Chapter 31: False Alarm
On the parade grounds of Eastern Academy, the colour guard was being put through its paces. A firm, resounding voice barked orders at the fourth-classmen while the upper year cadets tried not to gawk.
"Cable, left hand under the right, please. Bacall, eyes front. Keep the pace and ONE, two, THREE, four!"
Riza Hawkeye watched critically as her charges attempted the manoeuvre. They were almost able to keep up the more experienced cadets. She sighed. With only two weeks left before the annual competition in Central, Eastern looked like it would be making a poor showing.
One of the third-years let his pennant tilt, and the Second Class captain snapped out a reprimand. That was some solace: the colour guard was collectively sloppy, not just her first-years.
At any other Amestrian academy, Riza would never have had this responsibility. She was nowhere near popular enough to be elected, but Eastern, ever behind the times, still appointed its Captains of the Cadets. Master Sergeant Rosenflower had put her name forward, endorsed in the strongest possible terms. The rest of the faculty had quickly reached a consensus, for Riza had excellent standing among her instructors.
"Norton, pick up your feet!" she commanded. "ONE, two, ONE, two."
It had been a difficult week. The news of Ben Hughes' death had brought with it a certain peace, but there was sorrow, too. And today was the third day of the State Alchemist's exam: far away, Mr. Mustang was vying for the licence for which he – and Riza also – had been working for years. The suspense was terrible, and who could say when Riza would be freed of it? They had never discussed whether he would contact her to make known the result. Surely he would telephone the faculty office, or send her a wire. Surely, surely he would at the very least write to her with the news. Wouldn't he?
To make matters worse, she had started her courses – what her physiology textbook called "menstruation" – and her lower abdomen burned with cramps. The pain was worse than usual, and she was having a hard time ignoring it.
"That's enough!" snapped First Class Cadet Captain Bridgewater. "Colours dismissed."
As the weary cadets filed off to put away their flags, Bridgewater sidled up to Riza, eyes narrowed. "You alright, Hawkeye?" he asked.
Riza straightened her back. "Sir, yes, sir," she said crisply. It would never do to let on to the male cadets – and especially the upper-classmen – that she suffered from a weakness they did not. She was strong enough to control her own body, however much her womb might grumble.
"You looked pretty far away there for a second." Bridgewater was nineteen, and already he had a certain paternalistic streak that people said would make him a colonel, at least.
"I was reflecting on our chances in the competition," Riza said, dissembling only a little. Bridgewater chuckled ruefully.
"They'll be ready," he said. "I know it doesn't look like it right now, but we'll make sure they're ready. Isn't that right?"
"Yes, sir," Riza agreed politely. "Excuse me, sir..."
She took a cautious step away. When Bridgewater did not protest, Riza started back towards the heart of the campus, taking smaller steps that usual in an attempt to avoid jarring her sore abdomen.
She was proud to have been singled out as Cadet Captain, but it was awkward, too. That distinction placed her technically upon the same footing as Bridgewater and the other two, but they were still her seniors in class, and they were all quite a lot older than she. Riza erred on the side of caution and always addressed her cohorts with respect, but that placed a barrier between them and she did not have the same amicable relationship with them that they did with each other. No matter how she tried, she could not quite fit in.
"Hey, Riza!" Lucy Bacall came trotting up, having deposited her flag into the equipment shed. "You okay?"
Riza swallowed hard. Was her weakness apparent to the entire academy? "Fine," she said.
"On your rag, huh," Lucy said feelingly. "Tough break."
Riza flushed a little at the crude euphemism. "I'm quite all right," she said primly.
Bacall laughed, throwing a comradely arm around the younger girl's shoulders. "Sure you are!" she said. " 'Cept you need to lighten up a little. You're always so serious. You know what I think? I think you need to learn how to have fun."
This was probably true. Riza supposed that there had been a time when she had understood the concept of fun. At least, she knew she had had plenty of toys when she was little, and she could only surmise that she had used them. But the later years of her childhood had been bleak and grim, and her teen years were shaping up in much the same way. She had had neither time nor energy for "fun" in Central, and at the Academy, "fun" was not a necessary attribute of a soldier. Still, the others seemed able to enjoy themselves, and to take pleasure in silly and rather asinine things. If she ever wanted to fit in, Riza guessed that she would have to learn how to enjoy these things, too.
