Chapter 7 #2
“They’re testing our boundaries,” I say. “Figuring out what we’ll tolerate. They’ll try harder if they think we’re weak.”
“Why do we even matter?” Sora asks. “We are ants compared to them.”
I shrug. “Some people enjoy stomping on ants.”
“We have a Protocol Briefing,” Sora groans. “It’s going to be two hours long.”
Every recruit has the same schedule, but Sora always knows more than the others about how the system is designed.
“How do you know so much about this place?”
The Gifted are put through a three-year training cycle to master their powers, while the Commons are on a one-year training cycle. The second batch of conscripts had arrived the same day as I, and the first batch came three weeks prior. Yet Sora is far more knowledgeable than I am.
“My brother is in the Garrison. He works night patrol in the Flatlands,” she says. “He taught me everything I know.”
We both grab a slice of toast from the serving line and head to the administrative building that lies at the center of the Forge.
It’s where all the educational lessons take place.
We have a few on our schedule, mainly briefings on current issues.
The Gifted have a more robust education that includes core subjects like mathematics, physics, and history.
A few years after the Great Coup, an initiative began to incorporate academic education into the military system for the Gifted.
This meant that most high-level officers would be granted a diploma at the end of their training that allowed them to pivot careers if they desired.
Sora and I find a spot at the back of the hall and slide into our chairs.
The high ceilings are lined with the eight banners of the divisions.
Most of them depict their area of specialty.
Division Three has a book and a candle, symbolizing the pursuit of knowledge.
Division Four has a hawthorn leaf and two sickles, representing the agricultural focus.
Fluttering at the center is the banner of New Foundry, the black flag with the white sun in the middle.
Sergeant A. Nolan stands at the front. His nameplate is proof that he is Gifted. Along with the silver collar that adorns his black uniform, classifying him as a Class Two. Class Threes have a midnight-blue collar.
His sandy hair is bound with a leather tie, and his stern face looks at us with disdain. Students filter in, and once the seats are all filled, he begins his lesson.
“I will make this quick,” Nolan says. “We don’t need three hours to discuss the state of the conflict.”
He clicks on a projector.
“As you know, we have had a rise in rebel-led attacks as of late,” he says. He slides through pictures of damaged buildings and dead soldiers. “The rebels have escalated from petty messages on walls to direct assault. They are part of an organization called the Resistance.”
He flips to a picture of a woman who looks to be in her late forties. Her silver-white hair is cut close to her jaw in a blunt style, and her willowy face stares out into the distance.
“Intelligence has named this woman as their leader,” he continues. “Prue Miller. Rebel Leader. Powers Unknown.”
“She looks hot for her age,” Sora whispers.
I smirk and elbow her. “Focus.”
Sora grins anyway, eyes darting back to the screen.
“Just saying. If I end up overthrowing the regime, I hope I age like that.”
The sergeant shoots us a look sharp enough to cut glass. I slink into my chair, avoiding his gaze.
“Prue Miller,” he says, voice clipped, “was once a logistics manager in Division Seven. She disappeared twelve years ago after an internal audit flagged inconsistencies with her shipments. You can guess what went missing.”
He pauses dramatically. “Weapons.”
He clicks again.
Maps replace her face. Red markers bloom across the divisions like a spreading infection.
“These are known hot-spots,” he says. “Potential safe houses, underground bunkers, and abandoned schools and hospitals where they might be congregating. Prue is dangerous because she understands our system. This makes her a threat to the people and the regime.”
She’s not an amateur. She is someone from the inside who turned on them. Just like my mother. There are cracks in their system. Ones that the Resistance is using to their benefit.
There have always been insurgents. Ever since Bane Vale overtook the government, various factions spoke up against the strict laws that were established.
The people were shaken by the outcome of the Nuclear War.
The neighboring continents had been destroyed, and the president they knew but despised was replaced by the head of the armed forces, Bane Vale.
And those who supported him in the Great Coup were given a spot on his council.
It was the middle of Bane’s term when the Red Fever arose, which changed everything.
Conspiracy theorists on the cyberspace (before it was banned) believe that Bane was creating a chemical formula to create super soldiers, and that blaming the president was a tactic to distract us.
They claim that the leak was never supposed to happen.
Regular people were never supposed to have this much power.
It was why the Bind was created, to control them.
And why certain powers are against the law.
I open my notebook and begin to write down all the information Nolan is sharing to pore over later.
“These attacks are not random,” he goes on. “They target supply routes and communication towers. They are getting bolder.”
A low murmur ripples through the room.
“The Continent does not negotiate with terrorists,” Nolan says flatly. “We do not acknowledge them as a legitimate force. And we do not allow symbols of dissent to take root.”
Another click. A photograph fills the screen, an alley wall scorched white, the outline of the sun painted over with a cracked streak through the center.
Sora inhales softly. “That’s new.”
I nod. I’ve never seen it before either.
“They call it the Broken Sun,” he says. “A message meant to undermine our unity and hint at weakness. But the regime is stronger than ever.”
His gaze sweeps the room, lingering just a moment too long on the back row.
On me. He must recognize my surname. Most of the sergeants know who I am from the admission role, but they assume it is a similar surname to the High General’s because they have never met Orson Warrick.
He is too far too high on the chain of command.
But this sergeant is a Gifted who has likely seen my sister before at dinner parties.
It isn’t admiration that glimmers in his eyes. It is potent disgust, which means he is thinking about my mother.
He knows what I am.
A Child of Treason.
“Let me be clear,” he says coldly. “The rebels want you to believe that New Foundry is fragile. That its control is slipping and loyalty is wavering.”
He straightens, hands braced on the podium. “It is not. It is absolute.”
He returns to the image of Prue Miller. To remind us of our target.
“Your role,” he continues, “is to ensure that this conflict ends before it spreads.”
The lights come back on.
“As of today,” he says, “all Common cadets are considered assets in operations. You will be deployed as needed.”
My pulse quickens. We assumed we would be put on mind-numbing rotations like maintaining curfew and border patrol.
But the rebel crises might be dire enough to warrant more of us on active missions.
This works in my favor. I will get a chance to be out there and maybe even meet the key members of the Resistance. Someone is bound to have met my mother.
Sora leans in. “And here I thought we’d get a boring update.”
I crack a smile.
“Things just got interesting,” Sora says.
My eyes remain frozen on the image of Prue Miller, studying the blunt cut of her hair, the calm set of her expression, the determination in her eyes.
I know that look.
It is the same look my mother wore that day on the square.
It is the look of a person unafraid to die.