Recoil (9 page)

I said nothing more but twisted my head to scan the line growing
behind me. About ten positions back, I recognized the dark skin, short, spiky
hair and temple tattoo of
Leya
. I was pleased to see
she was also in a black jumpsuit, so at least I’d have a friend in my unit. We
smiled and waved at each other. Soon Quinn was directed into a medical
examination booth, and a minute or two later, I was sent into the booth next to
him. Things worked like clockwork around here.

Inside the booth, a bored-looking medic with hot-pink hair and
matching contact lenses took my blood pressure, stuck an infrared thermometer
into my ear, and extracted a blood sample from a vein in my arm. Then she
pulled down my mask and swabbed the inside of my cheek with something like a long,
transparent mascara brush before twisting it closed in a glass vial. I felt
exposed with my mask off — hers was still firmly in place — but not as exposed
as when, a moment later, she told me to open my jumpsuit, peel it down to my
waist and remove my bra for the examination. I did as she instructed, while she
tossed the protective plastic nozzle-cover from the thermometer into a
biohazard disposal bin.

I stood, rigidly uncomfortable and self-conscious. No one, as far
as I could recall, had ever seen my body before except my mother. I hadn’t
gotten sick since we took to living inside years ago. A couple of years ago,
I’d tripped and fallen down the stairs, landing hard on my wrist. Mom was
worried I might have broken it, so she set up a consultation where the doctor
examined my arm over video-call. He’d sent me for x-rays at the hospital, but
no one had actually touched me, and I hadn’t had to take off any clothes. I
hoped the medic wouldn’t mistake the blush of embarrassment I could feel
spreading across my face and chest for the flushed rash of rat fever.

She checked my torso for the telltale spots and listened to my
lungs through a stethoscope as I sat, naked from the waist up, all too aware of
Quinn in the next booth. I could hear him speaking, asking something in his
lilting voice.

“Two new masks and a box of gloves,” replied another male voice,
probably that of the medic examining him. “These will last you the ten days
until your quarantine is lifted.”

“Why only ten days? Don’t the samples take twelve days to
culture?” I heard Quinn ask.

“Are you complaining?”

“No. I was only wondering why the quarantine is shorter than
normal.”

“Because we have you under constant observation, that’s why.
We’ll soon pick up if there’s a problem. Now please read and sign these forms.”

My medic told me I could suit up again, gave me a package of
gloves and masks, and then handed me three forms, preprinted with my details,
instructing me to check that the information was all correct, before signing
them.

The first form was a medical questionnaire and declaration of
physical fitness, which came with a warning that it was a federal offense to
lie or withhold information. The second was a waiver which indemnified ASTA
against any legal claims in the event of me being injured or killed. Real
overkill, as Robin would say. The third form was another confidentiality
agreement.

I scanned the small print briefly before I signed. Though it was
phrased in difficult-to-understand legalese, I figured I might just have
promised, on pain of definite imprisonment and possible death or
disembowelment, not to tell anybody, anything. Ever. More overkill. I was only
going to shoot rats, and that surely couldn’t be a state secret. Then again, I
didn’t know what the other divisions were up to. I had only The Game to go by.
If we had been recruited according to the specialized roles we’d played, maybe
some of these recruits would be helping with code-breaking or spying. That work
would be much more sensitive than rat extermination.

“Do you understand what you have read and signed?” the medic
asked when I handed back the papers.

“Not really,” I admitted. “I’m not clear what I am and am not
allowed to talk about, and with whom.”

“You may not talk to anyone on the outside about anything —
anything
,”
she emphasized, “that you see, hear or do at this facility. You may speak
freely to members of your unit once you leave this processing unit, but for the
first six weeks of training, you may not converse about any aspect of your
unit’s specialized training or work to any recruit from another unit. If you
can’t cope with that level of confidentiality, then you won’t be the sort of
person we want working for us. Any breach of this rule will result in immediate
expulsion from the program and, as you’ve seen,” she tapped the contract,
“serious legal consequences. You are free, of course, to liaise with recruits
from other units as long as you talk about non-sensitive subjects.”

