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  The Daughter of Rebellion

  Book 1

  J Lynn Hicks

  The Speculative Spinner

  Copyright © 2020 J Lynn Hicks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

  ISBN: 9798647835482

  Front cover image by Fantasy & Coffee Design.

  jlynnhicks.com

  thespeculativespinner.com

  To my Loyals

  Chapter 1

  Jett is pure adrenaline. Even with a shackle on her right ankle, she can’t stand still, shifting weight from one foot to the other. She closes her eyes and tries to focus, but the noise of the crowd overwhelms her, and the thought of wearing servile gray shatters any attempt to be calm. She’s trained too hard to become a mindless slave to the Balvans.

  As the trainees’ chants echo through the grand stadium, Jett opens her eyes in time to see the packagers light up—the first is one hundred meters ahead. Seconds ago, it was a simple circle in the dust, but now it is a small dome with a strobing purple light. She stares at it, willing it to give away the secrets of the warrior tasks, what she must do to win. It reveals nothing.

  On the stadium floor, the red-robed Elders take their places. Jett isn’t behind them in the stands like years past, so now she sees them closely, and their blank faces are unimpressed. Their expressions reveal their feelings about the race; their presence is an obligation, not an honor. For now, she is indifferent to them. They are not her focus.

  Above the Elders sits the mass of trainees who have waited since dawn—last year, Jett was one of them. They stomp on the metal bleachers and yell at the tops of their lungs. It’s their one time of the year to make noise, and they don’t squander it.

  A small shock tingles through Jett’s arm as her wristband lights and she looks at the display. 0/50. The first number will be her place in the race, and the second shows how many contestants remain. She chews on her bottom lip as she considers the possible outcomes of today. Will she be one of the five warriors from her section, chosen to defend Balva from the North Colony? Or will they condemn her as one of the forty-five mindless servile, to spend the rest of her days in servitude?

  Jett knows her odds, and they aren’t great. She consistently ranks in the middle of the pack. Of all their competitions, she’s placed in the top five twice, and both times, she was in the final slot. She must perform just as well or better, today. Her entire future depends on this race. Winning may be implausible, but it’s not impossible.

  Jett straightens her posture and lifts her chin. Though her instructor made it clear that no one expects Jett to win—handicapping her with self-doubt—she still has hope. Pressing her lips together, she shakes her arms, then stretches them above her head. She won’t be servile.

  Puffing out her cheeks and exhaling, she pushes back against the clamor, trying to find peace. She just needs to find the concentration to make it happen.

  Focus.

  As the giant screens light up on either side of the stadium, the crowd falls hushed. The cameras scan over the fifty contestants. Jett watches them get into position. With their arms out, they wait for the horn’s blast. These people have been her classmates for the last fifteen years, yet they are names and faces only. Strangers. There has been no time for camaraderie, just competition. Each person independent of the other.

  Still, she takes a deep breath. Ninety percent of the competitors will be empty in a few hours. She will forget them one way or the other, and they will forget her too. Rebalancing herself on the starting block, Jett rubs her free ankle against her shackled right leg and takes her stance; it’s almost time.

  The camera stops on a girl name Amika, who smiles despite how nervous she must be. Jett feels the corners of her mouth turn up in response, before the camera swings across to the determined faces of her training group.

  Another lens hones in on the trainees in the stands. Red-faced from yelling, they lash out their arms as they spill all their pent anger on the excitement of the race. As the camera scans the faces, it ends on a guard, looking unusually smug.

  When the large screen cuts to another camera in the stadium, it shows two faces. One is a balding man in a red jacket—Jett doesn’t recognize him—and the other is a woman with spiked red hair. It’s Trainer Feisor, her warrior instructor. The man points to the screen to alert Trainer Feisor to the camera. She shoots the balding man an intense look and turns away as if they hadn’t just been in the middle of a conversation.

  Jett can’t help but wonder what the subject was. In her experience, all she’d seen Trainer Feisor do is yell and blow her whistle. She’d love an inside look into what a civilized conversation with her would be, though the thought somewhat rattles her; a one on one with her instructor would be too intense.

  Trainer Feisor glares toward the camera with a stare as jarring as her flame-red hair. Jett feels like her instructor is looking directly at her, but she isn’t afraid anymore. This is the last time she’ll meet that glare, win or lose.

  Jett has one advantage, though. She is the fastest of all the competitors. If the practice runs were any indication, the two sprints will be the easy part. As soon as the shackle releases, she needs to get a head start. Getting ahead there should give her enough time to overcome the three tasks between.

  The section’s logo, an image of two crossed swords over an eye, appears on the screen, and a series of gongs reverberate through the air: seven o’clock. The initial feedback squawk of the speakers overpowers the noise of the crowd, then a female speaks:

  “Welcome to Section C-3’s Balvan Warrior Race! Let’s give a warm welcome to our participants.”

  Jett thought the crowd was loud before, but now the noise bounces off the stadium walls, threatening to tear the place down. She does her best to shut it out. She doesn’t want to miss the starting horn. Her eyes are on the packager as she listens.

