Chapter Sixteen

Jennor

PART ONE OF TWO

I always felt strange now. Knots twisted and untangled in my gut. Shame burned through the back of my neck, my shoulders, and shins. I was always on my guard, always feeling like something just beyond my line of sight was going to get me.

I gazed over at the controls from my limited view on the ground. So easy just to touch the communications panel and dial up my father. Easy, and shameful and cowardly. Easy and yet, so impossible.

(Are you still cold?) Trainer asked, always looking out the view screen, always preventing me from my ultimate goal.

(Yes, sir,) I said absent-mindedly, knotting my fingers together in a futile attempt to evict and relocate the tightening, twisting sensation from my stomach.

(Give me one moment,) he said, logging out of the computer and retreating to his quarters. I didn't watch him as he walked by. I hadn't looked him in the eye in weeks.

He came back with a thin thermal blanket, genuflected before me, and wrapped it around my shoulders. Immediately I felt its perfect reflection retransmit all the heat dissipated from my body. I grasped its edges with my fingers, pulled it close. Trainer bowed down so he could gaze into my face.

(Better, no?) He asked. I nodded, looking away. (Come, Jennor, look to me,) he said, touching my face with his warm fingers. I wanted to pull away, but I obeyed the slight pressure they offered my cheekbone and looked into his eyes.

Cold midnight burned with Dracon fire. Supernovas eons before they collapse into black holes. Lightning in the west.

He gently stroked the skin on my cheek, though his grip was not weak. I'd bargained this away. It wasn't painful. And though it had been happening for so long, it wasn't comfortable, either. I could imagine much more painful forms of torture, but somehow, it was worse than any of those things.

(I will bring happiness to those eyes,) he vowed. (We will fight in grand battles, Jennor, and we will win. Yeerks will bow before our awesome power. You will stand, conqueror of them all.)

I attempted a smile. Maybe then he'd leave me alone.

It had been four more years. I was nearly a decade old. Almost all of that time had been devoted to space travel. We'd stopped at outposts occasionally, getting news from Andalites who had direct access to the intelligence grid. Trainer censored much of it from me. We'd run into a couple of battles, but they were nothing spectacular. Rogue Bug Fighters and Andalite fighters accidentally brushing up against each other's scanning radii. Obligated by mutual hate, we engaged. These were not battles I actually participated in. Trainer told me to go to my quarters while he took care of flying the ship and managing weapons. I asked if he would teach me to fly and shoot. It was clear he was at least proficient, if not eloquent, in the language of space battle. He told me I was not yet old enough.

Not old enough to learn, fight, or live, it seemed. Any time we met any other Andalites, I morphed into Cristex. I'd spent enough time in his form to accommodate myself with it completely. I always asked Trainer if I looked older, if I'd spent enough time as the male cadet to physically age. Trainer laughed at my concerns. I asked when it would be all right for me to meet other Andalites as myself. Trainer always said, (A few more years,) but I didn't think he meant it. I think he was more ashamed of the fact I was a female than the fact I was still a child. That was something I could not mature away.

There wasn't much to do on the ship. Every morning, I reviewed tail fighting forms and did what little exercise I could in the tiny space. I couldn't come to terms with my claustrophobia. I spent much of my time with eyes closed, imagining I was home, but sometimes panic would overtake me and Trainer would have me sedated.

Afternoons were less structured. I spent most of them reading. This was the only contact with the ship's controls I was allowed. The Academy of Sciences and the Arts offered many lessons through the intelligence grid. I downloaded as many new lessons as I could whenever we reached an outpost. I read literature, learned math and astronomical physics, spent some time studying military strategy, and much reveling in what Trainer called "mindless propaganda." Trainer told me that I'd never catch up to my peers, that thinking for myself was a waste of energy, that I was designed for another purpose. I didn't want to catch up. I just wanted a distraction from the limited space in the ship, from my own fear and unworthiness, from…other things. I distracted myself other ways, too: I downloaded children's games, a holographic serial called "Pollirim and the magical estreen" that I quite enjoyed, and of course, every back issue of The Warrior Chronicles that had been released since our last contact.

