by Melanie Tays
I take a deep breath, roll from the bed, slip my feet back into the torturous shoes, and head off to face the trial that Petra claimed was the worst of them all.
Chapter 11
Isit in a small cubicle, barely the width of my arm span in either direction. The other contestants are all in cubicles just like mine right now, closed on the four walls, but opened to the ceiling so that Keya and a dozen other people I don’t know can look down from the raised platform and observe us, just like they did in the maze trial, though this time they aren’t hidden behind a layer of haze.
I can’t imagine how they have so completely transformed this space—from green shrubbery to simple cubicles—in less than a single day. Workers must have been busy all through the night to accomplish the task.
Craning my neck, I gaze up and wonder which of the observers are members of the Council. I’ve never actually seen any of the five men and women of the Council. What reason could they ever have to come to the Smoke? In fact, I don’t even know their names and never cared much about them until incredibly recently. Still, it’s impossible not to have felt their presence on a daily basis, even if I never gave it much thought. Everything in The City—from the formula of our food rations, to our work assignments, to the granting or withholding of vital medications—is determined by the Council and implemented by everyone else with almost a graceful precision.
As far as I know, the Council has consisted of the same five since The City began. If one needed to be replaced, the assignment would be made through the Burning. That hasn’t ever happened, to my knowledge. Of the onlookers gazing like gods from above, only one—a silver-hair man who looks equal parts arrogant and exhausted—looks old enough to be on the Council, but I have no way of knowing if he actually is. It seems irresponsible to make such big decisions about our lives with only one person to observe all the contestants, but the Council must be very busy.
Above us, Keya begins speaking, her voice reverberating around the massive room. “Welcome to the Bronze Trial!” she proclaims with utter satisfaction.
The rings that hung above her in the dining hall when she announced the start of the maze have now been moved into this room, where all the trials take place. They hover in the center of the room at the same height as the raised platform which hugs the walls. The first ring still burns, and at her words, the second ring bursts into flames as well.
“In a moment, the screen before you will light up and you will be presented with questions to test your knowledge on every subject of importance,” Keya explains. “You will have two hours to complete the trial. Good luck!”
The screen on the wall is the only thing in the cubicle, other than me and the uncomfortable chair I’m seated on. With nervous anticipation, I watch as the screen flickers to life and words appear along with a keypad for me to type my responses.
It gives me a fairly easy history question to begin:
What was the original Wall of Fire?
Confidence bolstered, I start typing:
A ring of fire that burned for a month to prevent Roamers infected with the Withers from approaching The City during the time that the barrier field was being assembled. The area that was burned is now the Ash.
The borders of the screen flash green, and a new question appears. It is a mathematical calculation. Already, I can see why anyone from the Smoke is unlikely to pass the Burning. I solve it without much difficulty even though it pressed the limits of everything I’ve learned in school. If it weren’t for the books that I bartered from Kenna at such a steep price, I would already be struggling.
At first, I feel fairly confident in my answers and am rewarded with mostly green flashes as the questions move from one to the next. But as I progress, the minutes pass, and my nerves tighten, my responses come slower and with less surety. My answers are met with an increasing number of red flashes. I have no idea how many answers I’m allowed to miss and still pass, and it’s impossible to keep count anyway.
Just when I think I’ve made it through every possible subject matter, I groan in exasperation as a new kind of impossible query is presented.
If a doctor is treating two terminally ill patients—one child and one adult—who each need the same treatment to be cured and the resources are only available to save one of them, which one should the doctor choose?
There is such little information given that I have no idea how I’m supposed to decide. The only factor that distinguishes them is their age. If that’s all I know, then shouldn’t the doctor save the younger patient, who has more life ahead of them?
But what if the older patient is a better person, kinder, smarter, braver, a parent to children who love and need them? Doesn’t that count for something?
Maybe the doctor should choose at random, giving each person an equal chance at survival.
I rub my temples and try to think. There has to be a logical, clear answer. But these are not the kinds of things we learn in the Smoke. Our schooling doesn’t deal with the theoretical or philosophical. It’s all processes and procedures so we can do the tasks we’ll be assigned, not how to make moral judgments about them.
In fact, I’m pretty sure that if a question of who lives and who dies were necessary, it would be left up to the Council to decide.
Yes, that must be the right answer.
Whichever patient the Council approves for treatment, I type, and anticipate the green light in response.
But the screen flashes yellow for the first time, and new words appear. You must decide.
After a moment, the same question reappears, awaiting my response.
“Blazes,” I exclaim under my breath.
Aggravated, I can’t help wondering how Eason managed to score so well his first time around. He’s in a cubicle of his own, possibly answering the exact same questions, but I can’t imagine they pose much difficulty to him now. I grind my teeth in frustration. Eason must have known that this was coming. He must have expected that I would struggle with it. In fact, without knowing about the contraband books I’ve studied, he should have assumed I would fail completely.
