Secret Value of Zero, The (13 page)

Meke sat and watched the leaves ripple far above her head. White rays shone through the mosaic of green leaves, casting moving patterns on the soil. Arya had told her once that it was safe out there since nobody in Prosperon liked to venture further than the city limits.
 

 
“It’s beautiful,” Meke said. “I didn’t think the woods here would be so different from in the mountains.”

Trove turned to face her. “You’re not afraid to be out here?”

“No, why would I be?”

“Most people are. I suppose the unknown can be scary. You can’t erase everything that Prosperon has done.”

“Well, I’m not most people, am I?”

Trove chuckled. “No. You’re not.”
 

Meke wrinkled her nose. “Are you making fun of me?”

They had gotten on well enough in the last few weeks. Meke’s opinion of him, however, hadn’t changed. He had still scared away Gladys and did brutish things.

“No, no, I’m not. You’re just…unusual.”

“What does that mean?”

Trove sighed, flicking a pebble away. He peered at her. “Well, just the reason that you’re training is interesting. You don’t seem to do it to defeat others. Most people,” he pointed toward the Barracks, “do it because they’re angry. They want to beat the people that made them Squares or whatever. Sometimes I wonder if Prosperon’s mistake was to discount emotions. But you—you try really hard and I don’t think you do it to beat Prosperon, to kill people. Do you?”

Meke squirmed. “I don’t expect you to understand why I do it. You’re a Fiver.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Meke leveled her gaze at him. He was an idiot. “Everything. People look at you like you’re the center of the universe. It’s disgusting.” Trove half-smiled at that. “They don’t look at me like that—I just hate how they look at me.”

Trove studied the rocks in his hand, then looked up. “I understand that.”

Meke laughed. “How could you? People look at you like you’re important.”

Trove eased himself into an upright position. “Maybe they do, but it’s not because of anything I do.”

“They fawn over you because you’re the best soldier around. You do that.”

“No, I don’t. Not really.”

“Of course you do. You’re really an idiot. You do all these things with the sword.”

Trove sighed, his chest heaving. He moved to cross his arm, but stopped to say something. “It’s not really me that’s good. I’m, what you would call, genetically gifted. When I was a bit younger than you are now, Prosperon pulled me out of my university classes. I was supposed to be a programmer, but Prosperon came out with some more tests for aptitude. They found out that my overall maximum effectiveness was in soldiering, not in programming as they’d once thought.”

Meke nodded. That sounded right. Prosperon tested everyone at age one for various aptitudes. It placed people into the most efficient and effective positions. For the greater good. They would repeat the tests at different ages, make sure the people still remained in the most effective, efficient roles.
 

“They were right. I was a damn good soldier. Better than I would’ve been as a programmer. I went into the Elite Forces and stayed there for a while.”

“Then what?” Meke couldn’t resist asking. Trove was a long way from the Elite Forces, now.

“Well, they came out with yet another test. I failed this one. A test for obedience. Apparently I’m highly likely to be disloyal.”

“So, they let you go?”

Trove laughed. “‘Let go’ is a nice term for that. I barely got out alive. Prosperon went back to my home and killed my parents, my brother and any other relatives just for good measure. I couldn’t even save them since I’d get captured and they would’ve killed them anyway. Then I went off on my own for a year. I even went into The States and worked there to feed myself.”

Meke’s eyes widened. “Were you a mercenary there?” Meke’s signs were small, as if she didn’t want to see them.

“Yes. There was no other way I could get by.” Trove kept his eyes fixed at some far-off point. Meke knew what mercenaries did in The States. The heads of different factions in The States would hire mercenaries to sneak into other factions and kill the enemy head, or to kidnap the heads’ families.

“Then Sterling got me out of a tough spot. He even overlooked the test results and took me in. He saved me in more ways than one,” Trove said.

“So, here you are.”
 

“Sterling stopped me from becoming what Prosperon said I would be, an unthinking killer for money. Prosperon may have been right about the good soldier part, but they won’t be right about the disloyal part.”

“So, you’ll obey him no matter what?”

“Yes.”