“Such as?”

“Religion, money, politics,” she said, with a brief laugh. “Plus
there’s always the weather.”

“What happens after six weeks?”

“You graduate and are presumed to be trustworthy.”

She countersigned the agreements, slipped them all into a manila
folder with my name on it and stuck another of the black stickers on the
outside.

“Left- or right-handed?” she asked.

“Right.”

She grasped my left arm and wrapped a stainless steel band around
the wrist.

“This is your ID bracelet. You are officially now an ASTA cadet.”
She sealed the band closed with a special clamp. “You are not to remove this under
any circumstances.”

“Right,” I said, studying the band. It had the JJ20027 engraved
into it, but not my name.

“Here’s a map to your quarters and the whole facility. You’re in
room twelve, ground floor, west wing.” She pointed to the highlighted rectangular
petal to the left of the central oval marked
gymnasium
. “You may proceed to
your quarters now.”

“What about my clothes and stuff?”

“All your belongings will be delivered to your quarters once
they’ve been through decontamination and inspection.”

“Inspection?”

What were they looking for — rats? Syringes filled with
contagion? I wondered what they would make of the bottles of vitamins and
immune-boosters my mother had packed in my bag.

“We check for alcohol and illicit substances. You’d be amazed
what people try to smuggle in.”

Uh-oh. I wondered if my economy-sized pack of peanut-butter cups
would count as an illicit substance? Maybe we weren’t supposed to have brought
in food.

“Right, Cadet James, that’s you processed. Goodbye and good
luck.”

Outside the medical processing unit, Quinn was leaning up against
a wall. He pushed off when I emerged and walked over, his hand extended to
shake mine.

“Hullo, there, I’m Quinn
O’Riley
.
Pleased to meet you.”

I shook his hand shyly and awkwardly, unfamiliar now with the old
ritual. It wasn’t something most people did anymore. His hand was big and warm,
even through the gloves, as it enclosed mine.

“I’m Jinx James. Um, pleased to meet you too.”

We looked at each other over the tops of our masks for a few
moments while other recruits brushed past.

“So, Quinn
O’Riley
? Is that an Irish
name?” I asked.

“You sound surprised.”

“You just don’t look …”

“Not all Irish have milk skin, freckles and red hair, and look
like they danced out of Brigadoon.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean —”

“Don’t worry yourself. I’m what they call Dark Irish, or Black
Irish.”

At my puzzled look, he explained, “We have darker hair and skin.
Depending on who you believe, our ancestors were Viking invaders or Spanish
sailors. Or fairies.”

“Fairies?”

“The little people, you know. Apparently our ancestral mothers
weren’t too picky and were very … loving.”

He had me laughing again.

“You look more like a pirate than a fairy.”

“That’s probably a good thing.”

“And you sound a little Irish, the way you speak.”

“I was born right here, but at my school we were taught by Irish
nuns and both my parents are from the old country, County Cork, so I guess I’ve
picked up a bit of the brogue, what with being stuck in the house with them for
the last four years and all,” he said. “So, can I escort you to your quarters?”

“Jinx! Hiya!”
Leya
ran up to me and
gave me a friendly elbow bump. “We’re in the same unit, isn’t that awesome?
C’mon, we’re in the west wing. Blue is in the northeast,” she said with a nod
to Quinn.

“See you later?” I called back to him as
Leya
grabbed my elbow and tugged me away.

“It’s a date,” he said.

“
Wooeee
,” said
Leya
,
when we were out of earshot. “
Brucey
-baby has got
himself some competition!”

Chapter 11

Surely, Goodness and Mercy

The first ten days of boot camp were a blurred hell of hard
exercise, mind-numbingly long lectures, and hurried solitary meals carried on
trays to our individual quarters, where we could remove our masks to eat. Ten
days of sore muscles, blistered fingers, ringing ears, a bruised shoulder,
brain fatigue, and bad food.

And Quinn.

