The Star Dwellers (17 page)

I scream something that sounds like
“Arrarararara!”—part roar, part battle cry, perhaps?—and lower my
shoulder, watching her eyes widen further before I crash into her
chest, flattening her with the power of a miner’s sledgehammer. Not
graceful—but effective.

Another one of my father’s nuggets of wisdom
pops into my head at that moment—
don’t stop until it’s
over
—and I make him proud by continuing to drive forward after
the initial impact, crushing Han into the stone and landing with my
full weight on top of her. She half grunts, half screams, and I can
feel the air go out of her lungs with a whoosh of breath on my
face.

I know it’s over—there’s no way her smaller
frame could get up from the power of the smack that I just laid on
her—so I roll off her and stand up, looking around.

Initially, I worry I really have lost my
hearing from Buxton’s incessant yelling, because there’s no sound.
But then I realize that it’s just because everyone’s quiet, staring
at me like I’ve just grown a third arm and started juggling hunks
of limestone. I scan the crowd, searching for a familiar face. I
see Buxton, who’s scowling, but with an eyebrow raised; Brody,
who’s wearing a big grin, as if he planned the whole thing himself;
Tawni, standing out with a smile of her own, like a sparkling
diamond amongst ashy hunks of coal; and finally, Trevor, who looks
half amused and half like he wants to kill me.

Ten seconds pass in silence, and then: a clap
rings out through the seemingly impenetrable silence, sounding like
the hollow ring of a dinner bell in the caves. I jerk my head to
the side and see that it’s the short, black-eyed guy. The heckler.
He claps again and then shouts, “WoooOOO!” getting louder as he
yells. The next thirty seconds are a bit awkward as some of the
other soldiers join in, some applauding, some shouting
encouragement, and others just staring at me. I focus on Tawni, who
is laughing, until the noise dies down.

I hear a strange sound behind me, like an old
person trying to breathe through a ventilator, and turn to see Han
on her hands and knees, wheezing through her mouth. She was my
enemy, but now she’s my comrade, and so I stride to her and help
her to her feet, lifting her by her elbows. Leaning on me, she
manages to walk to the edge of the circle, whispering, “Thank you,”
in my ear, like I’ve just done her a huge service, rather than
crushing her sternum.

Brody approaches us. “Nice fight, soldiers,”
he says. “Zarra, take Han to medical to get her, uh, her ribs and
her…chest, and, well, whatever else hurts looked at.” A girl no
more than twenty-one, with short-cut black hair and thick black
eyebrows, steps forward and takes Han from me.

I turn back to face Brody, and Buxton, who
has once more moved to his side. “Well done,” he says, grinning
again.

“It’s just one fight and I didn’t mean to
hurt her so bad,” I say. I’m not proud of having sent a girl to the
medic, especially because it’s just training, and she’s supposed to
be on my side.

“Damn right,” Buxton says. “It
was
just one fight and Han is a small fry compared to a lot of the
soldiers, so don’t get a big head.”

I don’t know what her problem is, but I’m
getting tired of it. “Don’t worry, I won’t,” I say, glaring at
her.

Brody pats me on my injured shoulder and I
clench my teeth so I don’t show how much it hurts. “At ease,
soldier,” he says, and I realize my hands are fisted and my arms
are tight, like I’m straining against a heavy weight. He probably
thinks I’m about to hit the other sergeant. Maybe I am—I dunno.
Sometimes when the adrenaline gets pumping and I’m in fight-mode,
it’s like I lose a bit of control, which scares me a little.

I force my hands to open, flexing the
soreness out of them a few times. Then I relax my shoulders,
allowing them to droop just a little. “What’s next?” I ask, trying
to keep my voice pleasant.

“Have you ever even fired a gun?” Buxton
asks, with a note of sarcasm in her voice.

“I only learned how to fight with staffs and
bows and slingshots,” I say. “But mostly we focused on hand-to-hand
combat.”

“Yeah, we noticed,” Brody says, winking. I
wonder why he’s being so nice to me. Maybe he’s just a nice guy. I
wish Buxton were more like him.

“You trained with your mother?” Buxton asks,
sounding relatively interested in me for the first time since I met
her.

“No—my father.”

