The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) - By Aidan Harte Page 0,1
severe punishment, marking engineers with the stamp of civilian incompetence. The first lesson of Concord’s assembly line was that its blades were always thirsty; his generation needed only to examine their parents to see the savage surgery the engines could inflict.
They were soon in the highest part of Old Town, where the little wooden houses of civilians were replaced by tall stone buildings with taller stacks belching smoke and steam, all surrounding the base of Monte Nero, the rock upon which Bernoulli had planted his great triple-domed cathedral.
Flaccus stopped and looked down at the boy. ‘What’s your game?’ he asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. ‘Most Old Towners would kill to join the Guild. There’s third-year Cadets who couldn’t get to page four of the al-Buni, but I believe you found it easy. You really don’t want to be an engineer?’
‘I’d prefer to be free.’
Flaccus chuckled heartily at this and relaxed. ‘Not even the Apprentices are free, boy. Only the dead. But let me make this clear: if you give less than your best from here on, then I’ll make sure you get what you wish for.’
He left Torbidda in a pen with a dozen other children – despite what Flaccus had said, none of them looked happier than Torbidda about being selected.
As Torbidda took his place in the queue, the tall boy in front turned around to examine him. ‘Hello,’ he said cheerily. ‘How did you do in your al-Buni? Bloody hard, wasn’t it?’ His simple, well-cut clothes spoke of wealth as eloquently as his New City accent. His dark complexion was not uncommon amongst the aristocracy; most likely one of his ancestors had been in Oltremare long enough to take a native wife – many Crusaders had returned with their bloodline spiced with some of that Ebionite warrior prowess.
When Torbidda kept silent, his eyes fixed on the ground, the boy shrugged and turned back.
Torbidda looked up slowly and studied the back of the boy’s head. Then he examined the tall girl holding a clipboard at the head of the queue. A weeping blond boy entered the pen and she directed him to wait behind Torbidda. She was older than the other children, perhaps ten or eleven, and had the composure of an adult. She wore a Cadet’s white gown, with its distinctive wide neck and shapeless cut. Her hair was dark like his mother’s, but very short, almost patchy. She dealt with the inductees with a brusque confidence he found impressive.
After some time Flaccus reappeared and pushed another boy, heavyset and scruffy, into the pen, then walked swiftly back towards the examination desks. This new boy stared furiously after the Grand Selector, as if debating whether to hurl an insult or a stone, before finally looking around at the girl, who pointed to the end of the queue. He walked with the lumbering shuffle of a pit-dog, and Torbidda realised he was a real city boy, the type who made the New City stairwells so dangerous; he probably ran along the partition walls and dropped down on unsuspecting ferrymen. He was probably an orphan who’d volunteered himself.
The city boy looked disdainfully at the sniffling blond child and barked, ‘Move!’ When the blond boy stood aside, he pushed ahead of Torbidda, growling, ‘You too.’
The Cadet calmly set down her clipboard and walked over to them. The city boy tensed, but she sounded quite relaxed as she spoke. ‘This will take all day unless everyone waits their turn.’
‘I don’t take orders—’ he started defiantly, but she stepped forward, planted one leg behind his and pushed his shoulders, hard. The boy went onto his back.
Before he could rise, her foot was on his neck. ‘You’ve all year to prove how hard you are – all you have to do today is wait in line. Do yourself a kindness.’
Without waiting for assent she released him and returned to her station. The city boy silently took his place at the end of the queue.
‘Best give second-years a wide berth,’ said the tall boy in front, as if Torbidda had asked his advice. His expression was sympathetic. ‘Sad about leaving your family?’
Torbidda saw he wasn’t going to give up. ‘Not really.’
The tall boy looked surprised, then said, ‘Yes, quite right, we’ll see them in a year. What’s to be scared about? Plenty of children have been through it all before.’
Torbidda eyed his inquisitor with suspicion. ‘So what happens next?’
‘We’ll get our numbers soon. We’re supposed to forget names – mine’s Leto, by the way.’ He lowered