Maybe my radar was stuck on pirate mode, but he seemed to be
everywhere I looked — running ahead of me on the track in the gymnasium,
playing pool or pinball in the rec room, and walking through the hallways
between lectures.

At dinner the first night, I spotted him immediately — leaning up
against the glass swing-doors to the cafeteria.

“Well, and if it isn’t Jinx E. James,” he said, as I drew
alongside.

“Hi.” I wished I could think of a cool way to greet him.

He held the door open for me to pass through.

“So, you’ll be all settled in then?”

“I’m all unpacked.”

I wouldn’t call it settled. I felt nervous, out of place among so
many new people, uncertain how to interact. I hadn’t even been inside a
cafeteria since the sixth grade.

“I figured we’d be getting sealed meals,” I said, taking the tray
Quinn passed to me and getting into the self-service line for food.

“They must be certain of their security. Besides, where’s the fun
in sealed meals? How could I tempt you with Irish delicacies that way?”

“There are Irish delicacies in the buffet?”

I scanned the display of food. I had no idea what many of the
dishes were.

“Sure, yeah. Why, this now” — Quinn drew my attention to what
looked like pieces of overcooked white fish — “is Cullen skink, an old family
favorite. Here, let me help you to a morsel.”

“Um, okay.” I looked longingly at the roast pork tenderloin under
red heat lamps across the way, but Quinn ushered me forward.

“Ah, now these are delicious.” He was putting on a thick Irish
accent for this guided tour through the home country cuisine.

“Really?” I peered dubiously into the dish of vegetables. “They
look like miniature green cabbages.”

“
Phfa
! Those are Colcannon
crubeens
. You’ll be liking them.”

He spooned a heap of them onto my plate. His own was
conspicuously empty.

“You aren’t having any?”

“I’ll get my food after I’ve helped you. Ladies first, and all
that. Ah! The cook must surely be an Irishman, for look, if it isn’t Limerick
Coddle.”

Another ladleful onto my plate.

“I’m pretty sure that’s okra.”

I had a dim memory of my father once cooking the green,
finger-shaped vegetables. It had ended with my mother pulling a revolted face
and Robin and I hurling spoons full of the slimy mess at each other.

“You’ll love it.”

“Perhaps some salad?” I suggested.

“Not when there are
tatties
to be had!”
He sounded scandalized and heaped a large dollop of lumpy mashed potatoes onto
my already full plate. “There, now, you’re set to go.”

“Right.”

Bruce, who was also getting his meal, stared down at my plate and
said, “Blue, that looks beyond disgusting.”

“They’re Irish delicacies.”

“Makes me glad I’m an American, born and bred,” said Bruce. He
said it to Quinn.

“As am I,” said Quinn.

“Yeah, sure,” said Bruce, brushing past us. “Don’t forget, Blue,
oh-six-hundred on the track.”

“Isn’t he a charmer? Well,
Jinxy
, I’ll
see you around,” said Quinn, heading to the back of the line to get his own
food. “Enjoy your meal.”

“Okay, yeah, so long.”

I made my way to one of the two checkout stations, noting that
everyone else had more appetizing food on their trays than I had on mine. The
checkout worker scanned my ID bracelet, placed my plate into a scanner, hit a
few keys on a touch-screen, and then an analysis of its nutritional content was
entered against my name in her system. She nodded, and I was free to head back
to my quarters. I glanced back at the buffet as I passed and got a friendly
wave from Quinn. I could swear there was a large portion of pork tenderloin on
his plate.

The food was awful. The fish was overcooked and mushy, the okra
was as slimy as I remembered, and the miniature cabbages were watery, bitter
enough to make me shudder, and smelt of stinky feet. I resorted to eating most
of my candy from home and feeling distinctly ick.

The next morning, Quinn was waiting for me again.

“Good morning to you, Jinx. And did you enjoy your uniquely Irish
meal last night?”

“
Uhm
, it was definitely … unique.”

“Excellent! Ready to try more, then?”

