≈
Amber followed Darren through the hallways, doing her best to quiet the anxiety that was building in her heart. Breakfast would be starting soon, and once it was over, the facility would flood with people heading to work. She picked up her pace as they turned a corner, then Darren stopped abruptly.
“This is it,” he told her, his voice hushed with worry. “The clothes should be in a small alcove right inside the main door when you get there, just be careful. A group of reports from the settlements was just brought in this morning, so there will be a lot of people in recycling right now. I’ll wait for you over there.”
He pointed at the hallway across from where they were standing, and Amber gulped.
“Thank you.”
Darren hurried away, disappearing into the shadowed hall. She steeled her nerves as she gave one more glance around, then she reached for the keypad beside the door.
0-5-6-4.
Amber threw the door open the moment the lock clicked, her blood pulsing loudly in her ears as she ducked inside. She found herself standing on a concrete walkway, and she stepped forward, tilting her head to look up. The access corridor resembled the area outside lab ration storage, but instead of a ramp, there was a tall, spiral staircase that loomed up in the center of a round, open room. There was no real ceiling or floor; instead, the walls of the room formed a wide, vertical shaft, and concrete walkways like the one she was now on jutted out from the main staircase to connect to each level above and below.
The same voice she had heard during the tour echoed out from the lower levels.
“Psychological function is typically categorized into five basic areas, each of which must be understood to ensure that proper techniques are developed for controlling behavior within our population. Chemical control mechanisms work in tandem with psychological strategies to ensure that dissent doesn’t take root…”
Amber held her breath as she darted up the stairs, her feet flying as she counted the levels she passed.
R-2, R-3, R-4…
The staircase split off in two directions at level R-5, and she clenched her fists in panic as she looked both ways. Brian and Darren hadn’t said anything about this. She turned right, whispering a prayer as her eyes searched for the door they had described.
Relief filled her heart moment later, and she found herself staring at a large ‘B’ emblazoned on the wall beside a wide, red door. She reached out and entered the code again.
A gust of frigid air hit her face as she stepped inside. The small room was empty and almost unbearably cold, and the walls and floor were made of whitewashed concrete. A tall partition stood in front of her, creating the alcove Darren had mentioned, and sure enough, piles of clothing were lying on the floor beside her. She bent down and began digging through them.
“How many are left?” a woman’s voice called out from the other side of the partition.
“This is the last of them,” a man answered. “Let’s get this over with, I’m freezing.”
Amber ignored them, her hands flying as she searched. The clothing was standard settlement-issue rather than what the people from the facility wore, and her heart sank as each piece she grabbed proved to be too small. She felt tears of frustration well up in her eyes; very few of the people she had ever seen at the settlements were anywhere near Ayn’s size.
She moved to another pile, hope filling her heart when she immediately caught sight of a large shirt sitting on top. The pants underneath it seemed to match, and she held them up, trying to gauge the length. They looked like they were close—close enough, anyway—and she folded the clothes up, tucking them into her waistband as she glanced at the shoes that formed a separate pile right beside her. This part would be easy; there were only four base sizes for shoes, and as long as she found two of the largest base, the straps could be adjusted to make them a little bigger or smaller.
It took less than a minute to locate the size she needed. Amber straightened, quickly shoving the shoes into her shirt and reaching for the door handle, when a quiet sob rang out. She hesitated for a moment. It almost sounded like a child.
She inched towards the partition, cautiously peeking around the edge, only to feel her skin instantly go numb with disbelief—several workers were gathered in the main room, electrical prods clutched in their hands, and a row of crying, naked people were lined up along one wall. The workers used the prods to push the people forward, forcing them to keep moving.
“Hurry up!” a woman snapped. “Come on, we don’t have all day!”
Plastic rails funneled the people one at a time up a ramp and towards a platform, and Amber’s heart stopped as realization set in. This had to be a harvest room, but the people weren’t rations. Many of them appeared old or badly injured, and her eyes grew wide: this was what Darren had been talking about when he said ‘reports’. The question she had wondered about since the very first time she had ever been warned against getting reported was now answered, and bile rose up in her throat at the sound of the people’s scared cries.
There was a mechanical arm above the platform, and Amber watched it extend out as each person passed beneath it, jabbing them in the arm with a needle. When the needle retracted, the person’s cries halted almost immediately, and a terrible sense of despair coursed through her body. It had to be a harvest dose, the same thing that was given to the rations right before they were butchered.
Amber tried to tear her eyes away, but she couldn’t seem to force herself to move. She watched as the line of people walked forward, their short path ending at the platform’s edge. An older-looking man with a raw nub where his left arm used to be was standing at the front of the line; a streak of light flashed out, passing across his throat as a lever released a hook and sent it barreling down an angled piece of steel on the ceiling. The light was the glint of a blade, and blood appeared in its wake followed by gurgling. Before the man could fall, the hook made contact, impaling him right beneath the chin and dislocating his head from his neck with a loud pop. The man’s body instantly went limp as the hook swung him off the platform, carrying him away through flaps of plastic that marked the threshold of the next room.
