Page 9 of Silver Elite

After our impromptu quiz, we’re split into two cells. Red and Black. Lyddie and I are both assigned to the Black Cell, and I breathe in relief when I learn that Hadley will be the Red Cell leader.

Today will consist of classroom instruction only, which sounds mind-numbingly tedious. I barely made it through my school days in Hamlett. I can’t count the number of messages Uncle Jim received on his comm from my teachers, reporting me for not paying attention in class or disappearing from the schoolhouse altogether. I don’t do well chained to a desk. I need to breathe fresh air and have the freedom to go where I please.

Freedom doesn’t exist here, and if I don’t find a way to break out of this base, I’m liable to lose my sanity.

Ford calls for a break, and while the other recruits use the time to chat among themselves, I find a quiet spot against the wall and study the schedule on my source. This week is labeled Section 1 and primarily involves weapons training, which intrigues me. Long range, short range, moving targets.

Damn it, and the other sections are equally intriguing. Interrogation Tactics. Intelligence Gathering. Knives. Hand-to-Hand Combat. Undercover Operations. Basics of Flight.

I hate the tickle of excitement I feel in my stomach. I’m not allowed to enjoy myself. And I’m certainly not allowed to be good at anything. My goal is to fail so they send me back to the wards. Back to the ranch. No matter how enticing some of these sections are, I can’t let myself excel at them.

I continue scrolling, noting the four days of rest that seem to be arbitrarily scheduled between two sections. They come directly after a class labeled RTI.

Although I have no intention of making friends, I’ve already been friendly to Lyddie, so I wander back to our workstation and lean against the edge of the desk.

“Do you know what RTI is?” I ask her. “It’s in Section 7.”

She lifts her head from her source. “Oh. Resistance to interrogation.”

My brow furrows. “Are we the ones resisting the interrogation?”

“I think so, but I’m not sure.” She sets down her tablet, taking my presence as a signal to socialize. “Are you from the Point?”

“No. Ward Z.”

“Whoa. I’ve aways wanted to go out west. I heard it’s nothing but open space.”

“It is. I miss it. Did you grow up in the Point?”

She nods, her fingers absently toying with the end of her braid. “My mom works for the Company. Biotech. And my dad is in Command Intelligence. Some people think that makes me a staple, but I’m not.”

She lowers her voice as her gaze darts toward a group of recruits congregated in the front row. A few glance her way, then turn back and whisper to one another. I hear someone laugh.

Two pink splotches rise in her cheeks. “I passed all the required assessments.”

The way her jaw tightened at the word staple suggests it isn’t a complimentary label.

“What’s a staple?” I ask warily.

“The children of high-clearance parents. Staples are only accepted into the Program because of who their parents are, even if they don’t qualify. They’ve basically spent their entire lives knowing they’re going to end up in Silver Block. Maybe even Silver Elite.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a unit within Silver Block. Special forces. Elites have the highest security clearance, and they run the riskiest operations.”

“Like what?”

She giggles. “Do you know anything about this block?”

“No,” I admit.

“Then why are you here?” Skepticism flickers through her eyes.

I backpedal, realizing it might not be a smart idea to tell anyone I’m here against my will. At least not until I’ve determined how much I can trust them, although I have the feeling the answer to that will always be not at all.

“I’m a very impulsive person,” I finally say.

That gets me another laugh. “You just impulsively applied for Silver Block?”

“Pretty much. There were a bunch of soldiers in my village for Liberty Day, and I got to talking with one.” I grin. “More than talking, actually.”

She grins back.

“He made it sound really exciting, and the next thing I knew, I’m here.” I shrug.

Sounds plausible enough. And not entirely a lie. I probably am the most impulsive person I know. It’s something that Jim tried so hard to rein in with me. Even as a child, I was constantly racing toward danger. In the Blacklands, we had to bathe in a creek that was nearly a mile from our clearing, the one place with a pocket of sunlight. That meant venturing into the darkness, the pitch black where you couldn’t see your own hand in front of your face. Every time we heard a noise, I’d be so curious, wanting to investigate. Jim would haul me back and growl, “Girl, what are you doing? Stay behind me.”

I do a lot of things without thinking. Like taking that impossible shot on Liberty Day.

Jim was right. I should have let that boy die. Should have let the white coyote maul him.