Distracting myself, however, was only one of my goals.

I had an ulterior motive at the ship's controls. It had taken years, but I had finally accepted that every excuse Trainer gave me for not allowing me to call my father was a deflection. He never intended me to touch the controls of the ship. I would never learn to fly or shoot, I would never talk to anyone other than him. At least not while he was aware.

I traded the stalk eye always reserved for me with one always reserved for him. He knew I stared, but he did not seem to mind. When I smiled, he smiled. It did not take much to defeat his suspicions.

Unlike me, he could not see my true intentions.

I watched him carefully, obsessively as I learned. He trained me unwittingly in what buttons to push to communicate. I learned to fly the ship and use every device on the panel through simple voyeurism. I had seen the first six digits of his thirteen-digit password, verified them, and memorized them. I'd gathered the rest, of course, though two of the digits were partially blocked from view by his body. After enough careful observation, I could deduce what they were.

Unfortunately, the password was only one component of gaining access to the communications panel. A voice print, retina scan, and memory scan were all required as well. I'd acquire him for the retina scan. The voice print would take work, but I could fake it. The memory scan required different preparation entirely.

Fortunately, convincing Trainer to engage in this preparation was not difficult. Since accessing his memory of my near death, I touched his cheek on a regular basis. This, in itself, wasn't so terrible. I'd done it with Terenia and felt no shame or disgust about it then. But then again, Terenia hadn't insisted on touching me in return, hadn't withheld herself if I didn't offer something to compensate. And when Terenia did touch me, it wasn't with that strange, slimy fascination, that reigned-in excitement that threatened to overtake him…He wasn't just touching me. He was caressing me. When I pressed my cold hands to his temples, I pretended to enjoy it like he did. I had an unachieved goal in mind. Despite my discomfort, it was necessary. I needed to keep telling myself this.

His memories, for the most part, were unlike Terenia's. Terenia seemed to view everything as it was—she did not judge the things that happened to her. Maxims helped her to cope with this; often she said things to me like "life sucks, then you die" or "the only certain things are death and taxes." Trainer, conversely, viewed things as they could be. Each memory was shaded with what had been done wrong, what could have been done better, what could still be fixed. He was self-loathing and totally ambitious. Everything that was not perfect was a failure upon which he worked to improve. I was his latest undertaking.

Of course, his failures were not only professional. Much of his thought was devoted to a girl he knew, a few years younger than him. He seemed to love her. She seemed familiar.

He asked me one day what I thought of her.

(She is beautiful,) I said diplomatically.

He seemed troubled by my answer. His eyes were worried. (Yes, she is,) he responded softly. (She is a lot like you.)

I shrugged. It made sense that he fixated on people with similar traits.

In order to accelerate the process of uncovering the memories he used as his combination, I subtly reminded him of my desire to speak to my father during these intimacies. He laughed me off, but sometimes a quick succession of memories resembling a combination emerged—brother suns, Garibah, Blade Ship, tail-blade shaped mountain—but then he'd stop. Distract himself, jerk away. I never seemed to get far enough.

This was the work I did as we traveled.

One week later, Trainer informed me that he was sick of Zero Space and had discovered a new system that required our help. When we finally reached our second destination, I didn't want to watch our descent to whatever planet or moon he'd chosen to condemn us to. I was losing enthusiasm for fighting.

When I glanced at the expansive asteroid below us, my breath was taken away.

From far away it appeared uninhabited. A broad, flat, gray rock that, miniaturized, would be a perfect skipping stone. There were a greater-than-average number of armed sentry ships and heavy artillery drones in orbit, but other than that, it was barren. I was about to ask why they were there when we penetrated the deflector shield, a sort of static-snow disruption on the viewscreens and mild turbulence that vibrated beneath my hooves.

Very abruptly, a vast community was evident before us.

