25.1 Pill Bug

  It was the size of her fingertip. Everyone called them ‘rollie pollies’ at the academy. They were little black beetles that curled into a ball like an armadillo. This afternoon, Maeven found one by the courtyard, beaded up in a strip of gravel that neighboured a sandstone pathway on her way to the library. She bent down just to watch it, curious to see what it looked like when it unfurled.

  LAROSA ACADEMY

  YEAR THREE

  “Coast is clear,” she whispered to it.

  She hoped it would encourage the little guy out of his shell, instead, it remained curled up and still like an object. The creature was convinced that there was a threat about, it seemed. This was confusing to Maeven, because all that surrounded it were tiny, harmless rocks.

  Maeven cupped her hands and circled the bug with the sides of her palms. Surely by now it would realise that there was nothing to be afraid of. She was on her way to finish her reading materials in the library, so they didn’t have all the time in the world to wait.

  After a few seconds of nothing had gone by, she went on to believe, this bug is completely oblivious.

  She’d just have to pull it open herself. At least if it could get a little peak of the outside world, the creature would realise it was safe. She picked it up and pinched it in both hands. Closing one eye to get a proper look, she started to tug.

  “Now what did the little fella ever do to you?”

  Maeven jumped.

  A teacher crept up behind her. She was short, with a growth on her nose and crooked teeth; the Larosa girls whispered about her. This wasn’t the first time they’ve met, in fact. The lady’s talked to her a few times before, asking about what she was doing. Always crept, Maeven had never seen nor heard her coming.

  She put the bug down. She didn’t know what she was doing was bad.

  “What is it?” said the teacher. She stepped close and crouched beside her, short heels clicking. “It’s a little pill bug.” She looked at Maeven with a smile. “Now I see, you were trying to help it weren’t you?”

  Maeven nodded, feeling glad that the teacher understood.

  Then they both looked at the bug.

  “You know, I realised in my years of teaching that there are some things people can be told to do, and some things they just have to learn by themselves.”

  Was she telling her to wait? Maeven asked, “Will it come out by itself?”

  That’ll probably take forever, she thought.

  “I’m sure it will. You know—it’ll get hungry or bored. We all get bored, right?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Oh but I hate being patient. I just get too excited. But I learned that if you rush it, you know, you only end up ruining the surprise,” said the teacher as she held out her hand to help her stand up. “Life is filled with so many surprises…” she trailed off. “Say…that reminds me.”

  Suddenly, the teacher dropped to Maeven’s eye level.

  “Are you thinking of specialising in Intuition, Maeven?”

  Maeven stayed quiet. After all, she had never told the teacher her name.

  “INTUIT1000,” said the teacher. “In five years I want to see you seated front row in my class, remember this. Otherwise…I’ll be sure to remind you.” The teacher looked away for a moment. “You can call me Mrs Sirett, okay?”

  “…Okay,” said Maeven.

  “I’ll be watching you!”

  It wasn’t creepy at all the way she left it at that and practically skipped away.

  Leaving the bug alone, Maeven continued to the library with her book bag. Although it was still too early to be thinking about Will specialties, she kept a mental note of that course code for when the time came.

  25.2 Running

  It’s past midnight. Maeven is standing just outside of Tesset, her uniform sagging from the weight of water bottles, electrolytes and MREs stuffed in her pockets, along with the things Eyeshot lent to her: the bank card and a small square of pad pixels.

  She told Ocean Company over dinner that she was going to be gone for a few days. They were being served with seasoned minced meat, mashed potatoes and boiled vegetables that Gunner surmised tasted like freezer slosh, when Maeven thought it’d be unwise to divulge on the details of her assignment. She didn’t mention Eyeshot’s suspicion with Mills, nor the possible mismanagement of assignees 500 to 1000. Just a reconnaissance mission on a site up north, that’s it.

  If she told them everything then and there, there was a risk of it spreading to the rest of The Reserve, meaning there’d be a mess of mutated rumours once she comes back having figured out what’s really going on with South Sarafiyah.

  It’s just not worth the cleanup.

  She looks out to the night ahead, stretching her hamstrings. She’ll run for a bit, she’s decided, then catch a ride when she tires out. It shouldn’t take more than a day. Highway 12, just left of Tesset, climbs up all the way to the Oman border. It’ll be her guide for the majority of the trip to the city. Maeven winds her shoulders to get them loose and spaces her feet. Then she considers it for a second.

  They only finished the BA mission yesterday, when she woke up dumped in the ocean next to Rich’s sinking ship. Her head still hurts a little from the Will Contract. She thought it might be a good opportunity to exercise her Optimisation, is all, since it weakened after her Will Block.

  I’ll take it easy.

  With that thought, Maeven Optimises her legs and bursts forward.

