Dualed (5 page)

Why did they have to leave me all alone? Why am I still here?

The first book falls to the ground with a thump. Then the second. It doesn’t matter that I’m not being careful with them, the way I usually am. Not when people haven’t been careful with what belongs to me.

I can’t stop pulling down the books. They land on and around my feet, a pile of information that has failed me. It’s a history that has yet to end, in fact is still happening, will continue to happen.

A hand grabs mine. Stops it from yanking the next book down.

I look up, glaring with burning eyes and trembling mouth.
Who—

It’s a man. Standing over me, with a solid build that leaves no doubt as to his physical strength. Not the kind that comes from bulk or weight, but a fast-moving, compact one. Closely shaved hair the color of rust, skin pitted with faded slashes and scars. Though his features are hard with what has to be annoyance, his pale blue eyes are full of something else. Something very close to sorrow … and even closer to understanding.

“Hold on, now,” he says in a low voice. “You’re making quite the mess, don’t you think?”

I rip my hand from his grip. “Yeah. So?”

“Mrs. Silas downstairs won’t be too happy if she sees this. Might be about time to start setting this right.”

“I will—when I’m done.”

A drawn-out sigh. “And you’re far from done, aren’t you?”

I kick a book across the aisle, wincing and yet enjoying the way it scrapes across the splintery wood floor, the way the ancient cover is getting even more beat-up.

“You have the look of your brothers,” he says, startling me.

My brothers? What does this man have to do with them? “What?”

“Exactly what I said. You look like your brothers.”

I bend down and begin to pick up the books. Anything to get him to stop talking to me. To just leave me alone. Whatever he thinks he knows, I’ve never seen him before in my life.

“Aave was a student in my weaponry class,” he continues. “For both years four and five. And Luc, of course. Can I assume I’ll be seeing you in my classroom soon?”

By now I’m staring at him. So he’s the weaponry teacher at Torth Prep, then. And I know his name is Baer—everyone knows his name. Not just because he runs the most popular class at school, but because of his reputation. The strongest complete in all of Torth, and maybe even all of Kersh. The legend is that he killed his Alt with his bare hands at the age of ten. That he was so cool afterward he stuck around for the clearing guys just to see them take the body away.

As a year three student, with most of my friends the same, I don’t spend much time in the older year wings. There’s no reason why I
would
have recognized him. But now I can see for myself why his class is so popular. It’s the look in his eyes as he glares down at you. Like you are finally going to learn how to fight—or die trying. End of story.

“One more,” I say.

“Say again?”

“One more year before I can do weaponry. I’m still in year three.”

“One more year.” Baer’s eyes glitter like ice. “Perhaps you’ll have found a better use for your anger by then. It doesn’t seem as though combat is doing the job as an outlet.”

I scowl, hating that I’m so easily baited. “You might have been my brothers’ teacher, but you’re not mine. Yet.”

A hint of a smile. “Well, not yet, that’s true.”

I say nothing. The conversation is going nowhere. I’m just waiting for him to realize that, as I already have. The pile of books in my arms is growing heavier by the second, and I turn to put them back on the shelf.

“And will you be ready?” Baer asks.

I force a book to fit between two others, not caring if it isn’t in the exact right spot. This whole half of the shelf is dedicated to Alternate History, anyway, so I can’t be that far off.

“None of those books will help you much, when it comes down to it,” he says.

I don’t turn to him, just put another book away. If I ignore him for long enough, then he’ll have to leave, won’t he? Won’t we have to deal with each other enough once I’m actually his student?

Baer plucks the top book off the pile I’m still holding and eyes the cover without opening it. His hands are even more scarred than his face. Now that I know who he is, I realize all the marks are battle scars—signatures of years spent teaching others how to fight for their lives.

“This one here?” He holds the book up:
The Cold Vaccine:
What Went Wrong
. “Dull as dirt. There’s over a hundred damned pages on what could have gone wrong with the vaccine. Could it have been something in the stabilizer? The particular purification method? A faulty isolation technique?” He shakes his head. “Who cares? Too late.” He shoves the book onto the shelf and grabs the next one off the pile in my arms.