"Maybe I do," she admitted softly.
"I'll say you do," Lucy agreed. "You're much too serious."
"I'm a soldier," Riza said, defending herself quietly.
"And who says soldiers can't have fun?" protested the other girl. "We're a hard-swearing, hard-drinking lot."
This wasn't strictly true, at least not of the first-years who were confined to the Academy grounds five nights a week, and who were supervised too thoroughly to get away with much crude language. Still, Riza smiled.
"I'll try to be more ebullient," she said.
Lucy scrunched up her face until it looked like a prune. "Ugh. You can stop using words like that for a start," she said. "Makes you sound like an alchemist or something."
She almost made it sound like an insult. Riza didn't think that this was the right time to mention that the two men who had had the most impact upon her were alchemists...
"We'll start tonight," Lucy said decisively. "You can come out with Steph and me."
"Oh!" Riza protested. "I couldn't. I..."
"Oh, right," said the older girl apologetically. "You're on your rag."
Riza did not dare to ask why that was pertinent.
discidium
By the middle of the afternoon, Riza's discomfort had intensified to the point where she could scarcely sit upright. Sitting through the lecture was a torment. The moment class was done, she escaped to the bathroom, where she tried, unsuccessfully, to void her bowels. Gritting her teeth and reminding herself that she had lived through worse pain than this, she made her way to her next class.
There was drilling for the first-years at fourteen hundred hours. By now, she thought anxiously, Mr. Mustang was surely in the midst of his exam. She wondered if her father's alchemy was standing him in good stead. He had worked so hard to decode the secrets imprinted on her skin, and Riza knew that he had practiced diligently. Surely that would be enough. Or would it? She knew so little about alchemy. Was it possible that her father's methods were not of a standard sufficient to secure a State Alchemist's licence? Riza had always assumed that her father had not applied for such a position because he was a republican, rigidly anti-military. Was it possible that he had never applied because he knew he could not succeed?
Even if that were the case, Mr. Mustang had to triumph. He had to, because that was only just. His ambitions were so noble, so courageous and right. He wanted to make Amestris strong, to guarantee the rights and the safety of the people. He wanted to change things for the better.
Part of Riza wondered why he had to be a State Alchemist to do that. Couldn't he do good as a common soldier? He didn't need to be strong or powerful to make the world a better place... did he? She didn't believe that only the great could benefit humanity. She was going to be an ordinary soldier, and she intended to do. Of course, she meant to do good in conjunction with Mr. Mustang, so perhaps it was necessary after all for him to be a State Alchemist. Certainly she would never have dared to question him aloud. He was older than she was, and wiser. He knew best.
The waiting was torment.
"Hawkeye! Am I boring you?"
First Lieutenant Datson had his hands on his hips and his head tilted critically to one side. Riza felt a flush of shame tinting her cheekbones. She had not meant to let her mind wander.
"Sir, no, sir," she said crisply, straightening her back through a wave of discomfort.
"Well, then. Can we continue?"
"Certainly, sir." There were a couple of injudicious snickers that the lieutenant quelled with a cold glance.
The drill resumed, but Riza's lower back was aching, and the pain was nauseatingly strong. Abruptly, she broke formation.
"Hawkeye—" Datson snapped in annoyance. Then his expression changed. "Are you..."
"I'm sorry, sir," Riza stuttered, stumbling away from the other cadets. "I'm... I think I'm..."
She doubled over and vomited onto the ground.
discidium
"I'm okay, really," Riza protested as Steph and Lucy led her across the yard towards the Faculty building. "I'm just a little sick, that's all."
"Yeah, well, it's not normal to chunder on the parade grounds," Bacall said.
"Just let the medics check you over, and then you can go back to the barracks. You'll get the rest of the afternoon off," Stephanie reasoned.
"B-but I'm fine..." Riza protested.
