21
Our Dominion
Fitchner wakes us from the long dormitories in the dark of morning.
Grumbling, we roll out of double bunk beds and set out from the
keep to the castle’s square, where we stretch, then set o at a run.
We lope easily in the .37grav.
Clouds drop soft showers. The canyon walls fty kilometers west
and forty kilometers east of our little valley tower six kilometers
high. Between them is an ecosystem of mountains, forests, rivers,
and plains. Our battleeld.
Ours is a highland territory. There rise mossy hills and craggy
peaks that dip into U-shaped, grassy glens. Mist blankets all, even
the thick forests that lie like homespun quilts over the foothills. Our
castle stands on a hill just north of a river in the middle of a bowl-
like glen—half grass, half woods. Greater hills cup the glen in a
semicircle to the north and south. I should like it here. Eo would
have. But without her, I feel as lonely as our castle looks on its high,
removed hill. I reach for the locket, for our haemanthus. Neither is
with me. I feel empty in this paradise.
Three walls of our hill castle stand atop eighty-meter stone clis.
The castle itself is huge. Its walls rise thirty meters. The gatehouse
swells out from the walls as a fortress with turrets. Inside the walls,
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our square keep is part of the northwestern wall and rises fty
meters. A gentle slope leads up from the glen’s oor to the castle’s
western gate, opposite the keep. We run down this slope along a
lonely dirt road. Mist embraces us. I relish the cold air. It puries
me after hours of tful sleep.
The mist burns away as the summer day dawns. Deerling, thinner
and faster than the creatures of Earth, graze in the r woods. Birds
circle above. A single raven promises eerie things. Sheep litter the
eld and goats wander the high rocky hills we run up in a line of
fty and one. Others of my House may see animals of Earth, or
curious creatures the Carvers decided to make for fun. But I see only
food and clothing.
The sacred animals of Mars make their home in our territory.
Woodpeckers hammer oak and r. At night, wolves howl across the
highlands and stalk during the day through the woodlands of our
territory. There are snakes near the river. Vultures in the quiet
gulches. Killers running beside me. What friends I have. If only
Loran or Kieran or Matteo were here to watch my back. Someone I
could trust. I’m a sheep wearing wolves clothing in a pack of
wolves.
As Fitchner runs us up the rocky heights, Lea, the girl with the
limp, falls. He lazily nudges at her with his foot till we carry her on
our shoulders. Roque and I bear the load. Titus smirks, and only
Cassius helps when Roque tires. Then Pollux, a lean, craggy-voiced
boy with buzzed hair, takes over for me. He sounds like he’s been
smoking burners since he was two.
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We trudge through a summer valley of forests and elds. Bugs nip
at us there. The Goldbrows drip with sweat, but I do not. This is an
icy bath compared to the rigors of my old frysuit. All about me are
trim t, but Cassius, Sevro, Antonia, Quinn (the bloodydamn fastest
girl or thing I’ve ever seen on two feet), Titus, three of his new
friends, and I could leave the rest behind. Only Fitchner with his
gravBoots would outpace us. He bounds along like a deerling, then
he chases one down and his razor whips out. It encircles the
deerling’s throat, and he contracts the blade to kill the animal.
“Supper,” he says, grinning. “Drag it.”
“You could have killed it closer to the castle,” Sevro mutters.
Fitchner scratches his head and looks around. “Did anyone else
hear a squat ugly little Goblin go … well, whatever sound Goblins
make? Drag it.”
Sevro grabs the deer’s leg. “Dickwit.”
We reach the summit of a rocky height ve kilometers southwest
of our castle. A stone tower dominates the peak. From the top, we
survey the battleeld. Somewhere out there, our enemies do the
same. The theater of war stretches to the south farther than we can
see. A snowy mountain range lls the western horizon. To the
southeast, a primordial wood knots the landscape. Dividing the two
is a lush plain split by a massive southbound river, the Argos, and
its tributaries. Farther south, past the plains and rivers, the ground
dips away into marshes. I cannot see beyond. A great oating
mountain hovers two kilometers up in the bluish, star-spackled sky.
It is Olympus, Fitchner explains, an articial mountain where the
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Proctors watch each year’s class. Its peak shimmers with a fairy-tale
castle. Lea shues closer to stand beside me.
“How does it oat?” she asks sweetly.
I haven’t the faintest clue.
I look north.
Two rivers in a forested valley split our northern highland
territory, which is at the edge of a vast highland wilderness. They
form a V pointing southwest to the lowlands, where they eventually
form one tributary to the Argos. Surrounding the valley are the
highlands—dramatic hills and dwarf mountains scarred with
gulches where mist still clings.