“This one?”
Revival of the Gladiator Games
. “Sure, it talks a bit about how they did it back then, when people were pitted against each other for sport and glory. But quick enough it goes on about how the Board has brought those games back to life on a whole new scale. No puny stadium here; instead we get a battlefield as big as this city. How the Board has decided that it must be children who do this, so we can flush out the weak before they grow up and waste our resources and time.”

I stare at him. Afraid of interrupting him … afraid of
not
interrupting him.

“So only the strongest survive, the smartest, the ones best able to complete. To shape us into a society of killers, all in the name of self-defense.” Baer slides
Revival of the Gladiator Games
onto the shelf next to the first book.

He’s not done. He’s on a roll, pushed along by resentment, disgust. He grabs
Mechanics Behind the Alternate Code
. Baer looks at me from the corner of his eye. “Now, this one’s required reading. Worse than watching paint dry, I bet.”

I can’t help it. My lip twitches. “Yeah, it was pretty boring.”

Learning about Alt codes is about as much fun as any in-depth bio or chem or math course in school. Unless you’re really into it, it’s just another class to get through. When parents
want a baby, the Board accesses their individual gene maps and draws up a new, combined one. The next couple that comes in goes through the same procedure. Then the Board takes the gene maps of both babies and creates what is called an Alt code. A synthetic genetic material, it directs the genes responsible for physical traits to match up. In this way, Alts are like twins. It makes it easy for Alts to find each other—they just have to look for their own face.

But often the Alt code oversteps its parameters and talks to other genes, too, so two Alts could have similar reflexes, brain patterns, language proficiencies. To fight yourself and find a way to win is the greatest challenge for any soldier.

Baer tosses
Mechanics Behind the Alternate Code
aside. He picks up
Through the Years: The Origins of Alts
. “Drivel.”
Fight Your Alt with Heart, Soul & Spirit
. “Holistic tripe.”

It seems wrong, but I can feel a bubble of laughter start up in my chest.

He has
Beyond the Board: Analyzing Assignments
in his hands now. “Complete and utter
garbage
. Can’t be said enough about that—”

A shout bursts through the room, followed by the thud of many footsteps. They’re heading our way, coming so fast I know we aren’t going to be able to avoid it. A completion about to take place. Here in the Grid, where the number of people alone has the odds working against you, there’s no way you can stay for any substantial period of time and
not
witness one.

The humor of the moment is instantly replaced by irritation. “I guess Mrs. Silas is going to have bigger things to complain about today,” I say to Baer.

I slide the remainder of the books into the gap on the shelf. Done, I drop back against the stack, trying to shrink, disappear. Automatically doing what was drilled into our heads as kids if we are caught near crossfire: Fall Down and Fade Out. FDFO—or, get as low as possible and shut up.

Shots fire. Footsteps pound. Shelves sway. Books drop.

Baer barely flinches, just continues to stand in the middle of the aisle. His cool eyes are distant with listening, and his arms are crossed in front of his chest.

“You should get out of the way,” I tell him. The words are urgent and annoyed. “You’re going to get hurt. FDFO, remember?”

“I won’t get hurt.”

A sudden crash on the other side of the stack I’m leaning against makes me jump up.

“See?” he says, raising one eyebrow. “They’re over there.”

I drop into a crouch again. Fine. If he wants to stand there, let him. It’s not my fault if something happens. But I can’t do that. Not getting out of the way is the same as volunteering for target practice.

One of them is grunting in pain as his Alt stabs and grazes, stabs and nicks. Just not enough to finish the job. Then there’s the sharp crack of a shot, and the other Alt screams. Blood begins to seep past the metal feet of the stack and toward me. I back away from it, but it keeps coming and coming, a living thing that doesn’t want to stop until it touches something else alive.

The bullet has hit a nest of arteries, but not vital ones. It’ll take a long while for him to bleed out. Now it’s a race against time and a question of whose blood flows the fastest. I have no clue which way it’s going to go.

“Will they get on with it?” Baer says. He rocks back and forth on his heels impatiently. “Shameful if they’re any students of mine.”