  She sprints through the barren desert until it’s sunlit, short black hair whipping behind her shoulders as she downs another water bottle and disintegrates it with a flare of smoky Will. The sun is searing but the wind is cool. She can hear an engine humming behind her.

  It’s the fourth hitchhike-ready vehicle passing by since she started to consider whether this is enough of a stretch from ‘taking it easy’. All she needs to do is turn and raise her hand. Someone in a truck or a sedan would pick her up eventually. For some reason, she hasn’t done it yet, she keeps her eyes ahead, determined almost for no reason, to keep running to the horizon.

  She’s been remembering this subject called OPTI3100 that was all about endurance. Mr Whitter made it mandatory that they join his running club in order to pass the class because he believed that running was the ‘dance of discipline.’ They weren’t nice runs. They couldn’t look at the birds, they had to look ahead, sometimes sing old-America army songs despite their exhaustion. On the odd morning he’d tell the students that they were temporarily banned from using their Optimisation and then relish in the immediate concord of sighs. He wanted you not to like it. To run for a purpose he believed was greater than enjoyment.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Maeven thought his philosophies might have been better suited to a place like GRIT Academy, a school known for its brutality, but at least she did develop a good stamina from it.

  To say that discipline is still the reason why she’s running now, she’s not sure. She wouldn’t even call it ‘running,’ really. It feels more like, ‘not stopping.’

  That was something she used to be quite good at. To train and never stop.

  Back in the academy, all she’d do was improve and study her Will. She understood the concept of letting her body rest, sure, but not really the concept of taking a break. It was an obsession that never seemed to wane. Above friends, above money. A goal of any other direction felt further than upward, angled away of the bullseye. Meaningless.

  Where is that feeling now?

  It might be her first acknowledgement in months of that thing that’s lived inside of her. That drive that got her to the top of the Honour Roll, though getting there was never her intention to begin with.

  It must still be there, somewhere. Hints of it flicker with every ache in her limbs, each stab of ice pricks in her lungs, as she forces her breaths deep and diaphragmatic; as she stares ahead at some impossibly far place, between the sand and the sky, and keeps running.

  Only after several hours does Maeven’s run make a slow, weighted stop, boots thudding, arms swinging and hands planting on her knees. She finally calls it. It’s too hard to keep going. She collapses to the sand and for a moment, just sits there and breathes. She focuses Will to her lungs and draws it away from her legs, now that she isn’t using them. A pain unveils in her calves as she does this, and on the sides of her toes and her heels. Who knows how long they’d really been aching for. Her Optimisation was masking it for hours.

  Maeven looks down the road she was following and notices a car. A white tray-back ute with rolls of hay stacked in the trailer. She misses it; Maeven raises her hand a second too late. She glances for any traffic oncoming: nothing—the road is empty—and falls with her back on the sand and flattens her legs.

  At least this means she won’t have to move for a while.

  Midday sunlight feels scorching against her face. After a few minutes of laying idle she rolls her head to look for some shade. The only thing of proximity is a small sand mound a few metres from the road, enough to get some cover over her face, so she repositions there and closes her eyes.

  Almost immediately, Maeven passes out asleep. Dead still. Not even the roar of diesel engines loud enough to break her slumber. It was like when they returned ashore from defeating Rich. Not long after climbing into Ocean’s Humvee, she fell asleep as sudden as a light flicking off.

  What shocks her awake many hours later, is a flare of her own Will. Maeven jolts up on her elbow, heart beating, sweat pooling, expecting a threat at her throat. Alas, all she sees after her eyes rip open is a road barely visible in the dark. She slept for so long the sun’s down.

  You idiot.

  Maeven pushes herself up.

  That nap was disgusting.

  She gives her head a quick shake. Calling Will removes the muddy, otherworldly inebriation of a terrible nap.

  She’s in luck. Another car drives towards her from the distance, and this time she waves her hand before its headlights can shine over her.

  The old, green sedan stops in front of her with the window to the driver’s seat down. Inside is a bearded man. He asks her a question in Mortaresi.

  Maeven doesn’t answer.

  He asks another question. This time she catches on to the word, ‘Army’ spoken in English, the sentence intoned like a question.

  “Reserve,” she says.

  He gets out and opens the passenger door. Maeven climbs in.

  25.3 Village

  The man’s name is Majid. He introduced himself a few minutes into the night drive. “Maeven,” she returned shortly after that, before he continued to speak in his native tongue.

  Without Forrest around, she can only get an idea of what he’s saying. Something to do with where he’s driving, since he was gesturing out to the sand road, palm curving to the right. Now, he’s delving into something so passioned she assumes it’s political, because it reminds her of her dad whenever he talks about the United Lands. We should be doing this instead of that. This person should be in charge instead of that person. It’s curious that the man keeps talking knowing Maeven doesn’t speak the language, but she supposes that the emotions translate. The pride, the frustration.