“Well …”

“Here, try some
Boxty
pudding” — lumpy
oatmeal — “Irish oysters” — hard-boiled eggs — “and
barm
brack
” — stale wholegrain bread. “Faith, we’ll make a
convert of you yet!”

By that night, I was on to him. He urged me to try some of what
he called Blarney Stew, but to me it looked like chili swimming under a layer
of oil.

“Then hurrah for an Irish Stew, that will stick to your belly
like glue,” he sang in his deep voice.

When he brought a heaping portion to my plate, I rapped his
knuckles with the back of my spoon.

“Attacked — by a wench!”

“A
wench
?”

“The beautiful woman who is the object of a pirate’s affections.”

I looked down at the spoon, smiling behind my mask.

“You’ll have put me out of business for the day,” Quinn said,
pulling a pained face and rubbing his knuckles. So he used his hands for his
work? Maybe there was another sniper unit. Damn, but I wished I knew what his
specialty skill was.

“Blarney stew, my eye!”

“Ay?” His exaggerated look of innocence only confirmed my
suspicions.

“Quinn, I think you’ve been messing with me.”

He burst into loud laughter. It was a deep, rolling, breathless
belly-laugh, and it was contagious as hell.

“I was flabbergasted that you fell for it
a’tall
.
You shouldn’t believe everything you’re told, you know.”

“You, you —”

“I wondered how long it would take before you overcame your good
manners and sent me to the devil!”

“Consider it done,” I said.

“Ah,” he said, dabbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his blue
jumpsuit. “Well, it was fun while it lasted. Say you forgive me?”

“No. Those little
cabbagey
things?
You’re due some payback on those.”

“Well,
Jinxy
, you tell me what you
would like to eat, and I’ll serve it to you.”

I pointed to spicy tacos, green salad and lemon cake.

“And tomorrow, at breakfast, I’ll want a chocolate muffin,” I
warned.

“I’ll be sure and save you one.” His gray eyes smiled down at me.
“They do taste fantastic.”

“While I was eating oatmeal and hard-boiled ‘Irish oysters’, you
were eating chocolate muffins? Argh! I am going to get you good, Quinn
O’Riley
.”

“I look forward to it,” he said, and his eyes shone with
something warmer than mere humor.

Suddenly unsure, I focused hard on the nutritional analysis at
the checkout. When I snuck a sideways glance at him, he was still looking at
me.

“Well, so long,” I said, lifting my tray a little in explanation.

“Let me walk you to your wing.”

“It’s not on your way.”

“Ah, you’re wrong there, lass. It’ll always be on my way.”

For once, I was grateful for the respirator — it hid the blush
warming my cheeks.

The next morning, Quinn walked me back to my wing again, each of
us with a chocolate muffin on our breakfast tray. He had put two on my plate,
but the checkout lady had frowned at me and told me my meal was too high in
sugar and refined carbohydrates, and I’d sadly returned one of them to the
baked goods rack.

Quinn cleared his throat and then said, “That fella the other
night, the charmer, with the …” He sketched the shape of bulging neck and bicep
muscles.

“Bruce?”

“The same. Is he —? Are you —?”

What was he asking?

“He’s just another cadet in my division.”

Quinn paused to open a fire door for me. At first I’d felt a
little awkward when he did this for me, but it made such a nice change from
being yelled at to go faster, run harder, hang longer by the males in my unit,
that I soon grew to like it.

“He called you Blue.”

“Yeah, because of my hair, I think.”

He reached out a hand to twirl one of the colored strands.

“And, you know, my eyes.”

“No, it can’t be because of your eyes, else he would have called
you Periwinkle, or perhaps Sapphire.”

Was he flirting with me? Just the idea had my heart picking up
speed. I
wanted
the pirate to flirt with me. Heck, I wanted to flirt with
him
,
but I had no experience with boys, and no idea what to say.

“Do you like being called Blue?”

“Not really, but I got nicknamed in the —” I stopped myself. I’d
been about to say in the Sniper Simulation Mission. You had to be so careful
what you said here, no wonder most cadets hung out only with their divisional
buddies. “I got the nickname early on, and it seems to have stuck.”