Even more populated than the planetary system we'd briefly visited, the sparkling, gray asteroid was covered with Andalite life. The flat surface seemed to be divided into thirds. The first was largest and most obvious. Directly in the middle, like a vibrant, shielded heart, was a large ecodome covering a perfectly manicured slice of the homeworld that made my eyes misty. I craved moist grass. I hated drinking out of a bucket. A giant shipyard covered the easternmost portion of the rock, filled with parked fighters. Open transports whizzed down the rows and up the columns in makeshift traffic routes, automated so they crossed in front of each other with inches to spare, a giant, mechanized loom weaving hover trails.

The closer we advanced, the more details emerged, lovely and desirable. Young men bucked around, playing with each other, tapping their tail blades together in jest. Groups of high-ranking military officials trotted around seriously, discussing grave hypotheticals. Despite the size of the asteroid, gravity seemed normal, but I didn't want to waste the precious few seconds of this view searching for the field generator. The final third of the asteroid consisted of rows and rows of army scoops, camouflaged in shades of gray and silver, lining the dusty surface in slightly curved patterns to account for the oblong shape of the asteroid. Andalites milled and ambled and strutted normally. Relaxed. No one wore oxygen masks. There was air. I was disturbed by how happy that made me.

Trainer gained landing clearance and parked in the lot, kicking clouds of dust into the air. A young aristh, stepping out of a transport, met us once we disembarked. I morphed to Cristex, hating the blindness it caused me.

(Welcome to the Anati system,) the cadet said boredly, eyeing Trainer and I. (Do you have any special training that could be of use here?)

(No,) Trainer said. (Just combat.)

(Very well. Report to the acquisitions tent. You're in luck, we're attacking Inner Asteroid 42 tomorrow.)

Trainer and I walked across the dusty landscape, hooves closed and diaphragms tight. The air was thin and wispy and prickly with dust. We passed some Andalites on the way, realizing that they wore force field medical masks over their nostrils which kept all of the microscopic particles out of their lungs. Trainer put a hand on my shoulder. I looked up at him, seeing that one of his hands was over his nose, a primitive filter that would work for the time being. He nodded seriously to me, indicating that I should do the same.

Once we arrived at the acquisitions tent, I felt like a chair or delivery that was constantly in the way. Andalites brushed past Trainer and me, who would move to accommodate them, only to block the path of someone else. Finally shuffling me into a corner, Trainer signed the volunteer papers and we made our way to our new scoop.

The scoops were broad and flat and deep, unlike my scoop on Andal. Most of our scoop at home was exposed to the suns, so the dense, moist grass and flowers could grow, and the inside of the scoop was the dark part, covered with leather flooring, containing Father's few possessions. Here, it was like a large, flat-bottomed bowl covered by a shallowly pitched canvas. The entrance was like a grinning mouth, covered by an unfurled sheet. Surprisingly and frighteningly primitive. Trainer pulled back the sheet and stepped inside.

The inside was unfurnished, except for a long, hovering table that split the circle in half. A force field projector sat on top of the table, suspending the canvass in the air. Trainer claimed the side opposite of the entrance. I sighed, testing the ground with my hooves. Flat. Dense. The dust must have been treated with some chemical or process that kept it compacted. I felt my shins wobble. I was already hungry, and we'd departed our ship less than twenty minutes before.

We had little time to unpack and get settled. Fortunately, neither of us had much besides what we were wearing—I was allowed to wear my armed holster all the time now—but soon, a young Prince came to our tent and gave us our assignment for the battle the next day.

(Why are you a little girl?) He asked me.

(He sleeps better that way. It's his sister,) Trainer explained, grimacing at himself. The Prince did not look totally convinced, but didn't push the matter.

I didn't sleep very well that night at all.

