2

Our first stop is the infirmary. The Commander watches from across the room, his muscled body resting against the door jam, arms folded over his chest, while a nurse takes my blood and checks me over for illnesses. Four small drops go into a machine for testing.

She shoves a pill into one hand and a small paper cup of water into the other. “Drink,” she instructs.

“What is it?”

Her gaze sweeps from me to the Commander, and back again. “We all know how you teenagers are. We were young once as well. That pill”�" She nods to the tiny green tablet in my palm �"“is so there are no accidental pregnancies.”

My eyes widen. Where do they think I came from?

Unprepared to argue, I pop the tiny pill on my tongue and swallow it down.

“Good girl. See? That was easy enough. You’ll also find it helps rid you of your, erm…” She grins at the Commander “…monthly visitor.”

This is officially the most unnerving moment of my life.

“You’ll come and get a new one with every scheduled check-up �" usually once every three months, just to make sure you don’t have any internal bleeding, etcetera. Let me check your blood work over and, barring any unforeseen circumstances, you will be taken to your designated room for the duration of recruit stage one.”

The nurse pulls my arm to her stomach. It feels soft, cushiony. “Now what in the world…”

“It’s a birthmark,” I say, frowning at the black streak on the inside of my right arm, near my elbow.

“Oddest birthmark I’ve ever seen,” she says. Her head shakes a few times.

She bustles over to a bench table, hopping onto the stool. A few twists of the dials and she stares at my blood through a microscope. The machine beeps. She looks up, reading the results from a screen.

“All clear. And your white blood cell count is a little higher than normal, though you show no signs of infection.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, twisting the hem of the sterile gown I changed into.

“I’m not sure, really. Have you ever been ill?”

I think for a moment. “Not that I can recall.”

“As an infant?” she probes.

“Recruit Trineer is an orphan,” the Commander supplies. “All her info should be on record. Seek the information out if you are curious.”

She taps her chin. “I think I might. Anyhow, she is clean and healthy. No bleeding disorders, no clotting issues. In fact, I will even go as far as to say Larryn Trineer is the best candidate we have ever had.”

“Recruit,” the Commander corrects her. His eyes narrow, brow pinches tight.

“Yes.” The nurse shakes her head, turning her back to him. “Of course,” she mumbles. “That is what I meant.”

The exchange leaves me itchy and confused and a little scared. Why did the term ‘candidate’ annoy the Commander so much? What does it mean?

He glares at the back of her head.

A second later, the Commander motions for me to change. “I will be in the corridor. Join me when you are dressed.”

That was weird. Very weird.

I jump down from the examination table heading for the small cubicle I left my dress in. I don’t want to keep the Commander waiting so I dress as fast as I can and get to the hallway where he is waiting for me. We walk in silence to the bank of elevators, go down one floor, then to the left and wind up in a huge corridor filled with dorm-style rooms.

My new room is a far cry from the one I spent my first sixteen years in. First, the bed is on a metal frame instead of a wooden pallet on the floor, and there are two bunks on each. In total, I count twelve beds; six frames with twelve mattresses. Sharing a room with eleven others is nothing new to me. But there are seven boys in this room, and four other girls. I have never spent the night in the same room as a boy.

“Trainees!” the commander snaps when we enter the concrete room. “This is the final recruit for Dragonfly. Larryn Trineer from Southdale.”

Turning to me, he says, “Your bed is at the far end. The empty one; bottom bunk. Your uniforms will be delivered shortly. Marijka will show you where to go for dinner tonight.”

To the room, he says, “Since you’re all here now, listen up; I will only tell you once. You must pass each challenge to enter your final round of testing before you will be considered for a Division. The four Divisions are, as you should already know, Strength �" Krag, Courage �" Moed, Peace �" Vrede, and Integrity �" Integriteit. You will train Monday through Friday. Saturday is yours to do with what you wish. Sunday, you clean.

“At any given time, during your recruit stage, your team may be called upon by cadets with two or more years of experience for impromptu training exercises. These exercises are meant to test you, to see how ready you are to work as a team �" with any team you are assigned to. In these instances, the cadets are in charge. You will obey them like you would obey any superior, otherwise you receive a strike against your name. Three strikes and you are gone.

“There are thirty-six recruits and only fifteen available spots to continue training at my academy. Those who do not make it through training will either die trying or end up working in the city sanitation centre. Tomorrow morning you all begin your first day of training, after a brief assembly to inform you all of the process. Spend your last night of freedom wisely.”

Giving his jacket a sharp tug, he spins on his heels and leaves the room. Nine sets of eyes burn holes into the side of my head. Nine curious recruits watch and wait for me to make a move or say something.

Part of me wants to walk up to the toughest looking person in the room and punch them in the jaw, hard, just to prove myself. But what would that prove aside from foolishness? Blending is my best bet. They don’t know me now. Soon enough my fellow recruits will discover just how ordinary I am.

A girl with light brown skin and tight curls spread out around her head like a halo jumps down from the top bunk of the bed across from mine. She stands much taller than other girls. Her figure is lithe and her face is very pretty.

“I’m Marijka Beni,” she says and sticks out her hand.

“Larryn Trineer.” I shake her hand.

She has a strong grip.

Mine is weak in comparison.

