Three
Steven soon learns that there is more to the doctor that meets the eye. Steven admires the steel in the doctor's unassuming step, when he stands at the Class E enclosure entrance and demands to be let in.
A Class B stands guard, twice as tall as Steven, dwarfing the both of them. "You're not Class C anymore, it's not your business."
"It's your business if anyone in the Class E falls sick, Brandon, so I would suggest you let me pass and do my duty."
The Class B stiffens at the first name, face hardening. "You are not a Class C any longer, you may not address me as such-"
"Sir, then," there is no acquiescence in the doctor's wavery voice, "Let me pass. At least I am willing to spend my time doctoring the women, while others would rather not. Or do you not value those you take to bed?"
The mocking tone throws Steven off- never has he heard any tone of disrespect from the old man's mouth, but he here is, mouth twisted in a condescending smile, no sign of backing down present.
Steven envies that posture very much.
Finally, the Class B (Brandon) spits on the ground ungraciously, "Agh, there is nothing to value in this lot." But he steps aside for them to enter.
"It is not wise, but my advice to you, Steven, is never to back down." The doctor is quiet, hand grasping Steven's shoulder in the dimly lit Class E quarters. "We may be Class F, but if we never back down, we will have something they can never begin to grasp."
"Yes, Doctor," utters Steven, voice hushed. He does not quite understand, but doesn't say that. How may they never back down? They are Class F. Their whole lives are about backing down.
In the Class E quarters, illuminated by yellow lights hanging low from heavy fixtures, there are less beds than within the Class F enclosure, more space between them, and, well, there are lights, which is an improvement from what Steven is accustomed to.
Most of the beds are uninhabited; it is later in the day when the sun is starting its descent, though Steven does not exactly have a word for it- He knows many of the women and all the younger girls are in the kitchens, preparing the nighttime meal. Those who are in bed, lay listlessly from what Steven can see; just blankets and some heads of hair.
Slowly, the doctor makes his way from one figure in bed to another, and Steven trails behind him, carrying a second bag full of materials that clink together when he moves. When he had asked about the bags (never before had Steven known a Class F with so many belongings) the doctor had only winked and said, "The Class Cs still need me yet- they'll let me do my work as long as I don't interfere with theirs."
The first few women that the doctor attends to sit up as he approaches. Some recognize him, call out his name in greeting when he kneels by their beds.
"Not Erskine any longer, Emma," he says to one, "Just Doctor will do. How are you today? Pains? Here, some capsules for the sickness-" Steven is baffled by the massive bodies the women hide under the covers- he is puzzled until the doctor notices his confused glances.
"Children, Steven. They are to have children." Steven is struck with the knowledge, nodding mutely. It had not occurred to him that this was the cause of the women's ailments. Yes, he had known that everyone originated from a man and a woman and yet- his stomach twists at the idea of such suffering, the very sight of skinny limbs and pale faces to contrast with the swollen midsections.
He stays well behind the doctor anyways- hands him the bag and replaces tools and bottles as the man wishes, but does not draw close. Steven does not have the ease with which the doctor speaks to his patients, in fact, he is strangely convinced that he will make things worse if he moves any closer.
At one corner of the room, an even more puzzling case makes itself known- as the pair draws closer, the sounds become too obvious for Steven to tune out- The cot is quite obviously shaking and the noises- Steven gasps when he realizes, his face aflame and the doctor lets out a humorless chuckle.
"Over there, Steven," he points to the opposite direction, "That's not a sight for you to see."
Steven retreats gladly, almost tripping over his feet to get away, away from the terrible sounds and the sight of the girl, gasping for breath and anguish all over her pale face, the weight of the man crushing her-
He clings to an empty bed- or he thinks it is an empty bed until the figure shifts, fair hair askew on the mattress.
"Greetings," says a wisp of a voice.