I let it play out in my mind. Rachel would have grieved. We would’ve held a service for Robbie in the cemetery behind the town square, and I would’ve stood there, clenching my teeth and choking on my guilt at the knowledge that I could’ve made that shot—

No.

I don’t regret saving the boy.

Even though you got Jim killed?

I shove the thought away, banishing the accompanying shame into some place deep inside me. I’ll need to find a way to shield myself from it. To become numb to the reminder that I’m the reason the person I loved most in the world is dead. It’ll destroy me otherwise.

“Wren?”

I blink. “Sorry. What?”

“I was asking if anyone from your ward is here.” Lyddie gestures around the room.

I shake my head. “No. Do you know any of the other recruits?”

“Some.”

Once again, her gaze flits toward the group in the front. I focus on a girl with chin-length black hair and dark eyes that are too big for her face. She smirks when she notices me staring, then turns to talk to a young man with wavy brown hair that falls past his shoulders. When his gaze meets mine, a shiver runs through me. His eyes are the color of coal, but the temperature of ice. Cold and lifeless.

He observes me with the intensity of a predator in the Blacklands. His lips curve in a smile, and I tear my gaze away.

“Stay away from him,” Lyddie warns under her breath.

“Who is he?”

“Anson. He was in upper school with me. You don’t want to be around him. He…” She thinks about it. Then, in a flat voice, says, “He enjoys seeing people hurt.”

Well, that’s disturbing. “And the girl?”

“Kess. She’s a quat.”

I hide a smile. Lyddie proceeds to point out a few others and offer bits of information about each one. I let her talk without interruption. In a world where alliances shift like sand in the wind, knowledge is power, and I’d like to arm myself with as much as I can gather. I file away each name and face for future reference.

A female staple named Bryce whose father also works in Command Intelligence.

A blond soldier, Ivy, who’s retaking the Program after failing her first go-around.

A lanky guy named Lash, who sits on his own, looking bored as he watches the rest of us.

“Do you ride horses in Z?” Lyddie asks when the conversation returns to us.

“Ward Z?” drawls a male voice. “Well, shit. We have a cowgirl in our midst?”

It’s the guy with the golden hair and impish eyes.

I spare him a glance before answering Lyddie. “I grew up on a horse.”

Golden Hair comes to a stop in front of us, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his trousers. His tall, muscular body fills out his uniform very, very nicely. I notice Lyddie admiring him, then hastily shifting her gaze when he notices. He winks knowingly at me while a blush blooms on her cheeks. Me, I’m not as impressed. He’s undeniably attractive, yes. But those eyes are dangerous.

“Do you have a name, cowgirl?”

“Do you?” I counter.

“Kaine Sutler. Ward D.”

“Coal country,” I say dubiously as my gaze drops to his hands. They’re too pretty to be miner’s hands. And it’s common knowledge that even the children in D help out in the mines. Some are pulled from school entirely if there’s a shortage of manpower. “How’d those mines treat you?”

He grins. “Fuck that. Mild asthma as a kid was the best thing that ever happened to me. Never had to step foot in a mine.”

“What was your supplement, then?” Lyddie asks him. Every student, starting at the age of fifteen, spends their last two years supplementing their schooling with a job assignment. I was able to supplement on the ranch.

“Packaging plant,” he says before glancing between us. “You two still haven’t told me your names.” His gaze lingers on me rather than Lyddie.

“Wren,” I say grudgingly. “Darlington.”

“Lyddie De Velde.” She extends an arm, and he clasps his fingers around her wrist in greeting. I notice she clings to his wrist just a tad too long.

When he holds his hand out to me, I just stare at him. That makes him chuckle.

“Anyway. Z, eh? That’s an asset ward. Family of farmers? Ranchers?”

“Ranchers.”

“Does that mean you’re good with ropes? Because I’m not against being tied up.”

This guy is going to be incorrigible. I just know it.

“Will you be flirting the entire eight weeks or are you trying to get it all out of your system now?” I ask in a polite tone.

“The entire eight weeks,” he promises, and Lyddie giggles.

—

I’m subjected to a monotonous day of reading manuals and trying not to rip my hair out in boredom. Eventually we’re dismissed and shuffled to the mess hall for dinner. Afterward, none other than Tyler Struck, my other interrogator, joins Hadley to escort us to our living quarters. Her gaze flickers in my direction, but she doesn’t remark on my abrupt upgrade from suspect to recruit.