Her head jerks back in surprise. “That’s
interesting,” is all she says, and I want to ask her why, but I
don’t, knowing she won’t give me a straight answer. “All right,
soldiers, time for target practice!” she announces, once more
deafening anyone within earshot.

I follow the stampede of uniformed men and
women as they move further down the gray ore slab. A few of them
slap me on the back and nod encouragingly, but no one tries to talk
to me, and most just ignore me.

I hang back, letting Tawni and Trevor catch
up. “Took you long enough to finish her off,” Tawni says.

I laugh, feeling all the pent-up tension slip
away upon hearing my friend’s sarcasm. “Yeah, I paid for it, too,”
I reply, rubbing my shoulder.

“You got lucky, kid,” Trevor says,
smirking.

“Whatever you say,” I reply, desperately
wanting to smack the smirk off his face. “But don’t call me
kid.”

“Whatever you say,” he mimics, “
kid
.”
Now I really want to punch him, but I’m sure it will land me some
sort of undesirable army punishment, so I manage to just flash a
fake smile.

Tawni doesn’t let it go, though. “You don’t
know what you’re talking about, Trevor,” she says. I give her a
real smile, and finally I think maybe she sees why I hate this guy
so much.

“Oh yeah? Then educate me.”

“Just let it go, Tawns,” I say.

“No, really, I want to know,” Trevor insists.
“Why do I not know what I’m talking about?”

“No, Tawni,” I say, warning her off with my
eyes.

“Because she doesn’t look so tough,” Trevor
continues, raking a hand through his chestnut curls. “Hell, I
wouldn’t trust her to cover my as—”

“Adele killed Rivet, Trevor,” Tawni blurts
out, her eyes brimming with tears.

I look away and swallow hard, trying to choke
down the bad memories that well up every time I think of Rivet.
Because when I think of Rivet I can’t help but think of Cole.
Cole.
No. No. No!
God, no!
Why did it have to be
him
? I ask in my mind. No one ever answers me.

Blinking furiously, I fight off the tears and
try to think of something else, anything else. It’s harder than
fighting Han, but I manage to win the battle.

I glance back at Trevor, whose face is ashen,
as if dusted with chalk powder. Luckily, we arrive at target
practice and he and Tawni are forced to move to the side, out of
the line of fire. There are six guns, three handguns and three
rifles. Each black, each foreign to me. My weapons are fists and
rocks and sticks and feet. Hot metal bullets are used by Enforcers
and prison guards. Bad people. Not me.

But I know I have to do this if I want to be
a part of the rebellion.

“Line up, even numbers in each line!” Buxton
barks.

The platoon moves somewhat haphazardly into
relatively equal, straight lines. The soldiers don’t seem to be the
most disciplined—not like the sun dweller troops we saw anyway—but
they get the job done. I choose a line on one end that seems to
have fewer people than the others.

Brody raises a hand in the air, his thumb and
forefinger extended in the shape of a gun. Not surprisingly, it’s
Buxton who shouts, “Fire!”

Pop, pop, pop!
The first rounds are
fired by the front soldiers in the lines on my half, the ones with
the handguns. They are smaller and lighter and presumably quicker
to prepare and aim.

Crack, crack, crack!
The rifle fire
thunders through the low-ceilinged cavern, echoing off the walls
and roof.

“Hold your fire,” Brody says sternly.
“Dom—check ’em.”

One of the soldiers in my line breaks away
and jogs to the other end of the slab, where a row of canvas
targets are set up. He checks each target, and then pulls the
canvas upwards, removing the old target and revealing a fresh
target underneath. They must have a big old roll of targets strung
behind.

The guy named Dom lopes back, calling, “One,
three, five, six—out! Two, four—in!” as he approaches.

“Brady, Wong, Henderson, and Raine—bad luck,”
Brody says. Four soldiers—three girls, one guy—step out of line and
sit on big stone benches erected to the side, near where Tawni and
Trevor are standing. The two who apparently had the best aim move
to the back of their respective lines, to wait their turn
again.

The cycle continues on, as more and more
soldiers are defeated and forced off to the side, and the lines get
shorter and shorter. As I slowly move up the line, my legs stiffen
and I can feel my shoulder bruising under the sleeve of my
tunic.