“This is Phobos Tower,” Fitchner says. The tower lies in the far
southwest of our territory. He drinks from a canteen while we go
thirsty, and points northwest where the two rivers meet in the
valley to form their V. A massive tower crowns a distant dwarf
mountain range just beyond the junction. “And that is Deimos.” He
traces an imaginary line to show us the bounds of House Mars’s
territory.
The eastern river is called the Furor. The western, which runs just
south of our castle, is the Metas. A single bridge spans the Metas. An
enemy would have to cross it to enter between the V into the valley
and strike northeast across easy, wooded ground to reach our castle.
“This is a slaggin’ joke, isn’t it?” Sevro asks Fitchner.
“Whatever do you mean, Goblin?” Fitchner pops a gumbubble.
“Our legs are wide as a Pinkwhore’s. All these mountains and hills
and anyone can just walk right in the front door. It’s a perfect at
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passage from the lowlands right to our gate. Just one stinking river
to cross.”
“Pointing out the obvious, eh? You know, I really do not like you.
You foul little Goblin.” Fitchner stares at Sevro for a purposeful
moment and then shrugs. “Anyway, I’ll be on Olympus.”
“What does that mean, Proctor?” Cassius asks sourly. He doesn’t
like the look of things either. Though his eyes are red from weeping
through the night for his dead brother, it hasn’t dulled his
impressiveness.
“I mean it’s your problem, little prince. Not mine. No one’s going
to x anything for you. I am your Proctor. Not your mommy. You’re
in school, remember? So if your legs are open, well, make a chastity
belt to protect the softspot.”
There’s general grumbling.
“Could be worse,” I say. I point past Antonia’s head toward the
southern plains where an enemy fortress spans a great river. “We
could be exposed like those poor bastards.”
“Those poor bastards have crops and orchards,” Fitchner muses.
“You have …” He looks over the ledge to nd the deer he killed.
“Well, Goblin here left the deer behind, so you have nothing. The
wolves will eat what you do not.”
“Unless we eat the wolves,” Sevro mutters, drawing strange looks
from the rest of our House.
So we have to get our own food.
Antonia points to the lowlands.
“What are they doing?”
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A black dropship slides down from the clouds. It settles in the
center of the grassy plain between us and the distant enemy river
fortress of Ceres. Two Obsidians and a dozen Tinpots stand guard as
Browns hustle out to set hams, steaks, biscuits, wine, milk, honey,
and cheeses onto a disposable table eight kilometers from Phobos
Tower.
“A trap, obviously,” Sevro snorts.
“Thank you, Goblin,” Cassius sighs. “But I haven’t had breakfast.”
Circles ring his reckless eyes. He glances over at me through the
crowd of our fellows and oers a smile. “Up for a race, Darrow?”
I start with surprise. Then I smile. “On your mark.”
And he’s o.
I’ve done dumber things to feed my family. I did dumber things
when someone I loved died. Cassius is owed the company as he
races down the steep hillside.
Forty-eight kids watch us scamper to ll our bellies; none follow.
“Bring me a slice of honeyed ham!” Fitchner shouts. Antonia calls
us idiots. The dropship oats away as we leave the highlands behind
for gentler terrain. Eight kilometers in .376grav (Earth standard) is a
cinch. We scramble down rocky hillsides, then hit the lowland
plains at full tilt through ankle-high grass. Cassius beats me to the
tables by a body length. He’s fast. We each take a pint of the ice
water on the table. I drink mine faster. He laughs.
“Looks like the House Ceres’s mark on their agpole. The Harvest
Goddess.” Cassius points over across the green plains to the fortress.
A few trees dot the several kilometers between us and the castle.
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Pennants ap from their ramparts. He pops a grape into his mouth.
“We should take a closer look before chowin’ down. A little
scouting.”
“Agreed … but something isn’t right here,” I say quietly.
Cassius laughs at the open plain. “Nonsense. We’d see trouble if it
was coming. And I don’t think any one of them is going to be faster
than us two. We can strut up to their gates and take a shit if we so
like.”
“I do have something brewing.” I touch my stomach.
Yet still, something is wrong. And not just in my belly.
It’s six kilometers of open ground between the river fortress and
us. The river gurgles in the distance to the right. Forest to the far
left. Plains in front. Mountains beyond the river. Wind rustles the
long grass and a sparrow coasts in with the breeze. It swoops low to
the ground before inching up and away. I laugh loudly and lean
against the table.
“They are in the grass,” I whisper. “A trap.”
“We can steal sacks from them and carry more of this back,” he
says loudly. “Run?”
“Pixie.”
He grins, though neither of us is sure if we’re allowed to start the
ghting during orientation day. Whatever.