I squeeze her hand. A wordless challenge.

She raises a thin brow.

Then smiles.

“Southdale, huh?” She, like most of the people I will come in contact with in the city, has a thick accent.

I clear my throat. “Yeah,” I say, and wish I didn’t have a plain accent. An accent-less accent.

“English-speakers.” Marijka shakes her head, grinning. “I will never understand why you lot came here in the first place while the wars were going on. Nothing but what they could carry, crossing the ocean to come to a place they’d never been to before…but at least those who did survived.”

The English-speakers came from old North America and what was once the United Kingdom of Great Britain at the onset of the great wars several generations ago. Large groups of them flocked here to live in the one country where English was still a predominantly spoken language, and the weather wasn’t too disagreeable.

They came over by the thousands, building makeshift ramshackle houses wherever they found the space. To keep people out, the Cape area walled itself off from the rest of the country. Those inside the walls thrived. Those left outside…

We are told not to waste our thoughts on what lies beyond the walls of the Cape. That is what I will protect the citizens from�"if I make it through training.

“Yeah,” I say again, a habit I picked up from those born to this land. When those who are considered more native than I say the Afrikaans word for yes, it sounds more like yah.

“Well…” She skips over to her bunk again in three long strides. “…let me introduce you to the others before we go get something to eat. This”�" Marijka points to the girl lounging on the bottom bunk with shocking pink hair and a half shaved head, flipping through a graphic mag �"“is Veroniek Muller. Don’t call her anything but Vero though, unless you want to end up with a broken clavicle,” she laughs through the threat.

I can picture Vero punching someone in the collar bone and breaking it with ease.

Indicating the bunks next to hers, she says, “On the bottom bunk is Arno Visser.”

Arno grunts and goes back to doing crunches in his bunk. Thick dark blonde curls spill over his brow and down to his shoulders. His biceps bulge. He is easily the most muscular of our group.

Marijka continues, “On the top bunk is Sarai Rule.”

Sarai waves a slender brown hand and offers me the slightest hint of a smile before turning her attention to the paper-thin tablet fitting in her palm. From that one device she possesses I deduce she did not come here from an orphanage. Sarai must be either a second daughter or someone who failed her placement examinations. Unless she chose this path.

“Frik Halstead” �" Marijka motions to the typical pretty boy on the next bunk, passed out cold �" “and on the top is Tess.”

The girl called Tess doesn’t look like a Tess at all. She’s medium height and build, her shoulders broad and muscular. Her face is harsh lines and a wide jaw and narrow brown eyes.

“Zane Strydom,” Marijka says next, waving to the hulking frame of a boy who doesn’t look sixteen.

A veritable giant, Zane doesn’t appear the kind of guy who would move very quickly but his eyes flick up to meet mine so fast my heart spins in my chest. He leans against the concrete behind him, hands clasped behind him and one knee bent, the foot pressed to the wall. I get the impression he could be at my side in a fraction of the time it would take me to suck in a full breath of air.

“Davon Habana.”

“Nice to meet you, Larryn.” He flashes a smile.

“You too,” I say. My cheeks warm.

An older boy strides into the room, heading straight for my bunk. He drops a dark duffel bag on the mattress before leaving again. My uniform, I guess, turning back to the room.

“That is Riaan Zeller,” Marijka says.

Blue eyes peer at me over the top of a dog-eared photograph. He gives me the barest of acknowledgements and turns back to his picture.

“Morné Boersma,” she pronounces his name Mournay.

I nod to the boy with dark hair, a dark tan, dark eyes, and a bored expression. He bobs his head in response.

“And last but not least…” Marijka faces my bunk. “…Lukas Versfeld.”

My bunk mate is, without a doubt, the male equivalent of beautiful. Wild cinnamon hair that stands out in all directions, eyes greener than lush savannah grasses. His nose is a little crooked, maybe broken a time or two in a fistfight, but the full blood-red bow-shaped lips underneath make up for it.

I swallow, my gaze hooked on his mouth. I have not had the opportunity to kiss any boys during my sixteen years. Looking at Lukas’ mouth, I want nothing more than to press my lips to his and experience kissing for myself.

I give myself a little shake and look away. Heat claims my cheeks, burning right down to my toes. He says nothing. Part of me takes this as a good sign. Another part feels annoyed that he did not notice me.

However, I remind myself, I do not want them to notice me. I want to blend, to become an invisible threat.

I take one final glance around the room, memorizing faces and names. These are my roommates, my fellow recruits. Most look like they come from good families. Perhaps I can use that to my advantage during the initial training rounds.

A blaring whistle sounds in the room, prompting every member of the team to jump up from where they stood or rested and start changing. Without giving a thought to their nakedness, they strip from their recreational clothing and don their navy uniforms.

“You’d better hurry up and change,” Marijka says, steering me to my bunk. Her fingers bite into the flesh of my shoulders. “The buzzer means ten minutes to supper. You don’t want to get stuck with the gross burnt stuff at the bottom of the pan.”

She scurries to her bunk to change. I do the same. I wonder if they are watching me. Just in case, I pull everything over top of my dress and slip out of it once I am fully clothed. No way am I about to bare skin to strange girls…or guys.

Once we are all changed into our uniforms, we file out of the room, headed for dinner.