I don’t think they hear him, but it doesn’t last for too much longer. The one with the gun eventually manages to get a clean shot off, and with that, it’s one more completion for the Board’s books. I can hear the squeak of sneaker soles as the surviving Alt makes sure the other is dead. Then the complete stumbles off, the victor of this particular battle between Alternates.

I glance over at Baer. Wondering if I can just leave now, or if that would be rude. The scent of blood from the next aisle is strong enough to make me feel a bit sick.

“There is much to be learned when it comes to weapons,” Baer says quietly, now also sidestepping the blood on the ground. “Learning to wield one properly—to maximize efficiency and minimize pain—is what’s useful. All this history”—an abrupt gesture toward the books that surround us—“will not change that.
Learning
all this history will not change that. All this has no more need to be heard than bedtime reading when you’re already half-asleep and no longer listening.” And with that he nods his head. “Good-bye, West Grayer.”

My eyes narrow in surprise. How does he—

“I make a point of knowing all my students’ names,” he says, obviously seeing my confusion.

“I’m not your student,” I tell him again.

“Not yet, as you said.” He frowns, and then says casually enough, “But I don’t think admin would have a problem if a potential student wanted a … preview of the class.”

My mouth drops open. “Me?”

“Tomorrow after school, year five wing.” He starts walking away.

“Hey, I haven’t even said yes yet.”

Baer turns back to me. “You don’t have to. Your answer’s on your face. But if you change your mind, I won’t hold it against you.” He takes a few more steps before coming to a stop again. He looks back, says, “I’m sorry about your brothers. They were good kids.”

He walks away and disappears around the corner, gone as quickly as he appeared. Leaving me alone with a dead Alt, shelves of reference materials, and new questions.

Luc.

For just a bit I was able to forget about him. As if he didn’t die, his assignment yet to be completed. But Baer’s parting words gouge the wound open, and grief makes my stomach ache again … even as my mind struggles to clear.

Weaponry. Tomorrow.

I walk home slowly in the settling dusk, the swirl of leaves rushing around my ankles, crunching beneath my feet. Luc’s face is still with me, same as Ehm’s, always in the shadows, never gone no matter how bright the sun shines. I wonder when my heart will stop hurting with each punishing beat. When my lungs will start taking a full breath again, so I won’t feel like I am drowning anymore.

Students are still trickling out of Baer’s classroom by the time I get there the next day after school. It’s a year five class; other than those who were friends with Luc, I recognize no one.
They walk past me, and I skim each face from the corner of my eye, wondering what it must be like to know you’re only counting down the days now. Getting older, getting closer to twenty.

I can hear Baer’s rumble of a voice from inside the classroom, calling for all weapons to be handed in before leaving for the day. Metal and steel clang against each other.

I hate waiting, and even more, I hate that I’m nervous. I tuck my hands deep into my pockets so I can’t fidget with the straps of my bag anymore.

What if I’m nothing like my brothers? What if I’m not nearly as good as Luc told me I was? What if Baer says, Don’t bother, you’re obviously the weaker Alt, there’s no point?

The last student is leaving, and I make myself move closer to the doorway, just so I can shut up the doubts in my mind.

“So you made it,” Baer says from his desk.

He’s as intimidating as he was yesterday, maybe even more so beneath the bright lights, his scars all the more vivid. And he’s holding a sword in his hand. Three feet of polished steel. Another one sits in front of him on top of his desk.

“Those might not be exactly Board approved.” My voice is stiff, awkward.

“I checked. Swords aren’t mentioned anywhere in the rules.” He brandishes it in front of him, as if testing the blade.

“That’s because an active walking down the street with a sword strapped to their side would kind of freak people out. I think the Board knows by now that most Alts want to avoid being noticed.”

“True. Not all audiences would appreciate such a show.”

Bystanders are a pretty big concern for the Board. Guns and an accurate eye are encouraged over heavy fists and brute force. Always the goal is efficiency, not prolonged or unnecessary pain. A distant second to guns is knives or any kind of weapon made up of a blade. Last is hand-to-hand combat; though lethal if done properly, it can get messy, almost personal. I wonder if it’s ever occurred to the Board that an assignment itself is about as personal as it gets.