The infirmary was actually two adjoining offices near the academic counselling department. Eastern Academy had no attending physician: any cadets in need of more than basic first aid were sent to the military hospital in the city. Triage was performed by any one of half-a-dozen officers and NCOs who had basic first-aid training.
There was no one in the outer office when the girls arrived. Steph helped Riza onto one of the cots, where the younger girl curled forward over her aching abdomen.
"I'll go and find someone to take a look at you," Lucy promised, backing out into the corridor.
"D'you want to lie down?" Steph asked gently.
Riza bit her lip and shook her head. The pain was getting worse, and she could hardly think now. It was much worse than any cramps she had ever experienced before, and if it weren't for the fact that it was a dull, deep pain and not a burning agony, she would have sworn it hurt worse than the abominable tattoo...
"Let's get off your jacket," suggested Stephanie.
Riza shook her head, but the older girl was already working one of her arms out of its blue wool sleeve. Riza was unable to resist or to protest: it was taking all of her self-control to keep from sobbing in anguish. She felt like she was going to explode: she could feel the pressure in her abdomen, cramping and spasming, and...
She exhaled enormously as a wave of relief rippled through her trunk. The pain was ebbing away as swiftly as if she had been given a shot of morphia.
"What's wrong?" Steph asked anxiously.
"Nothing," Riza breathed. "I'm feeling much better now." She uncurled, straightening up and smoothing the front of her shirt. "I'll be all right in a minute. I just... I feel a little dizzy, that's all. Maybe I should lie down."
Steph nodded, and plumped the pillow as Riza eased herself backwards. She smiled a little and brushed a tendril of blonde hair off of Riza's forehead. "Ooh, you're a little warm," she observed.
"It's probably just a flu bug," Riza said. Now that the pain had trickled away to a ghostly soreness, she was beginning to feel sleepy. "And I'm... you know..."
Steph chuckled empathetically. "That time of the month? Yeah, I kind of guessed," she said.
The clock above the door showed that twenty minutes passed before Lucy came back, but to Riza the time was a nebulous and indistinct thing. She felt cold now that the pain was gone, and she was so tired... Once she thought she drifted off, but Stephanie did not seem surprised when she murmured her thanks for the older girl's assistance, so she probably hadn't. At last, however, Bacall came around the corner with Captain Jenkins who taught Command Deportment and Advanced Tactics.
The captain stopped at the door, and Riza lolled her head to look at him. Ordinarily she would have scrambled to her feet to salute, but a peaceful lassez-faire was settling over her, and military protocol suddenly didn't seem important. She smiled dumbly.
"She doesn't look like she's in terrible pain," Jenkins said, eyeing Bacall suspiciously. "Are you girls yanking my chain?"
"No, sir!" Bacall cried, and for the first time since Riza had met her, the self-assured cadet sounded defensive and alarmed. "She was, just a few minutes ago. She could hardly walk."
"It's true, sir," Isaac said earnestly.
"Is it, Hawkley?" Jenkins asked. He didn't teach first year, adn he didn't know Riza the way her instructors did.
"Yes," Riza answered vaguely. "But it went away. I'm just tired."
"Hmph," Jenkins said, coming forward and giving her a cursory once-over with cold, fishy eyes. "Probably women's pains. You're in your courses, aren't you?"
Riza nodded.
"But sir, that doesn't explain why she puked," Bacall said.
"Stomach bug," said the officer dismissively. He let the back of his hand flop onto Riza's forehead. "She hasn't got a fever."
"But she did," Steph protested in bewilderment. "Not twenty minutes ago she was burning up, sir. Maybe she should see a doctor."
"I don't really think that's necessary," Jenkins said. "Just go to bed, take tomorrow off to recuperate, and keep a bucket on hand in case you get the urge to vomit again. Wouldn't you agree, Hawkley?"
Riza nodded, but she was feeling very muzzy, and she wasn't at all sure that she was thinking clearly. Still, a sort of foggy peace had descended over her. The pain was fading, along with the memory of whatever it was she had been fretting over all day. Some kind of test? It seemed very silly now...
