Page 8 of Silver Elite

When I was young, my uncle used to take me to a neighboring town every few months to pick up supplies for the ranch. The feed store was owned by a woman named Morlee Hadley. Partially owned, anyway. The Company holds a fifty-one percent stake in all Continental businesses, which is the reason I’ve never seen any advantage in joining the business sector. Earning some extra Luxury credits and leisure passes doesn’t seem worth it to me. But some people enjoy the perks, and Morlee was one of them. She loved that store almost as much as she loved her son. My Matty is so smart. My Matty has big ambitions. My Matty will rule the Continent one day . She never stopped praising that boy. She adored him.

She adored me, too. She always slipped me a piece of candy whenever Uncle Jim wasn’t looking. He was such an unsentimental man, didn’t care about spoiling me or using his Lux credits to make my life a little sweeter. Morlee would give me a wink, and then I’d feel a poke in my mind, and when I let her in, her teasing voice would fill my head.

“Our little secret, angel. Don’t tell Jim.”

“Never,” I always promised. Although I’m sure Jim knew. He wasn’t stupid.

One day, we walked into the store and someone else was behind the counter. I was so disappointed. I thought she was sick. But she wasn’t there the next time, either. Or the time after. And the stern-faced man behind the counter didn’t seem concerned that Morlee was gone.

It was only later, through whispers in Hamlett and hushed conversations between Jim and the new owner, that I learned the truth.

Her son turned her in to the Command.

The boy she’d spoken so proudly of had betrayed his own mother and reported her for concealment. Jim eventually told me she’d been sent to a labor camp in the north. Slaving at a salt mine.

Because of this guy standing in front of me.

There’s no recognition on his part as he sets the tablet down. I suppose there wouldn’t be. I only met him once, and I was a kid. No reason for a seventeen-year-old boy to pay much attention to the twelve-year-old in his mother’s feed shop. I’ve never forgotten his face, though. Morlee was a good woman. She deserved better than a son like him.

I inhale slowly. Force myself not to let my gaze linger, my anger show. Then he moves to the next workstation and some of the tension in my shoulders dissipates. Matt Hadley’s presence in this room, on this base, is just a reminder of how much danger I’ve found myself in.

Jim was right. The Point is a den of vipers.

“This,” Ford says, holding up a tablet, “is your source. While you’re here, it will take the place of your Company comm. It’s where you’ll receive all communications and alerts, and where you’ll find your schedule and progress scores. When we’re in session on the base, you should have it on you at all times. When we conduct off-base ops, you’ll be fitted with a source on your wrist.”

Hadley returns to the front of the room and stands to Ford’s left. His posture is ramrod-straight. Expression carved from stone.

“This is Officer Hadley. He’ll be one of your instructors.”

Officer Hadley. I swallow my distaste as Hadley nods in greeting. It appears being a traitor to your own people, your own mother, helps you rise in the ranks of the Command.

“Scan your thumbs now to activate your source,” Hadley orders in a clipped voice.

Everyone else obeys his command, so I reluctantly follow suit. I press my thumb on the scanner next to the keypad, and the tablet comes to life.

My name appears on the screen.

WREN DARLINGTON, RECRUIT 56

To my dismay, my entire life has already been loaded into this small, thin piece of technology. Biometrics. Medical reports. School transcripts, upper and lower.

Even worse than being surrounded by vipers is the realization that you can never escape them. Their eyes are always on you.

Maybe the Faithful have the right idea after all with those Old Era beliefs. At least back then there’d been some semblance of privacy, of freedom. You could live a life far from civilization if you chose. A harder life, certainly, but that’s the thing about freedom, isn’t it? There’s always a price to pay for it. The Faithful are free…to live in the shadows. To decamp at a moment’s notice and find another home on the fringes. To fend off starvation and be hunted by the Command.

I’m not sure I could do it again. I already lived in the Blacklands. I don’t want to go back to life in the shadows.

“The Program is divided into eight sections,” Hadley says. “A combination of classroom instruction and fieldwork.”

He then proceeds to extol the virtues of Silver Block. Our soldiers are the smartest, the fastest, the strongest. And as he drones on, I feel ever more helpless. My throat closes, and although I’m slightly afraid of using telepathy in proximity to all these strangers, the tight knot of desperation lodged in my windpipe calls for desperate measures.

“Tana, please,” I beg my best friend. “ You need to find someone in the network who can help me. Anyone. They reassigned my ranch and threw me into the Command training program. I need to get out of here.”

“I’m trying, Wren. I swear I’m trying. But they don’t…” She trails off.

Care.

That’s what she doesn’t want to say. They don’t. Fucking. Care.

“Keep trying,” I tell her. I can barely get a full breath in now, as it becomes glaringly obvious that nobody is going to help me.

I inhale through my nose and take another stab at Xavier Ford’s mind. It’s locked up tight, as is Hadley’s, leaving me no choice but to turn my attention to my peers.

I hesitate. Fight the urge to pry before convincing myself it’s for the greater good. What’s the point of having this power if I refuse to wield it?