Couldn’t he have told me one single thing?
But then something clicks, and I realize that he did tell me exactly one thing, and maybe that was the best help he could give. There really wasn’t time for him to teach me advanced mathematics, or tutor me on the entire process for bioengineering food. He may not have told me what to answer, but he told me how to think about my answers, and that may be enough to tip the scales in my favor.
I fight through a fog to recall exactly what he said.
The most important thing to remember is that none of this is about you. It’s all about the system. All the Council really cares about is preserving the system indefinitely.
And then I’m positive I know the answer.
I begin to type. The doctor should save the patient who is capable of providing the most continued value to the survival of The City as a whole.
The screen flashes green, and a new question appears.
***
My bare feet are cold and clammy against the tile floor as I walk lines next to my bed—back and forth, back and forth. It’s shocking how quickly a habit such as pacing, which you’d long ago dispensed with, can reassert itself under the proper duress.
The result of today’s trial will be posted in the dining hall later today for everyone to see. Keya said that this is the only trial whose results are publicly reported. I keep trying to stay calm. Pass or fail, there’s nothing I can do about it now. I’m not sure if it’s out of fear or hope, but my feet and hands just won’t stay still.
A hard, mechanical rapping sounds at the door to my room, and I jump. A very unwise flutter of hope rises; perhaps Eason has come to check on me—to pass the uncertain time together.
I cross the room and open the door with a smile, which quickly fades.
Terrance is standing in the hallway. Without waiting to be invited in, he pushes past me and strides into the room
.
I shut the door and turn slowly to face him.
“Why aren’t you taking this seriously?” he demands, his dark gaze boring into me.
“What do you mean? I did my best,” I stammer. “It’s just that most of the questions aren’t things they teach us in the Smoke.”
He scoffs. “I’m not talking about the trial. I’m talking about our deal.”
“But I have been trying. I ate dinner with Eason last night, and spent the morning with him. It takes time to get him to trust me. I asked him about the Burning, and why he came, and…”
He breaks through my stammering. “And when he was starting to open up to you, you decided that your feet hurt so bad that you had to flee.”
That knocks the wind right out of me, even though I shouldn’t be surprised. Hadn’t I known that we would be watched? Still, this confirms my suspicions beyond a doubt. Nothing we say or do is private.
“I… My feet did hurt.”
His face contorts in rage. “Forgive me if I find the delicate flower routine a bit hard to swallow coming from you. I get the feeling that you don’t appreciate the gift I’m offering. Not only am I wiping clean your past indiscretions, I’m saving you right here and now.”
“What do you mean?”
“You just failed the Bronze Trial. No less than I would expect from an ignoramus from the Smoke.”
My heart sinks. I had really started to think I had a chance. But there was truly never any hope. “If I failed then I’m going to the Ash anyway, so what’s the point of our deal?”
His smile returns. “That’s what I’m telling you. You’re no good to the Council if you’ve given up. Technically you just failed, but I have the power to change that. It’s a simple matter, really. But I need to know that you’re going to do your part—whatever it takes.”
There isn’t one reason for me to trust this man and his promises. I could do everything he asks—betray and endanger Eason—and he could still throw me to the Ash. Who could or would stop him? But if I don’t convince him that I’ll try, then Whyle might as well already be dead, because I will never get the Curosene back to him.
“I understand. Thank you,” I say, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. “I won’t let you down.”
He’s standing near my bed now, and he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, round object. Then he turns and, holding his outstretched hand over my pillows, squeezes and crushes the sphere. A gray powder pours from inside. Then he tosses the broken ball carelessly over his shoulder, and it falls in scattered bits across the tile floor as I watch in confused shock.
“See that you remember that,” he says, rubbing his hands together to rid himself of the remnants of the powdery substance. Then he marches to the door, exiting without another glance in my direction.
Hesitantly, I approach and put a finger to the gray powder soiling my beautiful bed. I look at it closely and raise it to my nose, inhaling to ascertain what this is. But, of course, I should have known.
Ash!
This is a warning.
I tear the covers from my bed and throw them in the corner of the room. Then I curl up on the mattress and try not to panic. My breathing is coming too fast, too irregularly. I make myself inhale and exhale, and I count my breaths.
When I reach three hundred and eighty-four breaths, another knock sounds. Perhaps Terrance has thought of more ways to intimidate me. I stand and cross the room. At least I can breathe, and my legs aren’t shaking as I open the door, braced for another round of threats. But the hallway is empty except for a box resting on the floor just beyond the threshold.
I pick up the box made of beautiful, sturdy recycled paper and bring it inside. The box alone is one of the nicest things I’ve ever been given. I wonder what could be inside. When I pull off the lid, a brand new pair of shoes awaits me. They are sparkling silver and come up high around my ankles for support. The heels are higher than my old shoes, but sturdy. I’ve never seen such a flawless pair of shoes, let alone owned one. At first, I think that Keya must have noticed my outfits were incomplete and sent them, but then I see a scrap of paper tucked into the bottom of the box.
