Allies

Allies Read Free

Book: Allies Read Free
Author: S. J. Kincaid
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soaking in sunlight. She’d never felt anything like it.
    “You’re so good at this for the first day,” Marrion told her.
    Wyatt fumbled for the right reply, her brain racing. She might feel sensations of acceptance, but after a lifetime of being isolated, she didn’t know the gestures, the words. “It’s really easy.”
    “Speak for yourself,” Marrion said with a laugh. “I’ve been here four months and it’s like hieroglyphics.”
    “Maybe I’m just smarter than you,” Wyatt suggested.
    It had been the wrong thing to say. Wyatt only meant to be helpful, to assure Marrion there might be a reason for her failure to understand Programming, but the other girl’s toothy smile sprang shut like a trap, and that was the last time they talked civilly. Marrion complained about Wyatt going to sleep too early, about Wyatt opening the curtain when she wanted it down, about everything, until it all came to a head and Marrion stormed out, then requested a bunk reassignment. She received it.
    Every morning meal formation, breakfast where they had assigned seating, Wyatt found herself alone at one end of the table, all the other girls in her level and division clustered at the other end. It felt like she’d been placed in quarantine.
    Matters grew worse a few weeks later, when a new plebe, Vikram Ashwan, joined her Applied Simulations group. He was a good-looking kid with a high forehead over a long, broad nose, and full, mobile lips. His eyebrows formed twin bold slants over close-set eyes sparkling with humor. At first, he seemed nice enough, with such a huge grin, she could see his gums. Then he discovered that certain things in the training simulation—like alcohol—modified their perception of the sim just like the substances would in real life. Wyatt considered it a test: the military wanted to see if they were responsible enough not to abuse their opportunities. But like a lot of idiots who were new plebes, Vikram was not at all responsible. He downed a bottle of whiskey during a training simulation of the First Battle of Bull Run.
    “I am drunk,” Vikram declared, stunned. “I am actually drunk.”
    Wyatt shifted his arm irritably over her shoulder. She and another plebe, Stephen Beamer, were hauling the inebriated Indian boy out of the line of fire. He wasn’t going to be any use in battle, and was likely to just get in the way.
    “I think I’m going to get impaled by a bayonet after this,” Stephen told Wyatt thoughtfully.
    She eyed him warily, because the redheaded boy confused her immensely. He somehow managed to die in most every simulation. “Why?”
    “Never done death by bayonet.”
    He was very strange. Wyatt shook it off and helped ease Vikram down. He caught her arm, his eyes unfocused. She was alarmed for a moment as he groped her forearm clumsily, but he just rolled up her sleeve, mesmerized. “Are your hands like this in real life?”
    “Like what?” She snatched her arm out of his grip.
    “They could envelop whole planets,” Vikram slurred.
    Stephen began giggling. “You are so wasted.”
    Wyatt flushed and examined her hands. She’d shot up in height the first week at the Spire when the neural processor caused her hGH to spike. She’d grown to five foot nine, and her hands and feet had grown, too. It had never occurred to her before to be embarrassed.
    “They’re giantess hands,” Vikram marveled.
    “No, they’re not,” Wyatt cried.
    “Man hands,” Vikram amended giddily.
    Wyatt glared at him. “Shut up!”
    But he kept giggling drunkenly, so she shoved him, hard, sending him crashing back to the ground. Vikram kept laughing where he’d fallen, murmuring about, “Can’t get up . . . got battered by Man Hands. . .”
    “Hey, don’t manhandle him,” Stephen told her, then realized what he’d said and began laughing.
    Vikram began laughing harder. “Manhandling!”
    “I hate you both!” Wyatt cried, and left to fight the Yankees. With utter dismay, she

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