“Come on.”
We walked side-by-side to the arena. After an ID scan, the doors opened and we swept inside. Because of the party, I didn't expect anyone to be here. But Siren was firing at a target and when she spotted us, she stilled. She sheathed the pyre-gun at her side and faced us.
She wasn't as pretty as the other women of A.I.R, but her red hair was amazing. It hung down her shoulders like a silky curtain. “Here to practice?” she asked in that oh so sweet voice of hers.
We nodded. I hadn't seen her since my first day and I couldn't help but remember that she hadn't wanted me here. “Too much attitude,” she'd said. A part of me wanted to show her real attitude, the kind that came with five fingers and an equal number of knuckles.
“That makes me proud. That makes me proud.” She strode from the room with a grin.
I watched her, frowning, confused. O-kay. Not what I had expected. “You'll always suck,” maybe. Or, “You shouldn't be here, you drugged-out loser.”
I shook my head, strangely happy. “Let's get started,” I said to Emma. I collected a pyre-gun with no detonation crystal since we weren't allowed to hold a loaded gun without Kadar's presence, as well as a few sharp-edged stars from the glass case.
The computer logged my ID before permitting me to handle a single weapon, keeping a list of everything I took. If any of those items were not returned or were used on someone, I would be blamed. If I tried to leave the room with them, alarms would erupt and, I was sure, any instructor nearby would tackle or shoot me.
“Line up,” I told Emma.
She approached the open window that looked onto the jelly molds and holograms of the aliens. In a hologram, we could change the race of the alien with a few clicks of a keyboard—only during our free time, however. In class, Kadar picked for us. Emma changed the Delensean hologram to a…
“What is that?” I asked her, studying the shiny, light blue creature with the webbed hands and feet.
Her expression hardened. “It's a Lyross.”
I'd heard that name before. Where? I flipped through my mental files, and my eyes widened as realization struck. The Lyross, a race that lived underwater. The race of her ra**st. “Stars or, uh, guns?”
“Stars first. Guns second.”
I set the gun aside and stood behind her, reaching around to grasp her wrist.
The moment I touched her, she jumped and jerked away from me. She struggled for breath as she faced me, her features pale. “What do you think you're doing?”
“Easy,” I said, palms up. “I'm just correcting your aim.”
“I don't like it when people are behind me.”
I should have realized that. “I'm not going to hurt you, Emma, and you're just going to have to take my word on that if you want my help.”
She gulped, and several minutes passed before she relaxed her shoulders inch by inch. Finally she turned, facing her target.
Slowly I approached her and wrapped my arms around her. She stiffened, but didn't move away this time. “You want to hold the star gently. Like this. With your fingers here, here, and here.”
“That can't be right.” She flicked me a scowl. “I've held it like this before and I missed the target every time.”
“Just bare with me.” I positioned her arm, with her elbow slightly bent. “Get your target in sight, then throw, rotating your wrist forward as you launch.”
She nodded, her gaze never leaving the hologram of the Lyross. There was hate in her eyes. As I guided her arm backward and forward, keeping my fingertips on the bend of her wrist, she tossed the star and it cut right into the Lyross's crotch.
Ouch. I cringed.
She laughed, and the sound was joyous. “I did it. I really did it!”
I found myself grinning. “See. It's all in the wrist.”
“I want to do it again.” Her amusement became dark, almost evil. “By myself, this time.”
Should I be concerned by that? I wondered, but handed her another star. She turned to the Lyross, lined up, and threw. Without my aid, the sharp metal sailed over its shoulder. “Damn it!”
“Your wrist was stiff. Try again. But relax, like before.”
We stayed there for more than an hour, throwing one star after another. We never even got to the gun. It proved to be a workout and by the end we were sweating. She'd thrown as if she were slaying her biggest nightmare. But she was hitting more than she missed now, so it was worth it.
When we paused to catch our breath, I finally asked about her tattoo. “Why a trident? And why on your face.” Most girls would have gotten a rose or a butterfly on their back or ankle.
A long while passed before she answered. “You heard the story of Poseidon?” she asked. We sat across from each other, leaning against the wall.
“He's god of the sea, right?”
She nodded.
And that's when the truth hit me. Poseidon. Underwater. Lyross.
“In myth Poseidon punishes someone with his trident. There's unimaginable power in it. So to me, the trident means vengeance. As to why it's on my face…” Her shoulders lifted in another of those deceptively casual shrugs. “I like to look at it. I like to be reminded that vengeance will one day be mine.”
My heart ached for her. To live with that kind of hate…it was one of the things that had driven me to Onadyn. I hoped she learned to control it before it controlled her. “I know what happened to you,” I said softly, “and I want you to know—”
“You don't know shit,” she growled, cutting me off.
“Yes, Emma, I do.” I peered over at her. “You were raped.”
Dark storm clouds seemed to envelop her, and she jumped to her feet. Our easy camaraderie was destroyed. “How do you know that? Who told you that?”
I stood, too. “Emma, it's okay.”
“It's okay? Did you just say that it's okay?”
“Yes.”
She sucked in a deep, shuddering gulp of air. “I did nothing wrong. But do you like your shame talked about, Phoenix? Do you like knowing that people know your darkest secret?” She didn't give me a chance to respond. “Who else knows?”
“Ev—everyone in our class,” I admitted.
She laughed, the sound completely devoid of humor. “Some backup team you guys are. You're supposed to build me up, not tear me down. And now I find out that you've been talking about me behind my back. Thanks a lot.” Her chin was trembling as she spun around and ran.
“Emma,” I called, but she didn't slow. I'd meant to help her, to express my sympathy and try to make her feel better. She was right, though. I hated it when people discussed my past.