The Prince and the Punk [EDITING]

Chapter 22

Janice

The second half of Space Corps training is way more combat-oriented. Before, we did strength training, basic drills, agility, Zinnan history—we're not allowed to refer to them as martians—but now, we've stepped up to rifle training, how to repair a ruptured spacesuit, First Aid: Moon Edition, and a million wartime rules that probably aren't relevant since the Geneva Convention happened on Earth.

Apparently, wounds are much more fatal on the moon, since a ruptured spacesuit has disastrous results. When someone is shot, they're supposed to repair their suit with a special adhesive patch; otherwise, they'd suffocate before their wound could kill them. Since patching suits takes priority over treating wounds, a lot of people experience blood loss or infection. Others just succumb to the moon's lack of atmosphere.

Nearly every day, we're reminded that we're at a disadvantage. Zinnan troops seem to be superior in every way—better medicine, thicker skin, more powerful guns, and so on.

As if it'll help us stand a chance against them, we spend ridiculous amounts of time working on our marksmanship. We're at the shooting range so often that I'm surprised we don't all have tinnitus. Every day, right before lunch and right before dinner, we spend an hour firing guns.

We still go for those freezing morning jogs, though the distance has gotten significantly longer, so now they take twice as long. The weather is also getting worse, and as the temperature dips lower and the snow piles higher, the runs become even more miserable. Is it really that hard to build an indoor track?

The bullying incidents are also intensifying, both in frequency and severity. At this point, it can hardly be called bullying. The kicks and name-calling were one thing; this is another.

On Thursday, we're rifle training as always, and my shot is showing zero improvement. I try to plant my feet the way they told me to, and I aim straight for the center of the cardboard alien that is my target, but I just barely catch it in the arm.

Suddenly a bullet whizzes past my face, lodging itself in the wall next to me. The shooter is either a perfect shot or a bad one, because the bullet missed me by maybe half an inch.

I jump back, whipping my head around to catch a glimpse of whoever did it.

Slater seems to already know, because he's snatching a gun from a black-haired girl and dragging her out of the shooting range by her arm. He stops and hands the gun to an older sergeant, murmuring something to him as the girl squirms in his grasp. Finally he pulls her out of the room, letting the door slam behind them. The sound echoes through the room, and I realize everyone has stopped shooting to watch.

"The range is closed!" The older sergeant barks. "Go to dinner!"

Everyone racks their guns and starts to file out.

"Elliot!" he calls, motioning to me with a finger. When everyone leaves, he asks, Are you familiar with a Francine Herman?"

"By name, sir, but we've never met," I reply.

"You've done nothing to antagonize her?" he probes.

"No, sir. Like I said, we've never met."

"Has she done anything to antagonize you?"

I hesitate. "Um, possibly. Sir."

"Mm-hm. Do you believe she would intentionally shoot at you?"

Again, I hesitate. Getting her in trouble could mean retaliation from her brother. But what the hell—how much worse could it get? I've already been shot at.

"Yes, sir."

He nods. "You may go."

At dinner, I feel eyes on me again, but now most of them are curious. Which I guess is better than full of murderous intent.

That night, I catch Slater in the hallway.

"Are you okay?" he asks before I can say anything.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," I dismiss. "Was it Francine Herman? Today at the range?"

He nods. "Yeah."

"Fuck," I sigh. "I really thought she was done with me. I mean, how long can you hold a grudge against someone you've never met?"

"Well, think about it. She's probably spent her whole life hating the monarchy. Her brother's the same way—I'd bet runs in the family. They've devoted huge amounts of time and energy to hating something they can never really affect. And then here you come—someone the prince has made it clear he cares for, someone who spent time hanging out at balls with royalty, someone televised and publicized. They see you, they associate you with the monarchy, and they know they can hurt you. Francine knows can't fire a shot at the prince, but she can do anything to you."

A pause.

"Goddamn, Slater, why are you wasting your time in the military? You should be a shrink," I joke. His psychoanalysis frighteningly spot-on.

"But," he continues, "that's just a reason for her actions; it doesn't excuse them. And it won't stop her from getting punished."

"Uh, yeah, that's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about. Can you maybe... hold off on that?"

"No," he replies immediately.

"It's not a big deal—she didn't hit me," I protest.

"It doesn't matter! She could have."

"I know. But if she gets in trouble because of me, it's gonna give her a real reason to be pissed, and she might sic her brother on me—or just step up what she already does."

"She's not getting in trouble because of you," he says in exasperation. "She's getting in trouble because she fired at a fellow soldier. I saw it, Sergeant Baker saw it, a room full of people saw it. It doesn't matter who you are and it doesn't matter who she is—she could have killed you. You're not ratting her out. She's being held responsible for what she chose to do."

He pauses to let it sink in, and I stop to wonder if Francine Herman will see things the same way.

"Still." I look up at him, shaking my head. "She or her brother—one of them is gonna want to get back at me."

"Well, even if they try, you should already know I'm not gonna let them get to you."

My gaze is drawn to the side by nothing in particular. There's nothing to look at except a plaque on the blank white wall, and no reason for me to look there except that I suddenly find myself unable to meet Slater's eyes. There's something in his tone that makes me think Danny was right. Maybe it was the way he lowered his voice as he softened it, like he couldn't decide if he wanted me to hear; or the way he spoke like he wanted me to believe every word.

"What?" he asks.

Briefly, I internally debate how I should reply, but I'm saved by the bell.

"Hey! Who is that?" booms a drill sergeant I don't recognize.

"Just me," Slater says, turning around and straightening his posture so the other sergeant can see him. "I wanted to talk to Elliot about the events at the range today."

The sergeant nods. "I heard about that. Get her to bed, though. It's past lights out."

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I've been trying to ask questions at the ends of chapters and I'm out of non-lame book-related ones so let's do this: What's your favorite color? Mine's black. 🖤