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“Starry night,” someone says to me.
It’s Ashley June, peering back at me.
“A bit too bright for my liking,” I say.
She scratches her wrist ambiguously with a glance upward. “Those hepers are just like zoo animals,” she says, “sleeping all the time.”
“The escorts say they’re naturally shy.”
“Stupid animals,” she spits. “It’s their loss.”
“How so?”
She surprises me by slowing down until we’re side by side. “Think about it,” she says, her voice congenial. “The more the prey knows about the hunter, the more of a strategic advantage it gains. If those things were awake, they’d know how many of us there are, how many men, how many women, our ages—”
“You’re assuming they know about the Hunt.”
“They must. They’ve been given weapons.”
“Doesn’t mean anything. Besides, a ‘strategic advantage’ isn’t going to help them one bit. No matter what, this Hunt’s over in two hours tops.”
“One hour, if I have anything to do with it,” she whispers. It’s clearly meant for only me to hear. I steal a sideways glance at her. Since we’ve arrived at the Heper Institute, she’s been less brash, less front and centre, than the starlet I know at school, hardly a blip on the radar, in fact. She still commands attention, of course, on account of her attractiveness, but she hasn’t flaunted it the way she does at school.
A breeze sifts across the Vast, blowing strands of hair across her pale cheekbones. Her eyes, hardened under the stony night light, seem restless. She suddenly bends down to tie her laces. I stop with her. She takes her time, untying and then retying the laces on her other shoe as well.
By the time she stands up, the group has moved on ahead. “You know, I’m so glad you’re here,” she says softly. “It’s just so good to have a . . . friend.”
The sound of the desert wind fills the silence between us.
“I think we should team up,” she says. “I think we can really help each other.”
“I work best alone.”
She pauses. “Did you read a lot about the Hunt ten years ago?”
“Yeah, just like everyone else,” I lie. I avoided every book, every article, every sentence, every word.
“Well, I’ve been studying this Hunt thing. A lot more than anyone else. Like, religiously. It’s been an obsession of mine for years. I’ve read books, subscribed to journals, scoured the library for tidbits of information on the topic. Even listened to radio interviews with former winners, though they tended to be plenty brawny but pretty dumb. Anyway, just to say, whatever you might learn over the next five days, I already know. Knew it years ago.”
“That’s nice to know,” I say, not sure where this is going. But she’s not lying. She a member of all kinds of heper societies and clubs at school.
“Listen. This is the open secret. Most people here already know it, but you seem clueless, so let me fill you in. It’s all about alliances. The winner always comes out of the strongest alliance. Always. It’s true for the last Hunt, and it’s true for every Hunt before that. If you team up well, you’ll do well. Simple as that.”
“Why don’t you partner up with one of the other hunters? Everyone knows that raw strength and physical prowess always wins the Hunt. And the other hunters are better contenders than me in that department. Take the two college students, for example: they’re athletically and physically imposing. Even the cagey old guy is a stronger hunter than me; where he might be lacking in the strength department, he more than makes up for it with his guile and street smarts. And what about the woman – she looks like she knows how to handle herself. She’s got it both: she’s mentally wily and physically dexterous. You’d do well with her.”
“It’s a trust issue. You’re the only one here I can trust.”
“Well, trust me on this one. With me, you’ll lose.”
“Why, you’re not going to even try?”
“Of course I am! I want those hepers just as much as anyone else. But I’m a realist.”
“Look,” she says, putting a hand on my chest and stopping me. “You can go at it alone and have no chance, or you can team up with me, and together we might have a chance. But you go into this without any kind of plan, and you’re going to end up empty-handed.”
She’s right, but not in the way she thinks. Because I, more than anyone else, know that if I go into this without a plan, I lose. And not just the Hunt. But my life. Without a strategy, the Hunt will expose me for what I am.
I do have a plan, and it’s quite simple: survive. That’s it. Over the next few nights, lie low, don’t attract attention. Then, the night before the Hunt, feign an injury. A broken leg. Actually, I’ll have to do more than feign – I’ll have to actually break my leg. I’ll make a big fuss about the bad luck of getting taken out of the Hunt. Punch and kick and claw at the administration as the hunters head off into the distance while I lie in bed, cast wrapped around my leg. And then go on with life. So yes, she’s right: I do need a plan. And I already have one. But it doesn’t involve teaming up with her.
“Look, I understand. But I . . . work better alone.”
I think I see something flash in her eyes, some kind of breakage. “Why do you keep doing this to me?”
“What?”
“Pushing me away. All these years.”
“What are you talking about? We don’t even really know each other.”
“And why is that?” she says, and paces forward to catch up with the group, her hair billowing behind her in the breeze.
Against my better judgment, I quicken my steps until I catch up with her. “Wait, listen.”
She turns to look at me but keeps walking.
“We should talk. You’re right.”
“OK,” she replies after a moment. “But not here. Too many prying eyes, curious ears. Let’s stop by the library.”
Our escorts are none too happy with this. “Any deviance from protocol is not permitted,” they recite, almost in unison. We ignore them; as the group passes the library, we break from it, walking through the front doors. Our escorts, miffed, follow us in. They know there is little they can d
o to stop us.
We walk through the foyer, stopping in front of the circulation desk. The escorts stand with us. We stare at one another.
“Well,” I say to Ashley June after a prolonged period, “this is a little awkward.”
She tilts her head towards me with eyes that seem to sparkle a little more. “Give me a tour,” she says, then glares back at the escorts. “Alone.” She walks away, past the tables and chairs, farther into the main section, observing the décor and furniture. “So this is the Shangri-la resort we’ve all been hearing about,” she says, standing on a worn-down floral rug in the centre of the large room.
“How did that happen?” I ask. “A few hours ago, everyone was calling this place a hellish solitary confinement, and now it’s a resort? No, really, I’d so much rather be in the main building,” I lie, walking over to her. The escorts, thankfully, don’t follow.
“Trust me, you’d rather not. The constant bickering, the complaining, the pettiness, the watchfulness, the stalking – and that’s only among the staffers. It’s pretty oppressive. Wouldn’t mind it myself, getting away from it all. And from all the questions.”
“Questions?”
“About you. People are wondering why you’ve been set apart here, why you’re getting the special A-list treatment. And since they know we go to the same school, they assume I know you well; they’ve all been peppering – more like bombarding – me with questions about you. What you’re like, your past, whether you’re smart, ad nauseam.”
“What do you tell them?”
Her eyes meet mine, at first seriously, then with a softness that surprises. She walks to the floor-to-ceiling windows, the point farthest from the escorts, and gives me a beckoning look. I follow, coming to stand with her at the windows. And now, far removed from the escorts, it’s just the two of us, bathed in the silver glaze of moonlight pouring in. Our chests less constricted, the air lighter.