The guy in front of me is up and I watch him
carefully, trying to memorize his every movement. He places his
feet shoulder-width apart, steadies them, holds the gun at
approximately shoulder-height using both hands, his elbows locked
but not tightly. He stares down the barrel and—

Pop!
I see a flash in the dim cavern
and then a finger of smoke curls from the gun. The bullet is
invisible, but I see the canvas visibly flutter near the edge about
the same time as I heard the gunshot.

They check the results and the guy is out,
trotting off to the side to join his comrades.

It’s my turn. I’ve never held a gun until
that morning, when my mom handed one to me, and I’ve certainly
never fired one, but I hope it’s like shooting a bow and arrow, or
a slingshot. You know, point, aim, shoot. Simple.

I step up and grasp the gun and feel all eyes
on me as I stare at it, trying to position it right. The handle—is
that what it’s called?—is cool to the touch, but also a little
moist from the previous shooter’s sweaty hands. There’s something
weird about the gun, but I can’t figure out what and I don’t have
time to think about it. I mimic my predecessor’s positioning,
although maybe I shouldn’t because apparently he didn’t do very
well. I take aim, trying to get the end of the gun even with the
target, while I wait for the command.

One second—I’m too high. Two seconds—I’m
aimed dead center. Three seconds—“Fire!” Buxton yells.

I squeeze the trigger with my finger,
surprised at how easily it pushes in. Dangerous, if you ask me. The
gun explodes back into my palm, and, despite my locked arms, my
elbows bend and it bucks upwards, forcing me to take a step back
and out of my shooter’s stance. The target doesn’t flutter, but I
hear a
zing!
as the bullet ricochets off the wall behind,
sending splinters of rock in every direction.

“Oops,” I mutter.

“Pathetic,” Buxton scoffs. “No need to check
that one. Rose—out!”

Staring at the ground the whole way, I walk
over to the rest of the eliminated soldiers, taking a seat without
looking at anyone. I feel a tap on the shoulder from behind. I’m
not in the mood to be ridiculed, so I don’t turn around.

Tap, tap. The fool isn’t giving up, so I
raise my shoulder sharply like I’m trying to get a pesky fly off of
it.

Tap, tap. I whirl around. “What?” I hiss.

A young guy is looking at me, mouth open. He
looks around my age, with thin black stubble, full lips, and
swirling gray eyes. His brown eyebrows are arched in surprise. He’s
not bad looking, but I’m not interested in that right now. “What do
you want?” I ask again.

“I was just going to say that I missed on my
first attempt, too.”

My shoulders droop and I feel bad right away.
The poor guy was trying to make me feel better, was probably one of
the ones clapping when I defeated Han, and yet I was so rude to
him. I can’t let even a tough situation like this turn me into one
of the bad guys. “Oh. Thanks.” I manage a crooked smile although I
know it’s not very believable. I turn back around, trying to calm
down.

Soon target practice is over and the winner
is announced. It’s the dude named Dom, a sturdy guy with athletic
arms and legs who’s about two heads taller than me.

This is meant to be training, but with only
getting to take one shot, I don’t feel like I’ve learned anything.
I stand up, take a breath, and promise myself I’ll do better on the
next challenge.

W
hen Ram came to get
us, he said there was a “situation.” Whatever that means. He
wouldn’t give us any details, but insisted that we follow him
immediately. I thought about giving him a hard time, refusing to
go, but decided it wasn’t worth the fight.

So now we’re traipsing back through the
tunnels, along the familiar route to the honeycomb room. Elsey is
humming softly while Roc whistles along. Some tune I don’t know,
but that they both seem to. They are a funny pair.

I’m watching Ram’s every movement, daring him
to try and hurt me again. This time I’m ready if he tries anything.
To be honest, I’m somewhat disappointed when he doesn’t.

We pass through the common area, which is
less filled than before, but not empty. It seems as if people are
always eating in this place. My heart still feels slightly warm
from my time spent with Roc and Elsey. It was nice, for a
change—just being able to hang out, learn something about Roc I
never knew before. My guard is down, but the walk gives me time to
raise it back up. Whatever this “situation” is, it’s probably not
good. Nothing in our world every really is.

We reach the same sturdy metal door as
before, and Jinny is waiting for us.