It is not the first time Steven has seen a woman up close. They are always silent when he passes them, after meals when they retreat to their enclosure again, when he takes bowls of food from them to serve- Steven has seen women up close before. But never has he seen a women as unwell as the one lying here. She looks even more sickly than any of the other women, skinnier, fainter, more sallow, and less substantial than the rest, even through she, too, is obviously expecting a child.
"G-Greetings," stutters Steven, leaning back almost absurdly far, "Um-"
The woman moves like she is attempting to sit up, only serving to alarm Steven further. Limited knowledge or not, he knows that would be a bad idea at her state.
"Please don't-" Her fingers captivate Steven with how thin and brittle they look, almost disappearing into the sheets.
"Oh, I'm fine," she says breathily, very obviously not fine, "I'm not dead yet-"
"I agree with the boy," the doctor has rushed over by now, "Please, save your strength- there's no need to sit up."
She falls back into the bed, face already covered in a sheen of moisture, "Well, I supposed if you insist, Doctor."
"I do insist," the doctor mutters, though not with any anger, "How have you been? Not any worse, I hope."
"No, not really- you could say I have it easier than the other girls," she waves a spindly hand, "Not a bit of sickness in the mornings-"
"That's because you barely eat," he says drily, "These capsules should help with the light-headedness, I think." He hands her a small envelope with the pills inside. "You must swallow them only after you've eaten food- no buts." Firmly, he pushes the envelop into her hand, "For the child."
The doctor's voice is weighted now, not a threat but more a solemn reminder. In response, the sickly woman's face falls and she takes the capsules without a word.
"I'm sorry-"
"No, I understand," she rasps a bit, "I do have a bit of a history. Thank you, Doctor." There's an uncomfortable silence, until Steven shifts his leg too loudly and crunches some gravel under his foot. To his dismay, the woman turns her attention to him.
"Well, what is you name?" she asks, in a kind manner, Steven supposes.
"Steven," he answers while avoiding her eyes, but she doesn't answer, so he nervously turns his eyes back. She's smiling the slightest.
"Steven. What a nice name," she muses. "My name is Sarah. It's nice to meet you."
"Um. Sarah is a nice name too," Steven mumbles awkwardly, unsure what else to say and suddenly aware of how Sarah's eyes are blue in the light of the low hanging bulbs.
"Well, it was nice to meet you, Steven." Sarah smiles that smile again, and Steve realizes that he's never really seen one of the Class E truly smile. Not like this.
The Doctor finishes his round with Steven tagging along with no further incident, and they emerge into the darker night just in time for dinner. Or what's left of it anyways- Class F is only ever fed scraps.
It is easy not to Care, but Steve can't help remembering a tired, sickly woman named Sarah and her small, blue-eyed smile. It was a sad smile, he thinks.
---
The very night that James becomes General Pierce's new Private, he switches bunks to the General's private living quarters, a substantial time in a motorportation vehicle away from the general Class B quarters.
It comes as a surprise to James that those of Class B with higher rankings reside in nearly the same quarters as Class As. It soon becomes very apparent just how important James' decision is. He is a Private. To General Pierce.
The decision feels as important as the insurmountable building before James. Never has he seen the immaculate walls this close, or looked up to it's shining windows with such clarity- naturally, the top floors are for Class A and the bottom few are for the elite Class B.
James realizes that he has now become part of the latter.
There are some Class Fs to take James' small pack of belongings when they arrive at the living quarters and James almost clings onto his pack out of mere habit- he's never been waited on outside of the mess hall and it doesn't feel right.
But the small man with the crooked back yanks James' pack from his hands and scurries off with it.
"You'll find your belongings in your room," the general explains calmly, "We'll have adjoined rooms, of course. You will no longer share all your classes with the other boys, however. Strategy and Control classes will be attended with the other Privates, as well as Combat lessons." They enter through sliding glass doors that open as they approach- James shuts down the way his eyes begin to widen. "Training sessions will continue with the rest of Class B, as usual. How does that sound?" He looks down at James expectantly.
"Sounds precise, sir," James nods. He hadn't known that becoming a Private would also result in his removal from his usual activities, but he doesn't exactly Care. This is a good opportunity.