  Maeven just watches the back of his head, nodding occasionally, assuming a man who’s at least enjoying the company, who wants to express the passion he has for his country. Or something. She makes sure to keep her Optimisation Will active, so it can prevent her from falling asleep.

  But she must leave him at some point.

  Almost an hour passes when the man decelerates and turns to the north-east, off-roading. Maeven takes her head off the headrest as there’s a dip in the terrain. In order to stay en route, she can’t divert too far from the main highway, so she looks at what’s ahead of them, headlights illuminating some dark cluster as Majid turns.

  They’re driving towards a small village. Maeven can see brown rectangular huts as the lights rear over them. There’s a wooden-fenced paddock, maybe for sheep, and a random placement of mud brick walls throughout the streets, parts of them crumbling out of form and merging with the sand.

  Majid pulls into one of the huts. Maeven gets out, then casts her eyes around. She can hear the cluck of a single chicken, a soft hum on the highway. As Majid picks up some plastic bags from his car and takes them to his door, she hears him calling out a name.

  “Shukran,” Maeven says to him, meaning thank you. She can’t be far from South Sarafiyah now.

  A warm light spills over the sand from the front door. Majid’s wife, looks like, is standing there wearing a blue thobe and a headscarf. Maeven catches on to the word, “Reserve,” as Majid speaks to the woman. He glances at his car, realises Maeven is no longer standing by it.

  They meet eyes.

  “No, no, no,” Maeven says.

  The couple are stepping apart to both sides of their front door, flanking their orange-lit abode as they waft their arms towards the light. They want me to come in. That sounds like a situation she won’t know how to excuse herself from, and more lectures from Majid.

  “I’m okay, thank you. Shukran,” she says.

  The response only makes them brighten, waiting for her to make the awaited movement.

  They took the thank you as a, “Yes thank you,” didn’t they?

  Just a couple hours then, to avoid being rude.

  She enters the hut. Upon stepping inside she’s embraced by the hug of a warm cooking fire; along with the savoury scent of meat, spice and something akin to liquorice. Majid invites her to sit. Beside the door, there’s a corner of two-seater couches surrounding a woven brown carpet.

  She removes her boots and takes a seat.

  Watches the kitchen in front of her, slightly elevated on a platform of mud brick. There, Majid’s wife is cooking something on a flat pan over a log-fuelled fire. Clay flasks hang on ropes under the ceiling, woven baskets and funnels made for purposes Maeven could only guess. She also sees a fridge, a wooden shelf with a basket of potatoes, stacks of metal pots and pans and bottles of labelled vegetable oil. It isn’t alien, more like a glimpse at a different normal, and a stark combination of the traditional and the modern mundane.

  Majid walks over with a steaming mug and a small handful of dates. The feeling of thirst reaches Maeven as she accepts them. It also reminds her of what she had been up to before she climbed in the man’s car, that’s right. And the aches and the pains in her quads and her calves.

  I ran for hours.

  A fact easier to swallow had she merely sustained a light jog for its entirety, only she didn’t.

  She sips the drink.

  There’s coffee in the mug. The taste is mellowed and fragrant with some sort of spice mixed in. The dates; sweet. The couch; comfortable. Even so, she feels tense. She kind of wants to toss the dates in her mouth all at once, then finish the coffee in heaping gulps so she can leave quicker. It feels wrong sitting still in the middle of a mission.

  But if she were fair to herself; the run, the BA mission, the effects of being a Contract Enforcer are all still taking their toll.

  She’s pushing herself too hard.

  So she eats her dates, withdraws some of her Optimisation to savour the muscle aches, and watches the woman cook as her body unwinds.

  There’s something calming about it anyway. There’s not a sign of worry in the woman’s eyes about burning things or the mess she’ll have to clean up afterwards, or the assumed danger of her country people. Maeven appears to question every minute she isn’t running for her life, on the other hand. She ought to have her own share of the same confidence.

  Dinner is served over a mat on the carpet. The main meal: a saucy meat dish poured over a bed of basmati rice, complemented with a pile of flat bread, raw red onion, and cucumber salad.

  They eat with their hands. She watches Majid and his wife mix the rice with a portion of sauce and meat, then push a ball of it in their hands with a practiced motion of their thumb. After a few tries, Maeven gets a handle of it.

  It’s delicious.

  She doesn’t even mind when Majid starts lecturing again.

  He faces his wife and points to Maeven as he explains something. Then he turns to Maeven, asks something that sounds equivalent to, “Isn’t that right?” and Maeven reflexively hums and nods her head.

  The wife appears reassured. So she was worried about something after all. Maybe it has to do with the reason why the Reserve was called here.

  I should have brought a care package from Tesset before I left.

  When their meals are finished, Majid shows her a small room opposite their front door. There they have a single mattress atop a woven mat, a small shelf spilling with old books and newspapers. It’s better than the wall she had considered as a pillow a couple hours ago, so this time, she accepts it without protest.