On three, we kick apart the disposable table’s legs till we each
have a meter of duroplastic as a weapon. I scream like a madman
and sprint toward the spot where the sparrow ed. Cassius at my
side. Five House Ceres Golds rise from the grass. They’re startled by
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our mad rush. Cassius catches the rst in the face with a proper
fencer’s lunge. I’m less graceful. My shoulder is sti and sore. I
scream and break my weapon across one of their knees. He goes
down howling. Duck someone’s swing. Cassius deects it. We dance
as two. There’s three of them left. One squares up with me. He
doesn’t have a knife or a bat. No, he has something I’m far more
interested in. A question mark of a sword. A slingBlade for reaping
grain. He faces me with his back hand on his hip and the crooked
blade out like a razor. If it were a razor, I’d be dead. But it’s not. I
make him miss, block one of Cassius’s attackers’ blows. Lurch
forward at my attacker. I’m much quicker than he and my grip is
like durosteel to his. So I take his slingBlade and his knife before I
punch him down.
When he sees how I twirl the slingBlade in my hand, the last
uninjured boy knows it’s time to surrender. Cassius jumps high in
the .376grav and executes an unnecessary twirling sideways kick to
the boy’s face. Reminds me of the dancers and leapers of Lykos
Kravat. The Silent Dance. Eerily similar to the boast dancing of
young Reds.
Nothing is silent about the boys’ curses. I feel no pity for these
students. They all murdered someone the night before, just like me.
There are no innocents in this game. The only thing that worries me
is seeing how Cassius dispatched his victims. He is grace and nesse.
I am rage and momentum. He could kill me in a second, if he knew
my secret.
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“What a lark!” he croons. “You were gory terrifying! You just took
his weapon! Gory fast! Glad we weren’t paired earlier. Prime stu!
What have you to say for yourselves, you sneaking fools?”
The captured Golds just swear at us.
I stand over them and cock my head. “Is this the rst time you’ve
lost at something?” No answer. I frown. “Well, that must be
embarrassing.”
Cassius’s face shines—for a moment he’s forgotten his brother’s
death. I haven’t. I feel darkness. Hollow. Evil when the adrenaline
fades. Is this what Eo wanted? For me to play games? Fitchner
arrives in the air above us, clapping his hands. His gravBoots
glimmer golden. He’s got his ham slice between his teeth.
“Reinforcements come!” he laughs.
Titus and a half dozen of the faster boys and girls run toward us
from the highlands. Opposite, a golden shape rises from the distant
river fortress and ies toward us. A beautiful woman with short-
cropped hair settles next to Fitchner in the air. The Proctor of House
Ceres. She carries a bottle of wine and two glasses.
“Mars! A picnic!” she calls, referring to him by his House’s deity.
“So who arranged for this drama, Ceres?” Fitchner asks.
“Oh, Apollo, I suppose. He’s lonely up in his mountain estates.
Here, this is zinfandel from his vines. Much better than last year’s
varietal.”
“Delicious!” Fitchner proclaims. “But your boys were squatting in
the grass. Almost as if they expected the picnic to spontaneously
manifest. Suspicious, no?”
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“Details!” Proctor Ceres laughs. “Pendantic details!”
“Well, here’s a detail. It seems two of mine are worth ve of yours
this year, my dear.”
“These pretty boys?” Ceres snickers. “I thought the vain ones went
to Apollo and Venus.”
“Oho! Well, yours certainly ght like housewives and farmers.
Well placed, they were.”
“Don’t judge them yet, you cad. They are midDraft picks. My
highDrafts are elsewhere, earning their rst calluses!”
“Learning the ovens? Huzzah,” Fitchner declares ironically.
“Bakers do make the best rulers, so I’ve heard.”
She nudges him. “Oh, you devil. No wonder you interviewed for
the Rage Knight post. Such a scoundrel!”
They clink their glasses together as we watch from the ground.
“How I love orientation day,” Ceres titters. “Mercury just let a
hundred thousand rats loose in Jupiter’s citadel. But Jupiter was
ready because Diana tattled and arranged the delivery of a thousand
cats. Jupiter’s boys won’t go hungry like last year. Cats will be as fat
as Bacchus.”
“Diana is a harlot,” Fitchner declares.
“Be kind!”
“I was. I sent her a great phallic cake lled with live
woodpeckers.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
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“You beast!” Ceres caresses his arm and I note the free-loving
demeanor these people have. I wonder if other Proctors are lovers as
well. “Her fortress will be riddled with holes. Oh, the sound must be
horrible. Well played, Mars. They say Mercury is the trickster, but
your japes always have a certain … air!”
“Flair, eh? Well, I’m sure I could rustle up some tricks for you on
Olympus …”
“Huzzah,” she coos suggestively.