Horror flooded through Amber’s veins, and she clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle the scream that rose up in her throat. She gulped, her mind spinning as she watched the efficiency of the system. One by one, the people were dispatched and carried off in seconds, a trail of frothing blood spattering the floor in their wake. There were only a few left, and as the line moved forward, her eyes locked on the face of the child she had heard crying. The girl looked to be about nine, and Amber couldn’t bear another moment. She fought to breathe as she finally managed to command her legs to move, and she ran out of the room, stumbling down the steps until she reached the ground floor.
She burst through the door; Darren was waiting for her as promised, and his eyes filled with concern at the sight of her face.
“What’s wrong? Did someone see you?”
Amber felt suddenly faint, and she grabbed his arm as she tried to steady herself.
“The people…the people…”
Her voice trailed off as her body shook; Darren sighed, taking her hand and quickly leading her away.
“I assumed you knew,” he whispered. “I thought that’s how you figured out there would be clothes there.”
Amber managed to shake her head, and he frowned as he took a deep breath.
“And now you can understand why me and Brian are doing what we’re doing,” he told her. “The resource center has total control over us, they can do whatever they want to anyone they want. That’s why we have to stop them.”
“Does everyone…does everyone know?”
He sighed again.
“No. I think that’s why recycling is where it is, the place is off-limits so people don’t find out about it.”
“That’s what happens to people who are removed from the program, isn’t it?” she asked. “
That’s what would have happened to you and Brian if I had told on you?”
Darren pursed his lips.
“Sympathizers are butchered alive,” he said. “We’re tortured until we give up everything we―”
“Stop!” a voice shouted from behind them, and Amber lunged forward to run. Darren’s fingers snatched hold of her wrist in an instant, his eyes filled with warning.
“Don’t say a word,” he hissed as he turned around. Amber felt the blood drain from her face; two guards were hurrying towards them, and Darren straightened his shoulders, stepping in front of her to block her from view.
“What’s the problem?”
“Name and number!” one of the guards growled. “She’s not supposed to be here!”
Amber’s throat closed up with terror, the image of what she had seen flashing before her eyes.
“She’s a new arrival,” Darren answered curtly. “She got lost trying to report to the lab, I’m bringing her back right now.”
“Name and number,” the guard demanded again. Darren narrowed his eyes.
“How about you give me your name and number?” he snapped. “I’m doing my job, but for some reason, you seem to think yours is giving me a hard time.”
Amber kept her eyes locked on her feet, acutely aware of the odd bulge that was protruding through her shirt. She held her breath, waiting, then she heard the guards scoff.
“Go on, then,” one of them said. “Hurry up.”
Darren pushed Amber forward.
“Let’s go,” he commanded in an exaggerated, stern voice. “This is what I have to deal with for trying to help some stupid newcomer. Follow the damn map next time!”
Amber held her breath as they made their way back to her wing, and she couldn’t hide her relief when they finally stopped in front of her door.
“Someone’s eventually going to notice that you missed breakfast,” Darren warned as she went inside her room. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to do, Amber, but I really hope you have a plan.”
“Thanks,” she whispered, giving him a feeble smile as he turned to leave. “I appreciate it.”
“Good luck.”
Amber moved to push her door shut, when a thought struck her.
“Darren?”
He glanced back at her, a questioning look on his face, and she swallowed hard.
“If anything happens to me, can you do me a favor?”
He stepped towards her and nodded.
“Sure, I guess.”
“There’s a boy at my settlement, his name is John Haft. If anything happens…will you give him a message for me?”
Darren frowned.
“I doubt I’ll be able to, but I’ll try. Is he your husband?”
Amber’s eyes widened with surprise.
“No, of course not! He’s my best friend, he’s the only person I trust.”
“Like I said, I’ll try. What’s the message?”
“Tell him…tell him that Ayn and I made it.”
“You made it?” Darren echoed, raising a brow. “What does that mean?”
“He’ll know,” Amber replied. “Don’t tell anyone else, just him. He’s going to be here for the next rationing.”
“John Haft. I’ll do my best, but let’s just hope nothing happens to you.”
He smiled reassuringly, and Amber nodded.
“Thank you, Darren.”
She shut the door, then quickly dropped the stolen clothes on the floor and spread them flat to inspect them. The pants looked like they would fit Ayn’s tall figure, and the shirt was more than big enough. One of the straps on the shoes looked worn, but not enough to render it useless. She could probably reinforce it with some strips of cloth from one of her extra sets of clothing.
Guilt welled up in her heart as she stared down at the dirty fabric. Just few hours ago, these clothes had been a precious possession to a soul that was now gone―each particle of dust that clung to the threads had been part of someone else’s story. The thought was unbearable.