Trove seemed so sure of that word. He left himself no other option other than unyielding loyalty. Meke had to admire that, even if she didn’t understand it.
 

“Do you even like being a soldier?” Meke asked.

Trove leaned back, the picture of casualness. Meke didn’t believe it for a second. “I’m good at it.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“Isn’t it? Well,” he stared past Meke’s shoulder, “I like the mastery part of it. I like to figure out what works and what doesn’t. I like getting people out of situations safely.” He closed his eyes. “What I don’t like is the killing part of it. I’m good at it. Truly excellent.” Now he crossed his arms, and looked away. Meke no longer wanted to ask any more questions.

Meke returned her gaze to the fluttering leaves. Her mind remained on the matters closer to the ground.
 

She had been wrong about Trove. The idea came hard and slow. She had misjudged him. He was no brute, bent on grinding people into the dirt. Now, she wasn’t sure what he was.
 

Trove Anderson hated killing, yet he did it to prove Prosperon wrong. Meke tried to understand this, but couldn’t. She gave up and watched the leaves flutter in the wind.

TROVE NEVER asked for more breaks or even talked about himself again in the next few weeks. Meke felt both relieved and disappointed. Whenever Trove corrected Meke, his touch made her skin tingle—an almost pleasant tingle. Meke disregarded the silly feelings as momentary foolishnesses. She focused on learning.
 

And learn she did.

With gritted teeth and a sweaty forehead, Meke learned new weapons. She learned how to string the crossbow and how to load bolts quickly. She practiced her footwork, educating her feet in the fine art of fighting. She studied the best grips for dagger throwing. Apparently, she had been lucky to even hit the man in the forest. Her technique had been atrocious.

Meke tried the sword, but it felt overlong and awkward in her hands. She missed the balance and simplicity of the staff.
 

Trove leaned on the wall, watching Meke’s attempts at swordplay. Her thrusts and jabs felt weak and ineffective. “Okay. Let’s stop for a moment,” he said.
 

Meke stopped, panting. The sword’s tip plummeted to the floor. She had attained a respectable level of proficiency in most of the weapons that she had learned, but the sword proved uncooperative.

Trove inspected her hand positions, shaking his head. “Bad grip.” Meke sighed. She had been working on it for the last week. “I don’t think the sword is right for you,” he said.

“But—it’s what everyone uses,” Meke said.
 

“I’ll be plain. You’re terrible at the sword.” Meke frowned, her pride bruised. “But, you’re good at other weapons.”

“I’ll get better. I’ll practice.”

Trove rubbed his jaw. “I know you will. It’s not worth it. Your talent is elsewhere.” Meke huffed. She preferred the other weapons, but people put the sword above all other weapons. “You’re among the best at the crossbow,” Trove continued. “You can shoot a target from kilometers away. You’re decent at daggers but you did some good staff work. I think I may have the better weapon for you.”

“But the sword is the best weapon!”
 

“It’s not the best weapon for you. That’s the point,” Trove said. “It’s one of the best overall weapons. It’s flexible. You can use it one-handed or two-handed. If someone gets under your guard, you have a chance.” Meke raised her hands to protest, but Trove waved her off. “But, the sword isn’t much of a weapon if you can’t wield it properly, is it? Other weapons have their advantages. That’s why they exist.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I think a poleax would be perfect for you.”

“What’s that? I’ve never heard of it before.”

“It’s an unusual weapon. It’s basically a long axe. It’s a bit like the staff that you like so much, but much deadlier.”

Meke did like the staff. She had taken to flipping, jabbing and thrusting it in her spare time. Still, she hated the thought of abandoning the sword. She sighed.

“I’ll try it. I’m not promising anything.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Trove said with a small smile.

As Trove went to retrieve the so-called poleax, Meke stared at her hands. Why did she insist on the sword? She struggled to adapt to the weapon. Perhaps her wrists weren’t strong enough. The sword felt wrong in her hands, as if it hated her. Even as she hated the sword, everyone loved it. A sword in hand was a sign of mastery, of excellence. Meke wouldn’t have that sign.
 