They toast again, oating above their sweating and bloody
students. I can’t help but laugh. These people are mad. Bloodydamn
crazy in their empty Golden heads. How are they my rulers?
“Oy! Fitch! If you don’t mind. What are we supposed to do with
these farmers?” Cassius calls up. He pokes one of our injured
captives on the nose. “What are the rules?”
“Eat them!” Fitchner cries. “And Darrow, put down that gory
scythe. You look like a grain reaper.”
I don’t drop it. It is close to the shape of my slingBlade from
home. Not as sharp, because it isn’t meant to kill, but the balance is
no dierent.
“You know you could let my children go and give them back the
reaping scythe,” Ceres suggests down to us.
“Give me a kiss and you have a deal,” Cassius calls up.
“The Imperator’s boy?” she asks Fitchner. He nods. “Come ask for
one when you’re Scarred, little prince.” She looks over her shoulder.
“Until then, I would advise that you and the reaper run.”
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We hear the hooves before we see the painted horses galloping at
us across the plain. They come from the opened gates of House
Ceres’s castle. The girls on the horses’ backs carry nets.
“They gave you horses! Horses!” Fitchner complains. “That is so
unfair!”
We run and barely make it to the woods. I didn’t like my rst
encounter with horses. They still scare the piss out of me. All
snorting and stomping. Cassius and I gasp for breath. My shoulder
aches. Two of Titus’s reinforcements are captured as they nd
themselves stranded in open ground. Bold Titus knocks a horse over
and is laughing as he’s about to lay waste to one of the girls with his
boot. Ceres zaps him with a stunst and makes peace with Fitchner.
The stunst causes Titus to piss himself. Only Sevro is careless
enough to laugh. Cassius says something about bad manners, but he
snickers quietly. Titus notices.
“Are we allowed to kill them or not?” he growls that night at
dinner. We eat the leftovers from Bacchus’s feast. “Or am I going to
get stunned every time?”
“Well, the point isn’t to kill them,” Fitchner says. “So no. Let’s not
go around massacring your classmates, you mad ape.”
“But we did before!” Titus protests.
“What is wrong with you?” Fitchner asks. “The Passage was
where the culling is done. It’s no longer survival of the ttest, you
mad, stupid, colossal sack of muscle. What would be the point if we
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now had the ttest just murder each other till only a few are left?
There are new tests to pass now.”
“Ruthlessness.” Antonia crosses her arms. “So now it’s not
acceptable? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Oh, it better be acceptable.” Titus grins broadly. He’s been
boasting all night about knocking over the horse, as if it’d make
everyone forget the piss that stained his pants. Some have. He’s
already gathered a pack of hounds. Only Cassius and I seem to have
an ounce of his respect, but even we’re smirked at. So is Fitchner.
Fitchner sets down his honeyed ham.
“Let us clarify, children, so this water bualo doesn’t go around
stomping on skulls. Ruthlessness is acceptable, dear Antonia. If
someone dies by accident, that is understandable. Accidents happen
to the best of us. But you will not murder each other with scorchers.
You will not hang people from your ramparts unless they’re already
dead. MedBots are on standby in case any medical attention is direly
needed. They are fast enough to save lives, most of the time.”
He pops a gumbubble. “Remember, though, the point is not to kill.
We don’t care if you’re as ruthless as Vlad Dracula. He still lost. The
point is to win. That’s what we want.”
And that simple test of cruelty is already past.
“We want you to show us your brilliance. Like Alexander. Like
Caesar, Napoleon, and Merrywater. We want you to manage an
army, distribute justice, arrange for provisions of food and armor.
Any fool can stick a blade into another’s belly. The school’s role is to
nd the leaders of men, not the killers of men. So the point, you silly
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little children, is not to kill, but to conquer. And how do you
conquer in a game where there are eleven enemy tribes?”
“Take them out one at a time,” Titus answers knowingly.
“No, ogre.”
“Dumbass,” Sevro snickers to himself. Titus’s pack quietly watches
the smallest boy in the Institute. No threats are snarled. No faces
twitch. Just a silent promise. It’s hard to remember that they are all
geniuses. They look too pretty. Too athletic. Too cruel to be
geniuses.
“Anyone besides Ogre have a guess?” Fitchner asks.
No one answers.
“You make one tribe out of twelve,” I nally say. “By taking
slaves.”
Just like the Society. Build on the backs of others. It isn’t cruel. It
is practical.
Fitcher claps mockingly. “Prime, Reaper. Prime. Looks like
someone is bucking for Primus.” Everyone shifts in agitation at that
last bit. Fitchner pulls a long box from under the table. “Now, ladies
and gentlemen, this is what you use to make the slaves.” He pulls
out our standard. “Protect this. Protect your castle. And conquer all
the others.”
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