  “Participants, you have reached the final phase of training. If you don’t make it to the red packager, the remainder of your lifetime will be spent in domestic service to Balva. You will give up the rest of your working years to pay for your time in warrior training. National service is an honored Balvan tradition.”

  The sound swells again as the crowd boos.

  A loud honk comes from the upper level. Jett jolts, almost losing her balance. It’s not the sound of the starting horn. She looks up at the giant screen for answers and sees one of her competitors, Daxus, has fallen. He must have tried to run. Scrambling to his feet, he can’t put his full weight on his shackled leg. No one expects him to win, but a leg injury takes away any chance he had. His shoulders slump in defeat, and she can see his pained expression. He’s worked hard to get here. None of them deserve such a fate.

  A loud cheer comes over the loudspeaker, and the camera swings to a boy in his mid-teens. The guard, who now holds the horn, drags him down the stairwell and to an exit just above the Elders. They vanish beyond thick doors. And just like that, the boy is gone. This one impulse will cost him his training, probably more.

  Left to imagine his punishment, the crowd settles down. Jett is more concerned about Daxus.

  “The top five winners from this section will have the honor of defending Balva in the land war against the North Colony. Contestants, you have buil
t muscle, stamina, and speed to complete the tasks ahead. Only the finest warriors will pass through the final packager.

  “Prepare the timer for the final horn.”

  Lights in her periphery warn Jett of the coming countdown. They flash on both sides. She steadies her feet, her breathing, and then her heartbeat. The lights explode in short staccato bursts, flooding the area with their brightness, and as they do, she hears the first number called.

  “Ten.” The screen blacks out for a moment before flashing a message: “RESIST.” That’s new.

  “Nine.” The Balvan logo returns to the screen, and the Elders rise and scramble around. Something isn’t right.

  “Eight.” A loud boom rips through the Elder section to Jett’s right, stealing her attention. A bloom of dust and debris spreads into the air.

  “Seven.” Screams pierce through the clamor.

  “Six.” They’re still counting. Why are they not stopping? Jett balances herself again, preparing to run.

  “Five.” The numbers keep coming as smoke drifts onto the course between the competitors and the purple packager.

  “Four.” She keeps her head straight, focusing on her goal before it disappears beneath the cloud.

  “Three.” All hope of containing her composure evaporates. Her heart flutters, and her mind races. Her legs are weak, but she wills herself upright.

  “Two.” The packager fades away behind the haze—as does the light.

  “One.”

  Chapter 2

  The horn blares, and the final flash of light pierces through her as the shackle releases. Jett dashes forward to take the lead early on. Her feet drum the ground in a steady rhythm.

  Dust and debris burn her eyes, but she’s afraid to close them. She must be close to where the explosion occurred, but she doesn’t turn her head. Her focus is on the direction where she last saw the packager. The smoke overtakes her, and she can’t see anything. It feels like she’s got the lead, though she senses a few competitors behind her.

  The noise swells even louder with the sound of disapproval. Jett presumes their focus is on what they can see of the race and not the smoke or the injured Elders. One competitor has probably knocked another down. Glancing at her wristband, she confirms it: 1/48. She is ahead, and Daxus and a second contestant are out. She shuts out the sound, lengthens her stride, and runs faster.

  The tickle in her throat bursts into a cough when the dust enters her airways. She tries to suppress it, but it rises, greedy to reach air. She covers her mouth and nose with one hand in a futile attempt to stifle her cough.

  Jett must be close to the packager now. She reaches to touch it with her free hand, but it’s not there. Thinking she’s lost her direction and passed it, she considers turning back, knowing it will be impossible to find her way in the haze.

  It’s then that she sees the soft purple glow, diffused by the mist. Within a few strides, she is able to reach her hand out and into the purple dome. Her cells compact, then shoot through the micro portal and reanimate: she’s made it to the first task.

  Wherever she’s reconstituted, it’s quiet. She’s no longer in the stadium. The haze disappears, and so does the irritation in her throat. She puts everything behind her.

  In front of her stands a mountain of metal alloys at least a hundred meters up. At the very top, she sees the next packager in blue. Only the first thirty-five can use it. If she wants to keep her place, she needs to climb—now.

  She pays no attention to the cameras adhered to the surrounding walls. Instead, she steps toward the pile and grabs a handhold in the debris.

  Anchoring her foot, she pushes upward until she can reach a second handhold. Her adrenaline burns stronger than ever, and she climbs with ease. Her muscles remember her training maneuvers, and her instincts kick in. In her flow, she loses track of the time and space she travels. Her eyes are committed to the packager above.

  Loud coughs signal that others have arrived, but Jett keeps her eyes ahead of her. Around twenty meters up, her first competitor, Covey, passes Jett on the left. The girl with black, cropped hair sneers at Jett in passing.