Trove presented her with a long, sliver weapon. It was a pole with double-headed axe head attached to the top and a hooked knife at the bottom. Meke’s mouth fell open. “Don’t look like that. It’s easier than you think to handle,” Trove said.

“It’s so big.”

“You’re not exactly tiny. It fits you.” Meke held it, feeling its lightness. “It’s made from carbon nanotubes. It’s light and indestructible.”

As Meke adjusted to the lightness, she felt its hardness. She flipped it, taking care not to slice anything or anyone with the blades. It felt natural in her hands, as if she could ply it to her will. Her sense made it easy to keep track of the blades.

“See, it’s not so bad,” Trove said.

“No, it’s all right.”

She would accept it; but she mourned the sword, just a little.

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It took Meke some time to acclimate to the new weapon. She practiced slices, thrusts and hooks. If she was lucky, she could hook a sword between the ax blades and wrest the sword away. She smiled whenever she managed this move.
 

“It’s actually more effective than a sword against an armored soldier. Of course, with this, you only get one blow,” Trove said. Poleaxes could deliver much heavier blows than a sword. Of course, recovery lagged for the poleax compared to the sword. “Be careful, don’t let anyone under your guard. You don’t have as much room to react once someone gets past the poleax. That’s a big difference from the sword,” Trove said.
 

Once she got the hang of things, Trove tossed a plain carbon nanotube staff to her. “Rematch? It has been a while,” he said.

Meke sighed. She almost hated their matches. Trove always beat her. Always. Sometimes, however, she would make him sweat, just a little. She had nothing in her DNA that made her a fine swordswoman or even soldier. It almost felt unfair, facing off with one of the best fighters around. Still, Meke decided that she would give Trove some bluster.
 

“Too afraid to use the poleax?” she asked.
 

Trove shrugged. “It’s more for your benefit. We wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself, after all.” Trove twirled his staff.
 

Meke stretched her neck. Trove’s placid confidence grated on her. He may be genetically blessed, but Meke didn’t care anymore. DNA or not, she would show him. What she would show him, she didn’t know.

They faced each other, holding their arms ready. Meke struck first.
 

Trove knocked away Meke’s swipe. Meke took a step forward. Meke knew that she couldn’t overpower Trove, but could she surprise him? But how? He was no idiot.

She feinted to the left, and Trove didn’t make a move to defend himself. She chided herself to keep her torso still, concealing any telltale signs of her next move.
 

Trove struck high, swinging sideways. She blocked it, but he was bearing down on her. Despite the staff’s textured surface, her sweaty palms made it slippery.

She was losing her grip, but Meke had nothing to lose, so she decided to make one last move. A new one.

She dragged her staff downward and rapped Trove’s fists as hard as she could. One of Trove’s hands released the staff and his eyebrows went up in surprise. Meke tried to grab his staff, but Trove snatched it away. He was a fraction of a second too slow regaining his grip; Meke stepped forward and shoved Trove back. He didn’t move much, but he still only held the staff with one hand. Meke kicked his shins, then pushed him once more for good measure before grabbing the staff.

Panting, she set down her staff, grinning. Trove rubbed his shins and stared at his fallen staff, his mouth slightly open. The room grew so still that Meke stopped chuckling. Trove shook his head. Meke swallowed. Perhaps he was angry. He had no right to be angry. The training was supposed to improve Meke’s skills. Still, a Zero had beaten a Fiver.

“I didn’t teach you that,” Trove said, staring at her.

“Well—that’s not fair,” Meke started to say. She had learned some tricks when the other kids had thrown rocks at her when she was small. A kick to the shins usually made them stop.

“No, it’s—just, well. You just surprised me. I didn’t teach you how to fight dirty.” Trove exhaled. “Now to think of it, dirty fighting isn’t bad. Us trained soldiers won’t expect it.” Meke couldn’t stop her grin. “You don’t have to look that happy, you know?” he scowled then straightened himself. “I’ll tell Sterling that you’re ready.” Trove said.

Meke stiffened at the mention of Sterling’s name. She had been so focused on her end goal—mastery—that she had forgotten that she would have to prove it.
 

Now she had to prove herself above the empty circles on her hands. She hoped she could deliver.