On the way to the barracks, we pass a large common room with comfortable seating and coffee machines. There’s also a commissary. Struck says we’re allotted ten Lux credits per week to spend while we’re here and can earn extra credits depending on our performance in each section.

The barracks are co-ed. I don’t love that, what with Anson eyeing me all day. I’m not interested in feeling those predacious eyes on me while I sleep. The showers and lavatories are not co-ed, at least.

Hadley’s Red Cell recruits are bunking at one end of the hall. Struck leads the Black Cell to the other end, and we follow her into another windowless room. I’m starting to think the Command detests natural light. This space is cavernous, with high ceilings and two rows of neatly made beds. Everyone’s belongings are lined up against a wall of lockers. Black duffels with name tags on them. I don’t have any belongings, only the one uniform and toothbrush they gave me. I’d kill for a hairbrush right about now.

Struck makes a sweeping gesture with her arm. “One to a bed.”

“What if we get cold?” Kaine asks, eyes dancing.

“One to a bed,” she repeats. “And there are consequences to breaking the rules, so I recommend you do as you’re told. No sharing. No switching once you’ve selected your bunk. No exceptions.”

At that, she leaves us to navigate our own sleeping arrangements, and the moment she’s gone everyone hurries to grab their things. To my surprise, I find a duffel with my name on it. I set it on the bed next to Lyddie’s while Kaine settles on the other side of me. Great.

I unzip the bag and conduct a quick inventory. Three more uniforms—one black and long-sleeved, a second set of the one I currently wear, and a nicer, overly starched one. According to Lyddie, each uniform has a purpose: training, casual, formal. I can tell she wants to go into more detail, but I turn away to continue taking stock.

I find a pair of loose cotton shorts and a white tank that I assume I’m supposed to sleep in. A pack of underwear, plain white. Two bras, and while I’m aware that all my measurements are recorded in my ID file, there’s something incredibly intrusive about the fact that someone picked out a bra for me. The last item in the bag is a toiletry case with a hairbrush and some other amenities.

We each get a locker and a shelf above our beds. Most of the other recruits are making use of the shelf with little mementos from home. Mine remains bare.

Beside me, Lyddie pulls a digital photograph out of her bag and carefully places the small projector on her shelf. It’s a picture of her posing on a stone terrace with two people who must be her parents, the glass dome of the Capitol building serving as a backdrop. She wasn’t kidding about her parents being well connected.

When the hairs on the back of my neck rise, I turn to find Anson’s eyes on me again. Gleaming in anticipation.

Right, then. I gather my sleepwear and toiletry case, deciding to change in one of the lavatory stalls.

“Aww, what a shame. No bed for the unlucky little lamb.”

It takes a second to realize Kess’s mocking voice is not directed at me, but the girl behind me. She’s about eighteen or nineteen, timidly standing at the wall holding her duffel.

I glance from the girl to the rows of beds. Technically, there should be at least twenty-eight since we started the day with fifty-six recruits. Ford cut seven after the test, which leaves twenty-four of us in Black Cell. Yet there are only twenty-three beds, and a lot of empty space at the end of our row, as if beds had been deliberately removed. This feels like another one of their ridiculous tests, but I’m not sure what its purpose is.

“It’s probably just a mistake. I should go and find someone?” The teenager wears a stricken expression. Her voice is trembling.

No, she’s not a lamb—even lambs have more confidence than this. She’s more like one of my wobbly newborn calves, uncertainly following her mother as she adjusts to the big, frightening world into which she’s suddenly been thrust.

“It won’t matter.” This comes from Ivy, who, unlike me, has no qualms about undressing in front of twenty-three strangers and Anson’s unnerving gaze.

Ivy unbuttons her trousers and pushes them down to expose her bare legs. She reaches for a pair of drawstring pants she must have brought from home, their pale-blue pattern with its thin pinstripes telling me she comes from means, likely from an elite family in the Point.

Those types of fabrics are beyond rare. General Redden’s philosophy is all about functionality. Efficiency. The fabrics that roll out of his textile mills are utilitarian—solid grays, blacks, blues. You won’t find many ward shops that carry patterns or prints, but if you have the credits, you can easily procure custom-made goods in Sanctum Point. All the pinstripes and florals your heart desires.