  A third of the way up, Jett checks her wristband. 2/35. The sound of a scuffle erupts below, but it is movement to her right that gets her attention. It’s Slade, and he is close enough to push her off the mountain. He’s certainly strong enough too.

  She could push him first. There’s no rule against it. Her instincts say no, but the warrior within her says yes.

  For an instant, their eyes meet. His thin, brown hair is damp against his head. He blinks and continues to climb. She does the same.

  Fifty meters up, halfway up the structure, the metal shifts. Jett leans in to counterbalance the mountain’s movement. Her stomach lurches forward as she tilts back. She holds on tight but does not wait for it to settle. If it falls, let it happen after she reaches the packager.

  Laughter startles Jett. It’s Covey. She is at the peak, and she stomps down, making the mountain shake and a hunk of metal fall. It must have hit another climber, because there’s a loud clamor, followed by a thud. Jett doesn’t look to see who it was, keeping her eyes up as she climbs to the next section.

  The packager condenses Covey and moves her on to the second task, leaving Slade and Jett vying for second place. By Jett’s estimation, they have about thirty meters to go. She grabs several pieces of metal to find one sturdy enough to hold her weight.

  With about twenty meters left, the packager below closes with a loud pop, and her band switches from 2/35 to 2/33. She is holding her own so far. Slade takes the lead, but not far enough she can’t catch him.

  Another opponent climbs beside them. It’s a muscular brute of a boy named Valen. With a loud clunk, he kicks some metal down onto his opponents. The mountain shifts again. Everyone on the top stops this time and waits for it to settle. The pile leans further, but the imbalance, however precarious, gives Jett an advantage; her small frame makes it easier for her to maneuver. She gains ground.

  Just as she and Slade near the top of the mountain, it looks like they both may get to the packager at the same time. Jett reaches up to grab the blue light, but she is farther away than she thinks.

  “Watch out!” yells Slade as a girl below grabs Jett’s foot and pulls.

  Jett grips the piece she is holding and kicks free. The pile shifts again. Once it stabilizes, the girl below yanks once more. Jett doesn’t hesitate; she jams her foot downward and hits something hard. She hears her opponent fall down the mountain, taking several with her.

  Jett pulls up once more, stretching her fingers and arms long. She pushes up on her toes, but she is just short of touching the packager. That one move causes the piece holding her weight to shift and fall out from under her. With Jett’s hand stretched above and the other holding onto the structure, she tightens her grip, but it isn’t strong enough to hold her.

  Falling backward, she sees Slade, his eyes wide open. He grabs her with one hand and reaches for the packager with the other. Together, they are compacted and transported into their next task.

  Why did he save her when he could have easily left one of his competitors behind? But before she can ask, Slade is gone, and she’s reanimated into the second task. Jett’s reads her wristband: 3/25. She’s making excellent time.

  Looking up, Jett finds herself in a room of black glass. The room is empty. If the packager is here, she doesn’t see it.

  Light shoots out from behind the glass. In front of her is a girl who stares at Jett, and beside her is another girl that looks the same as the first. Jett opens her mouth to ask them what to do, but both girls’ mouths open at the same time. Their faces are familiar.

  Jett steps forward, and the girls do the same. Jett frowns. Forcing her focus, she hones in on one of the girls’ faces. There’s no mistaking the scar running down her jawline; Jett is staring at herself.

  No, not herself: a reflection. Jett has seen hers before. Sometimes her image shows on shiny surfaces, but never does she s
ee herself with such clarity.

  Confused, she eyes the person next to her and then the next. They are all reflections. Her image is everywhere. She raises her arm, and all the others do the same. Turning her head, she looks at the mirrored walls, floor, and ceiling. This must be her individual task. That means she’s alone. She needs to figure this out by herself.

  She turns in a circle but sees nothing to indicate the cameras or the packager.

  Jett steps closer to the mirror, coming nose to nose with her reflection, then shies away, embarrassed.

  “Show me the packager,” she commands. But she only sees herself speaking the words.

  Jett reaches both hands out and feels for the edge of the mirror. Each glass panel connects to the next on both sides. She works her way around to the left. There must be a way out of here.

  She makes a full circle with no luck—no opening. She doubles around, pressing the mirrors to see if they move. On the fifth one, a red circle lights up with a place to scan her hand. Jett puts her palm to the scanner.

  A sharp pinch on her middle finger makes her draw back. She puts her finger in her mouth to suck on it, but a metallic taste makes her pull it out to examine it. On the pad of her finger is a thin smear of blood. She looks to the scanner and sees blood there too. The panel lights up, and some kind of code runs down to the bottom of the glass. Jett can’t read the code, but knows it must be analyzing her blood.

  She places her hand over the code, and the glass rises. This must be the way out.

  She gathers her courage and steps through, sighing with relief as she passes into another area, and the glass closes behind her. The new room has the same arrangement as the one before, only every other mirror contains a reflection. But this time, none of them are Jett. There are male and female warriors in eight of the mirrors. She can tell they are Balvan warriors by the red collars around their necks; the silver colony emblem glints in the light.