Amber gathered the clothes in her arms and ran into the bathroom. She had one shower left for the week, and she undressed, stepping in and turning the water on just long enough to get the clothes wet. She knelt down and began scrubbing, watching as the soap stripped away the last remnants of the previous owner’s life to make room for the life she was trying to save.
†‡†
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Ayn stared up at the ceiling as Andreas pushed the restraint platform down the access ramp that led to ration storage, his heart racing with nervousness as he tried to make sense of what she was up to. He stole a glance at her face; she looked terrified, as well she should be, but it was the glimmer of cold resolve that burned underneath the desperation in her eyes that worried him. There was no telling what she would do now that her time was running out, and for the first time since arriving in her lab, part of him was almost afraid of her.
The platform abruptly veered left, and Ayn tried to catch a glimpse of the floor number as they turned to leave the ramp. Confusion washed over him; they were on GS9. The only labs on this level were for assessments.
Andreas let go of the platform long enough to open a door, and Ayn was quickly wheeled into a large reception area.
“What are you doing here?” a woman’s voice asked in surprise. “Why do you have a ration―”
“None of your business,” Andreas snapped, hurrying towards the doors at the back of the room. “I’m going to be in ISA-3, don’t interrupt me.”
The platform stopped in the middle of a hallway; she entered her code on the keypad and backed into a small room, pulling the cart in after her. Ayn’s eyes focused on a placard hanging on the wall above him as she began unbuckling the restraint straps.
Intelligence Spectrum Analysis―Unit 3.
Realization dawned on him. This was one test that even David hadn’t thought to try, and he had no idea what the results would be.
Ayn sat up as Andreas pulled him to his feet and waved the prod she was holding in his face.
“Walk!” she hissed, shoving him towards a chair in the center of the room. She tucked the prod under her arm and motioned for him to sit, muttering to herself as she began affixing probes to his shaved scalp, then she stepped over to a series of monitors and began typing. He saw the screen on the wall in front of him turn on.
Andreas clenched her teeth as she looked up at the screen, watching as the tracer appeared and began bouncing back and forth. She glanced at her monitor; there was no reading, and she whispered a curse as she set the prod on the desk and marched towards the ration. Its eyes were focused on its hands, and she grabbed its face, lifting its chin and pointing at the screen.
“Watch!” she commanded. “Watch the screen, dammit!”
The ration’s eyes remained downcast, and her lip curled in a sneer. She bent down, clapping her hands in front of it, but it didn’t move.
“Okay, fine, we can do this the hard way.”
Andreas grabbed a roll of tape, quickly tearing off strips to hold the ration’s eyelids open, then she moved to stand behind the chair. She grabbed its head and forced it upright, pointing it in the direction of the screen.
“Now, watch!”
Ayn’s heart pounded in his throat as his eyes instinctively began following the tracer’s movement; he stared at the wall above the screen, doing his best to focus past the series of abstract images that appeared, but he couldn’t ignore them entirely. The screen went blank a few moments later.
Andreas let go of the ration’s head once the test was complete, jerking the strips of tape from its face before moving back to the equipment array. She leaned in closer to the monitors, frowning as she studied the results. According to the test, the ration’s score hadn’t even registered.
“That can’t be right,” she breathed, furrowing her brow in confusion. The ration should have scored at least a two; a zero would make it b
rain dead. She pursed her lips, thinking for a moment, then she narrowed her eyes. The standard scale for the readout was limited to thirty, and she tapped the screen, selecting the scoring scale and resetting the parameters.
“Forty,” Andreas decided, tapping the number keys and pressing enter. The screen blinked for a moment as the scale recalibrated, but the test still showed no results. She reset the parameters again, her fingers hovering over the keys as she hesitated―the researchers usually scored in the upper twenties, and forty was already impossible.
“The hell with it,” she said. This time, she aimed a bit higher.
Andreas held her breath as the scale recalibrated a second time, then she gasped, her eyes growing wide as she read the flashing screen.
ISA Score 67.
“Impossible,” she whispered, shaking her head. “That’s impossible, there’s no way…”
Her voice trailed off as her mind reeled. As insane as it was, the test explained everything—a score this high was proof that the ration was intelligent enough to control its behavior, which it couldn’t possibly know to do unless it understood its surroundings. This meant that it had to be able to comprehend at least some form of basic speech, and she reached for the prod, her eyes narrowing as she slowly moved towards the chair.
Ayn could hear Andreas’ footsteps approaching; she stopped in front of him, and he swallowed hard when he caught sight of her face.
“Get up,” she said, glaring at him. “On your feet, ration.”
He didn’t move. Her hand flashed out in an instant, and a burst of white-hot fire coursed through his body as his muscles seized.
CENTER 82 (RATION) Page 25