We hadn't met many people, and we hadn't seen much of the asteroid, but the magnitude of what we were about to do weighed heavily on my mind. The entire field was at stake. Trainer explained it to me briefly—the field separated a full planet bearing a sentient, infestable race occupied by Andalite force, and a barren planet that served as the Yeerks' local base. If they took the asteroid field, they could mount an attack on the inhabited planet. If the Andalites took the field, the race was safe.

(What does the species look like?) I asked, exfoliating my tail blade with a buffing tool.

(Why does that matter?)

I paused. (I don't know,) I sighed quickly in surrender.

Trainer huffed and looked out of the entrance of the scoop. He liked to keep the sheet furled, so anyone who wanted to visit didn't feel unwelcome. Piles and wriggling snakes of dust had already migrated inside. That also meant I had to stay hidden, always clinging to the edge of the scoop.

(No one knows what they look like, Jennor.)

(Why not?)

(They send automated messages every two days. Communiqués, updates, even some literature and music, when they're feeling generous. They are a strictly religious species, and part of their beliefs keep them from inviting the "impure" onto the surface of their planet. At first, we thought that only meant the Yeerks, but it turns out they don't like any extra-terrestrial visitors. Contaminants. Plagues. They're a deeply paranoid race, apparently with very poor auto-immune systems.)

I stared at him sadly, thinking for a moment. (How can we even be sure they're down there at all?)

Trainer looked shocked for a moment, then mildly pleased. (We can't. Scans indicate that there is an industrialized civilization on the planet, and the scans are incredibly precise and specific. We can see what percentages of what compounds they mine from their planet and what method they use to do so, what nutrition is evident in the crops that they harvest, what fertilizers they use in their irrigation. Pollution in the atmosphere, infant mortality rates, migration patterns. The only proof intelligence officials have that we're actually saving anybody is that the scans are too immense to fake.)

(So this could all be a very well thought-out, detailed deception?)

Trainer was a proud Andalite who did not enjoy acknowledging the potential weaknesses of his race, but he maintained a healthy level of realism and doubt.

(I advise you not to think about it. Follow your orders and stay alive. Those are your two objectives here, no?)

Our mission was to protect a purely hypothetical race by ensuring the security of a bunch of floating rocks.

Like the last planet, most of the combat was automated, slow, and remote. A great majority of the asteroids were already claimed, each covered with Dracon Cannons or Ionic Dispersion Blasters and their automatic targeting systems, each taking any possible opportunity to destroy passing transports or shoot at targets that came within range as the field slowly revolved. A large computer buried deep underground somewhere on the base asteroid calculated what unclaimed asteroids were currently in range of the Yeerk's weapons, which routes would be safest to take transports through, which asteroids would be possible to target. Claiming the remaining asteroids was meant to be stealth work. Diversions, sneak attacks, espionage. Of course, the Yeerks had a similar hidden targeting computer and similar tactics, and we always ended up secretly claiming the same asteroids at the same time.

That is what required the presence of ground soldiers. These micro-skirmishes, these simultaneously accidental and presupposed sneak attacks would be performed by Trainer and me.

There wasn't exactly a sunrise to tell us what time to wake up—the asteroids were small enough that light filtered and reflected so it was always daytime. Climate control machines maintained the temperature at 55 degrees Fahrenheit, the relative humidity at 16%, and regulated the air composition so it mimicked Andal's. Day and night were obsolete distinctions. I blamed most of my insomnia on that. Trainer touched my shoulder and brushed my face and we made our way down to get organized.

I'd been an aristh for nearly six years now. Though I should have overcome any nerves by this point, I felt completely obliterated by fear. I had no war experience. Most of the period of my service had been in transit, floating around in space, unguided by rule or order, hidden from true combat. The briefest moment I had spent with an actual mission had ended catastrophically. How could I do this?

The only thing I could think to do was look to Trainer for guidance. He'd been in battles before, but his advice was incomprehensible.

(The dark-eyed monster will grab you tight, Jennor. If you can't feel when he grabs you, then he'll never let go.)

Though the time before a life-changing event feels limitless, it never is, and soon it was time to march to the rendezvous point.