“Do you mind if I call you
Jinxy
rather?”

“No. I mean, I like it. It’s what my brother Robin calls me.”

“Jinx and Robin. Those are very different kinds of names. Robin
is pretty standard, but Jinx …”

“It doesn’t mean what you think.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s from the Latin
Iynx
, and it means
magic
charm
or
spell
.”

“Enchanting … yeah, that fits.”

I was smiling again, unsure how to respond. “My father named me
for his grandmother, and my mother named Robin for her grandfather. We’re twins
— Robin and I, I mean.”

“Twins! You know, the Irish have some superstitions about twins.”

“No doubt they involve something called Blarney
Blinkety
,” I said, and because I was more interested in him
than Ireland, I quickly got in a question of my own.

“Was that your family I saw on your porch?”

“Yup. I have an older brother, Connor; a little sister, Kerry; my
mother and father of course, and two dogs — magnificent mongrels both — called
Surely
and Goodness. Oh, and a cat called Mercy.”

“Surely, Goodness and Mercy — you’re kidding?” He had me smiling
again.

“I am not.”

“And do they follow you about for all the days of your life?”

“They do try! Well the dogs do, but Mercy holds herself a little
aloof — you know how cats are.”

I shook my head. I’d had a hamster when I was in fourth grade.
Mom shuddered now whenever she remembered that we’d actually kept a rodent as a
pet inside the house. But it had stuffed its cheeks with food and run on its
wheel for only a couple of years before going to the great seed bar in the sky.
In the summer vacation before I started seventh grade, the plague had broken
out, and any chance of ever getting another pet was over.

“We never had a cat,” I said. “Or a dog.”

“Never?”

“Nope. My mother never liked the mess, and after the plague
began, no way would she allow pets. My mom worries,” I added by way of
explanation.

“Not even a goldfish? Or, say, an ant-farm?”

“She worries
a lot
.”

Actually, I think the worrying saved Mom. The fear of the virus
and the worry of contagion woke her from her
flatlined
state. Her obsession converted her numb depression into anxiety and transformed
her grief over the loss of her husband into a fierce determination not to lose
her children.

“I couldn’t imagine not having pets. I love my animals!” Quinn’s
expression was a mixture of incredulity and pity. “Is it only the one brother
you’ve got then?”

“Yeah, just Robin. And my mom, of course. My father died when I
was twelve.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Quinn.

It occurred to me that he was the first person here that I’d told
about my dad.

“So you’re sixteen now?”

“Yeah. And you?” I’d been dying to know how old he was.

“Just turned eighteen.” He paused, then grinned and said, “
D’you
think that makes me too old?”

“Too old for what?”

“For you.”

I blushed furiously. I wanted to say, “No, it makes you just
right for me,” but I forced myself to say only, “I’ll be seventeen in
November.”

“Ah, perfect then.”

We walked a bit in silence, then Quinn asked, “Do you miss him?
Your father?”

“Yeah, I do. We were very close. My mother … well, she’s always
connected better with Robin, I guess. I was closer to my father.” Another swing
door. “I really miss the good times we had when he was alive. It’s kind of like
life before the plague is all tied up with my memories of him. He loved to be
out and about, doing things and meeting people.”

I tried to call his face to my mind. Failed. Sometimes, when I
wasn’t trying, a memory would roll in — of Dad carrying a sleep-floppy me from
the car to my bed after a long road trip; of Dad’s laugh when I told him how my
stuffed bear had eaten the last doughnut; of Dad running with Robin and me on
the edge of the beach where the firm, wet sand met the foam-edged waves.

I sighed.

“He wouldn’t have liked what the world has become.”

“He sounds like a wise man.” Quinn spoke so intensely that I
glanced at him. “We’ve all lost a lot, haven’t we? Our lives are so small, so
limited now. And we’re so tightly — Ah, listen to me spouting off on philosophy
when you’re still fresh with losing your father.”