“They do this at the start of every session,” Ivy explains. “There’s always one less bed than recruits.”

“Looks like the little lamb will have to sleep on the floor.” Kess clicks her tongue. “Poor baby.”

The lamb bites her lip. “I’ll go find someone.” She takes a step. I feel bad for her.

“I told you, don’t bother.” Ivy sounds annoyed. “They won’t care. They do this on purpose.”

“To what end?” asks a guy whose name I can’t remember. Ford and Hadley barked out far too many names today.

“They do it to identify the bleeding heart,” Ivy says with a shrug. “Every session, someone inevitably gives up their bed, then gets cut from the Program the next morning.”

A hesitant Lyddie speaks up. “Why are they cut?”

“They’re considered a weak link because of their compassion.”

She can’t be serious. My annoyance simmers beneath the surface at the idea of such a pointless tactic.

I step toward the girl. “What’s your name?”

“Pera,” she says.

“You can have my bed, Pera.” I start to gather up my stuff.

“Wren,” protests Lyddie. “Didn’t you hear what Ivy just said? What if you’re cut?”

“They’re not going to cut me.” I’m confident of it, considering Captain Cross said he wanted to keep me close.

And if they do cut me, then, fuck yes, sign me up. I’d love nothing more than to leave this base.

“I mean it, you can have my bed,” I tell Pera, zipping up the duffel.

“No. I’ll take the floor. It’s fine.” Her voice is so soft. She won’t last long in this program, not with that air of fragility.

“Absolutely not,” I say, determination igniting inside me. “You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

When she tries to protest again, I brush off her objections, guiding her to my bed.

“Take it,” I insist.

With a mix of gratitude and reluctance, she acquiesces, setting her bag down and sinking into the comfort of the mattress. “Thank you,” she whispers, and I don’t miss the sheen of tears.

No, she won’t last long at all.

Carting my toiletries, I head for the door. When I pass Kess, I hear her laughter tickling my back. I glance over my shoulder. “What?”

“That was pathetic,” she informs me.

I shrug and keep walking.

When I return from the lavatory, Pera jumps up from my former bed.

“I feel awful,” she blurts out. “Please, take your bed back. I don’t want you to sleep on the floor.”

I flick up a brow. “Who says I’m sleeping on the floor?”

I drop my stuff in Kaine’s footlocker and sweep my gaze over the man sprawled in front of me. His long legs are encased in thin black pants, and he’s shirtless, revealing a sleekly muscled chest. He’s watching me with interest, awaiting my next move. Most of the roomis.

It’s a single bed. It’s going to be a tight fit. Nonetheless, I stride over and lift the corner of his blanket.

Without a word, Kaine rises to let me slide underneath. I see him grinning at me from the corner of my eye.

“Don’t get any ideas,” I warn. “Keep your hands to yourself if you still want hands in the morning.”

“Stop it, Darlington. Threats of violence only get me hotter.”

Someone snickers. I don’t turn over to check who it is. Instead, I curl onto my side and face away from him. Outside our dormitory, the muffled sounds of boots on the floor and hushed voices only serve to heighten my discomfort. In here, the cold concrete walls seem to close in on me, suffocating me with their oppressive weight. I inhale slowly and try to shut out my surroundings. The murmured voices. The chuckles. Breaths that aren’t my own.

The narrow mattress dips and I feel Kaine slide under the blanket, the cramped space forcing our bodies into close proximity. He lies on his back, and his shoulder and hip are millimeters from me, so close I can feel his body heat. I would’ve chosen to sleep with Lyddie if she didn’t strike me as someone who’d rather die than break the rules. Bunking with Kaine is a risk, but luckily, he doesn’t try to touch me.

Without warning, the overhead lights shut off, bathing the room in blackness.

A voice travels in the dark. “Hey, Sutler, try not to be too loud when you’re screwing her tonight.”

Anson.

“Don’t worry, Booth, I’ll make sure to shout your name when I’m finishing,” Kaine calls back. “Do you a deed. I know it’s the closest you’ll ever come to getting laid on your own.”

“Fuck off, Sutler.”

The mattress vibrates as Kaine chuckles.

I close my eyes and ignore him. Despite the tight quarters, sleep eventually claims me, the rhythmic sounds of my enemies’ breathing coaxing me into a restless slumber.