Unsurprisingly, the other recruits are all shielded. One of the first laws General Redden enacted after his coup of the previous regime was that all Prime children on the Continent must be taught to shield from the moment they enter lower school. Unfortunately for them—but fortunately for us—proper shielding requires a lot more training than an hour or two of weekly visualization.

If I tried, I could probably penetrate most of these shields, but I don’t have the patience or the time to sweep one mind at a time. I settle on my seatmate, because she’s right here, and her expression gives me pause. She’s watching Ford intently, hanging on his every word. Her teeth dig into her bottom lip.

She has a serviceable shield, but it’s not quite thick enough. More like a malleable metal, soft enough that with the poke of a fine needle I can penetrate it. I open a path, and sure enough, I soon catch the faintest echoes in her mind.

You’re not…

…not good…

…good enough.

You’re not good enough.

The thought repeats in her head, even as she bites her lip and concentrates on Ford’s words.

I immediately retreat.

Fuck.

This is why I’m so loath to do this. Mind reading is the greatest invasion of privacy that exists. And everyone, even Primes, deserves their privacy. Your mind is the one place where you should feel completely and unequivocally safe. People like me rob you of that refuge, and each time I read an unsuspecting mind, I hate myself a little bit more.

There’s no place for morality in war. Deep down I know this, know I have to use the weapons in my arsenal. But sometimes, when I’m overhearing someone’s deepest insecurities, I’m reminded of why I’m seen as the villain in other people’s stories.

My seatmate’s inner monologue tugs at something inside me. She’s so matter-of-fact. Not forlorn. Not resentful. You’re not good enough. A statement of fact, coming from someone who accepted that truth a long time ago.

It makes me soften in a way I don’t usually soften.

I lean closer to her and whisper, “I’m Wren.”

She jolts in her seat, looking over at me. After a beat, she whispers back. “I’m Lydia, but everyone calls me Lyddie.”

I nod at the front of the room. “This guy loves the sound of his own voice, huh?”

A smile touches her lips.

“…before you’re divided into your cells and we officially get under way,” Hadley is saying, “turn your attention to your source. Each of you will be required to answer ten questions. Please start now.”

I glance at my screen.

There was a woman in this room when you sat down. What color was her shirt?

I stare at the question. Beside me, Lyddie is busily writing on her source.

All right. This is clearly some sort of test.

The question is, is it a test I want to pass…or fail?

My mind starts racing. I don’t know what’s more advantageous to me. If I fail, they might cut me from the Program. That would be the best-case scenario. However, it’s not as if the wards are teeming with potential candidates for the most elite block in the Command. Captain Cross won’t be cutting indiscriminately, especially based on what appears to be a random memory test.

On the other hand, if you can’t pass a simple memory test, do you truly belong in the most elite block in the Command? If I were running this program, I wouldn’t want any idiots on my team. But I’m a heartless bitch. The people here might be more tolerant of failure.

“Darlington,” Ford barks. “This isn’t optional.”

I lower my gaze to the tablet. Damn it. Just choose already. Pass or fail.

Don’t draw attention to yourself.

He might be dead, but his voice lives in my head. I know that would be Jim’s advice. So I grit my teeth and use my index finger to write on the screen in my messy scrawl.

There was a woman in this room when you sat down. What color was her shirt?

She wasn’t wearing a shirt. It was a dress, and it was white.

I tap next.

On which ear did the woman have piercings?

Left ear.

Was she holding a tablet?

She wasn’t, but I write yes. If the goal is to not draw attention to myself, then I’m neither choking nor shining. I can’t get everything right.

How many officers were in the room when you sat down?

I could write two. Instead, I write:

One officer and one massive prick.

I get three more wrong on purpose, then lean back in my chair as a score flashes on the screen: 60%.

Ford glances at his tablet and says, “Soldier Hutchfield. Stand up.”

At the table next to ours, a young woman with pale hair rises uncertainly.

“You’re dismissed. Report to your CO in Gold Block.”

Her mouth opens in surprise. “What? Why?”

“You’re dismissed,” he repeats.

“But—”

“I don’t have time to argue with you, soldier. You had your shot, you blew it. Pay attention next time.”

“That’s not fair!” she protests. “How were we supposed to know we would be tested on what clothes people were wearing and how many earrings they had?”

He sets his jaw. “You didn’t answer a single question correctly. If you’re this unobservant in a low-pressure setting, I don’t want you watching my six on a high-pressure op. You’re cut. Get the fuck out.”

The room goes dead silent. Then Hutchfield’s footsteps snap against the floor as she storms out.

Unperturbed, Ford recites more names. “Abernathy, Dern, Jasser, Kilmeade, Rhodes, Xinn. You also scored a zero. You’re dismissed. You’ll be going back to your wards.”

Hellfuck!

I made the wrong call.

Once those recruits are gone, Ford addresses the ones remaining. “Silver Block only accepts the best. Recruits who don’t show promise during the Program will either return to their current blocks or be sent back to their wards.”

I perk up. Okay. There’s still a chance I can get cut. All I have to do is…not perform.

I can do that.