"Come on, up you get," Jenkins said, taking hold of Riza's arm and hauling her to her feet. "And I'll thank the three of you to refrain from coming to me with any more false alarms. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," both Bacall and Isaac chorused, staring down at their boots.
"And you, Hawkins?"
"Uh-huh," Riza said, bobbing her head. The motion sent a chilling dizziness through her. In a moment of disorientation, she took two halting steps towards the door.
And then there was nothing.
discidium
The walls were tiled: appalling, green ceramic tiles held together by yellowing grout. Riza was not at all sure where she was or what she was doing here, but she hated those walls. The next thing she became aware of was a smell. It was a sharp, antiseptic scent that stung in her eyes and made her wrinkle her nose in distasted. Then there was a sound as someone set aside a sheaf of rustling papers and leaned forward.
"Hawkeye? You awake?"
Riza turned towards the voice, and her eyes – which had had no trouble at all taking in the more distant contours of the ugly, ugly walls – struggled to focus on the face hovering two feet from her own. It was Master Sergeant Rosenflower, looking pale and overtired. Riza tried to speak, but all that came out was an uncertain croaking noise.
"Take it easy," the old soldier advised, groping around a scratchy knitted blanket to find Riza's hand. "You gave us all a scare, Cadet."
Riza licked her lips with a puffy, dry tongue. "Wha..." she managed in an undignified exhalation.
"You're at the military hospital. In the recovery ward. I don't think I'm very welcome here, but I pulled rank." He grimaced sardonically, and Riza understood: as an NCO, he had very little rank to pull.
"Why..." Riza whispered hoarsely. Her voice was not functioning as it should. She wondered if this was what it felt like to be hung over. It wasn't a pleasant feeling at all.
"Your appendix burst. Why didn't you report it earlier? The doctor said you must've been in pain for sixteen hours at least."
He was angry at her. Riza closed her eyes, longing to slip back into the anaesthetic oblivion. "I thought – I thought – I'm sorry, sir."
"Sorry?" Rosenflower blustered. "You could have been killed! You would have been killed if those two friends of yours didn't have more sense than Jenkins."
Riza realized abruptly that her barracks commander wasn't angry at her, but at the captain who had dismissed her symptoms.
"I thought it was just cramps," she protested in a tiny voice.
The Master Sergeant's expression softened. "That's the trouble with women in uniform," he said sourly. "You all think you've got to be tough as nails and twice as invincible as the men."
"We do," Riza croaked.
"Oh, do you? And who told you that?"
"You did... sir..."
Rosenflower chuckled. "So I did. Well, you've certainly done it, too. Surgeon said that the pain from an appendix right before it bursts is as bad as a heart attack."
"But I'm okay?"
He nodded. "They didn't even have to take any of your bowel. You'll need to stay here for a few days, and you'll be off your feet for three weeks at least, but I'll enlist a few of your classmates to keep you abreast of your coursework. Knowing you, you won't let this setback keep you from advancing with your class."
Three weeks... "But sir," Riza protested. "The colours are due to compete in Central..."
"Without you," Rosenflower said firmly. "You've had a serious operation: marching is out of the question. So is travelling," he said sternly, before she could ask whether she would at least be allowed to accompany the team, even just to watch.
Riza's heart sank. She had been desperate to go to Central: competition aside, she wanted to visit Mrs. Oakley. And, of course, Mr. Mustang was in Central.
"Don't be so glum," Rosenflower said. "You're lucky to be alive, and you can always compete next year."
Riza nodded, but she was starting to feel fatigue washing over her – aided, no doubt, by the morphine dripping into her vein from a glass bottle hanging over the bed. She looked up at it, blinking very slowly.
"You get some sleep," Rosenflower said. "I've got to get back to campus: I've got a barracks full of rowdy women who are going to want to know what's happened to their sister-in-arms." He got to his feet and looked down at her from some incomprehensible distance. He patted her arm. "You're a brave lady, ma'am," he said bracingly. Then he was gone.
Riza tried to fight the fatigue, but she couldn't. And, she realized, she didn't really want to. But just as she slipped irrevocably towards slumber she realized what she had been worrying about.
Mr. Mustang.
The State Alchemist exam...