"Come along then, James, I'll introduce you to the Privates. You will be spending a considerable amount of time with them from this point forward." The doors had opened to an atrium of sorts, stainless and sterilized and bright. James does not blink or squint in the light, only follows silently alongside his new mentor to the center of the hall, where there is a gathering of similarly tall Class B men and gangly Class B boys.
"General Stane," General Pierce greets the other man cordially, almost gladly, with a hearty handshake.
General Stane, bulkier than Pierce, responds likewise. "This your Private then?" His eyes pass over James easily, "Well, looks promising! But can't say he'll best Justin, can I?"
"Well, we'll see about that," Pierce laughs and pats James forward. "James, this is General Obadiah Stane and his Private, one Justin Hammer." At the last name, James takes a closer look at the other boy- he is significantly older than James, at the very least Fourteen to have chosen a surname.
One day, James will choose one as well.
"Greetings, sir," James executes his practiced bend at the waist, "It is a pleasure."
The large man and his Private mirror James. "A pleasure it is," Stane is quite obviously more of a talker than Pierce, and louder and- more. Justin, for his part, stays silent with just the barest of polite smiles at James. James knows that he is only a child to the other Private.
"General Pierce-" It's another General now, and James knows who it is; General Ross, a legend among the Class Bs. A record of victories under his name, colonies defeated and rebellions vanquished. With silvery hair and firm features, he grasps Pierce into handshake as well, as equals do. "-Glad to have you rejoin us."
"As am I," Pierce nods. "I anticipate great things with a Private by my side. James, General Ross and Private Brock."
"You anticipate rightfully so," Ross is slim up close but there is no mistaking the resilient strength he bears in his bones. James reigns in his amazement. "Well, James, we are glad to welcome you."
General Ross, welcoming him, James. All the Control classes in the world couldn't keep the slight rush of pink from touching James' cheeks.
Their conversation moves elsewhere while James and Brock bow politely at each other. Of the other Privates that James has seen, Brock is the closest to his young age, with dark hair and steady eyes. James vaguely recalls Brock's presence with the other Class Bs prior to this, before he had virtually disappeared, but it makes sense that he would be chosen. Brock would make a formidable ally.
The rest of the introductions seem like a blur, really, a rush of handshakes and James bending at the waist till he swears he can hear it creaking.
Lieutenant Rhodey comes forth with his Private, Sam, Colonel Jones with Private Private Jim, General Phillips and Private Jack, General Schmidt and Private Montgomery- the list extends further, not by much, but it's all unclear anyhow.
Finally, General Pierce guides him away, with an ample amount of farewells. They take an el-lift, the first time James has ever been in one, to the quarters at the level above. It is quiet in the small compartment, with only the slight whoosh of ventilated air and a faint swooping sensation low in James' gut.
"What do you think, James?"
It feels like a test- James does not answer immediately. It is not often that one is asked what they think. Even as a Class B, or especially as a Class B; they were made for orders and duty and honor. The Class As do the thinking. But James knows what he thinks.
He wets his lips, and answers truthfully. "This is promising, sir."
Pierce actually sounds delighted. "That it is, Private James. That it is."
The General's quarters are spacious, nothing like the small rooms with multiple bunk beds that James is accustomed to. There are several chambers that belong to Pierce alone, a study, a bedroom, a lavatory, a sitting room.
The room adjoined to James' is General Pierce's bedroom, neat and sparse of belongings.
"Here you are, James," the General opens the heavy door for him, "Your room."
"Thank you, General Pierce," James makes sure to bow before entering the doorway.
"You are welcome, of course. Get rested," Pierce smiles, "We'll get started on your new curriculum early tomorrow."
The door closes solidly, leaving James in solitude at least. The room is spacious for just one person, with a bed and a large desk at one corner, an empty shelf at another.
James finds himself pleased with the space, another aspect that is promising. But being pleased is not the same thing as Caring.