Divergent Trilogy. Вероника Рот
THE NEXT MORNING, when I trudge into the training room, yawning, a large target stands at one end of the room, and next to the door is a table with knives strewn across it. Target practice again. At least it won’t hurt.
Eric stands in the middle of the room, his posture so rigid it looks like someone replaced his spine with a metal rod. The sight of him makes me feel like all the air in the room is heavier, bearing down on me. At least when he was slouched against a wall, I could pretend he wasn’t here. Today I can’t pretend.
“Tomorrow will be the last day of stage one,” Eric says. “You will resume fighting then. Today, you’ll be learning how to aim. Everyone pick up three knives.” His voice is deeper than usual. “And pay attention while Four demonstrates the correct technique for throwing them.”
At first no one moves.
“Now!”
We scramble for daggers. They aren’t as heavy as guns, but they still feel strange in my hands, like I am not allowed to hold them.
“He’s in a bad mood today,” mumbles Christina.
“Is he ever in a good mood?” I murmur back.
But I know what she means. Judging by the poisonous look Eric gives Four when he isn’t paying attention, last night’s loss must have bothered Eric more than he let on. Winning capture the flag is a matter of pride, and pride is important to the Dauntless. More important than reason or sense.
I watch Four’s arm as he throws a knife. The next time he throws, I watch his stance. He hits the target each time, exhaling as he releases the knife.
Eric orders, “Line up!”
Haste, I think, will not help. My mother told me that when I was learning how to knit. I have to think of this as a mental exercise, not a physical exercise. So I spend the first few minutes practicing without a knife, finding the right stance, learning the right arm motion.
Eric paces too quickly behind us.
“I think the Stiff’s taken too many hits to the head!” remarks Peter, a few people down. “Hey, Stiff! Remember what a knife is?”
Ignoring him, I practice the throw again with a knife in hand but don’t release it. I shut out Eric’s pacing, and Peter’s jeering, and the nagging feeling that Four is staring at me, and throw the knife. It spins end over end, slamming into the board. The blade doesn’t stick, but I’m the first person to hit the target.
I smirk as Peter misses again. I can’t help myself.
“Hey, Peter,” I say. “Remember what a target is?”
Next to me, Christina snorts, and her next knife hits the target.
A half hour later, Al is the only initiate who hasn’t hit the target yet. His knives clatter to the floor, or bounce off the wall. While the rest of us approach the board to collect our weapons, he hunts the floor for his.
The next time he tries and misses, Eric marches toward him and demands, “How slow are you, Candor? Do you need glasses? Should I move the target closer to you?”
Al’s face turns red. He throws another knife, and this one sails a few feet to the right of the target. It spins and hits the wall.
“What was that, initiate?” says Eric quietly, leaning closer to Al.
I bite my lip. This isn’t good.
“It—it slipped,” says Al.
“Well, I think you should go get it,” Eric says. He scans the other initiates’ faces—everyone has stopped throwing again—and says, “Did I tell you to stop?”
Knives start to hit the board. We have all seen Eric angry before, but this is different. The look in his eyes is almost rabid.
“Go get it?” Al’s eyes are wide. “But everyone’s still throwing.”
“And?”
“And I don’t want to get hit.”
“I think you can trust your fellow initiates to aim better than you.” Eric smiles a little, but his eyes stay cruel. “Go get your knife.”
Al doesn’t usually object to anything the Dauntless tell us to do. I don’t think he’s afraid to; he just knows that objecting is useless. This time Al sets his wide jaw. He’s reached the limits of his compliance.
“No,” he says.
“Why not?” Eric’s beady eyes fix on Al’s face. “Are you afraid?”
“Of getting stabbed by an airborne knife?” says Al. “Yes, I am!”
Honesty is his mistake. Not his refusal, which Eric might have accepted.
“Everyone stop!” Eric shouts.
The knives stop, and so does all conversation. I hold my small dagger tightly.
“Clear out of the ring.” Eric looks at Al. “All except you.”
I drop the dagger and it hits the dusty floor with a thud. I follow the other initiates to the edge of the room, and they inch in front of me, eager to see what makes my stomach turn: Al, facing Eric’s wrath.
“Stand in front of the target,” says Eric.
Al’s big hands shake. He walks back to the target.
“Hey, Four.” Eric looks over his shoulder. “Give me a hand here, huh?”
Four scratches one of his eyebrows with a knife point and approaches Eric. He has dark circles under his eyes and a tense set to his mouth—he’s as tired as we are.
“You’re going to stand there as he throws those knives,” Eric says to Al, “until you learn not to flinch.”
“Is this really necessary?” says Four. He sounds bored, but he doesn’t look bored. His face and body are tense, alert.
I squeeze my hands into fists. No matter how casual Four sounds, the question is a challenge. And Four doesn’t often challenge Eric directly.
At first Eric stares at Four in silence. Four stares back. Seconds pass and my fingernails bite my palms.
“I have the authority here, remember?” Eric says, so quietly I can barely hear him. “Here, and everywhere else.”
Color rushes into Four’s face, though his expression does not change. His grip on the knives tightens and his knuckles turn white as he turns to face Al.
I look from Al’s wide, dark eyes to his shaking hands to the determined set of Four’s jaw. Anger bubbles in my chest, and bursts from my mouth: “Stop it.”
Four turns the knife in his hand, his fingers moving painstakingly over the metal edge. He gives me such a hard look that I feel like he’s turning me to stone. I know why. I am stupid for speaking up while Eric is here; I am stupid for speaking up at all.
“Any idiot can stand in front of a target,” I say. “It doesn’t prove anything except that you’re bullying us. Which, as I recall, is a sign of cowardice.”
“Then it should be easy for you,” Eric says. “If you’re willing to take his place.”
The last thing I want to do is stand in front of that target, but I can’t back down now. I didn’t leave myself the option. I weave through the crowd of initiates, and someone shoves my shoulder.
“There goes your pretty face,” hisses Peter. “Oh, wait. You don’t have one.”
I recover my balance and walk toward Al. He nods at me. I try to smile encouragingly, but I can’t manage it. I stand in front of the board, and my head doesn’t even reach the center of the target, but it doesn’t matter. I look at Four’s knives: one in his right hand, two in his left hand.
My throat is dry. I try