soldiers whispered to each other, directing attention my way. It was quite alarming to be honest. I’d had a lifetime’s worth of being ignored, and while unpleasant, it was easy to manage. I just had to bear it, but this was different. My format wanted nothing to do with me. They stood in line, still grim and sober from the news, every one of them acting as though I didn’t exist, while all around us the story of a female inside the convene—in a uniform, no less—swirled about, stirring curiosity. I could feel a hundred eyes or more, each pair weighing me down, making my movements heavy as molasses. My heart sped up, my face felt hot, and it took every ounce of pride I had to simply not fidget, to stand still and seemingly confident. Those were the slowest, most excruciating meals of my life. But even those couldn’t compete with the horror and embarrassment that was physical training.

  The soldiers moved toward the North Field after breakfast, a mass exodus of white and blue. Winslow stayed close enough to order me about, but mostly he ignored me too. Roth seemed to be of natural good humor, joking with everyone (even as they ignored him in their sour mood) and occasionally clapping me on the back in what I can only guess he intended as camaraderie. I found it disconcerting, much like Fitallion, who moved around, quiet and lithe. I couldn’t tell if he was purposefully hovering near, or if it was merely a coincidence. Whatever the case, the three of them acted as a buffer, sort of insulating me from the rest.