I had a few credits to spare and thought maybe these would help. You’ll need them for what’s coming.
—Eason
I slip the shoes on, and they are a perfect fit. I’m not used to people paying attention to the little things I need. All my life, I’ve just taken care of my own problems, and it usually works out just fine. My parents counted on me to not need anything—and so I don’t. Whyle tries—or tried—to look out for me, as much as a little boy can. Still, it feels foreign to accept help from someone else—again.
It feels strange to need help.
And even stranger to like it.
Chapter 12
When it’s time to go for dinner, where our results will be revealed, I consider wearing my old shoes, even though they are about as comfortable as walking barefoot across rubble. The thought of leaving them unattended in my room—with the precious medicine that they conceal—is too big a risk to take. But then, not wearing the clearly superior shoes that Eason gave me would demand questions that I do not want asked. Nervously, I tuck the old shoes under the bed and wear the blissfully comfortable gift.
I’m one of the last contestants to enter the dining hall. There is a large screen above the serving window now, but the results of today’s trial are not yet displayed, leaving the room humming with anticipation.
“Oh, I love your shoes,” Jessamine observes as she stands behind me in the line for food.
Awkwardly, I try to find a way to return the compliment. It’s not as though Jessamine, with her beautiful golden hair, sparkling necklaces, and easy smile is difficult to compliment. It’s more that anything I say only highlights the sad contrast between the two of us in starker detail. I’m not used to feeling so self-conscious, but something about this place has that effect on me.
I’m saved from the necessity of saying anything when Vander comes from across the room and wraps an arm around her. “I’m sitting right over there,” he tells her, pointing to a table in the corner.
“I’ll be there in a minute, Van,” she replies, nestling her cheek against his.
He gives me a friendly wave, then departs.
“I thought you two were fighting or something,” I say.
“What makes you think that?” she asks, confused.
“This morning I saw you two pass each other in the yard outside, and it looked like you were ignoring each other.”
She glances away. “Sometimes he’s just really focused on running,” she explains, suddenly intensely interested in the trays being served at the window.
Eason is already seated in what has quickly become our usual place. After accepting my own tray, I make my way over to sit with him.
“Thanks for the shoes,” I say. “It was really nice of you.” For some stupid reason, my voice breaks a little on the last few words.
“I was glad to do it. You deserve something good for once.” His gaze is penetrating.
Dinner tonight is more of the bread and the brown, chunky liquid that Eason tells me is called soup. I can feel Terrance’s gaze settle on me from across the room, and I know that I have to keep a conversation going.
“Eason, tell me about the Flame.” This is a safe topic, and I expect there’ll be lots for him to tell me, so it should fill the time nicely.
But I’m disappointed.
“It’s sparkly and stifling,” is all he has to say on the matter.
“Well, surely there’s something you like.”
He lifts a spoonful of the soup. “The food is top-notch,” he concedes, and chews with exaggerated satisfaction.
“So none of this is worth it?” I ask, discouraged.
He frowns and shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I probably sound pretty cynical. There are a lot of great things about the Flame. Passing the Burning means you’ll have all the credits you could ever want, plen
ty of food, the best medical care, and constantly be surrounded by beauty. It’s a nice life. But I guess I’m a little jaded after years of not only watching, but being a participant in the system that tells good people that they just aren’t enough, aren’t needed, aren’t wanted. Sometimes it’s just too much.”
“So that’s why you want a new assignment?” I whisper. If that’s all it is, I can’t see what all the fuss is about. Honestly, couldn’t the Council guess as much themselves?
“Not exactly.”
And I know that Terrance will want to shoot a blaster right through me, but I turn back to my food and very pointedly do not ask for clarification.
“Can I have your attention?” Keya calls from the podium where she addressed us before the maze. She looks like she’s positively bursting with excitement. “The results are in, and I must say that you all have done very well. I am so proud of…well…most of you,” and she beams in satisfaction, as though she personally had anything to do with our performance. “Gather round,” she calls, gesturing for us to all come forward.
The room erupts into chatter and the squealing of chairs sliding across the floor as we all get to our feet and move forward. After my conversation with Terrance I already know that the board will reveal that I’ve passed the trial, so I shouldn’t be nervous, but for some reason I can’t explain, my knees shake as I walk.
Eason puts an arm around me to steady me, and I relax. “It’s going to be fine. I promise,” he whispers into my ear as we wait for the results to appear.
I cringe slightly at his words. It might be alright for me, but even if I never tell Terrance a single word, does he know how much attention he’s drawn from the highest levels? Will he be okay? I can’t imagine why they care so much about this boy from the Smoke.
“We will now reveal the scores.” Keya raises both arms above her head, and the scores appear.