by Carol Riggs
After the applause, Commander Farrow gestures to the Machine with an exaggerated flair. “Guards, prepare the Machine for the Testing.”
Rourke and the female guard retract the dome to expose the monstrosity beneath, and Rourke activates the lever that brings the Machine vibrating to life. It breathes like a hungry creature, hoarse and ready for its prey.
Commander Farrow indicates the branding rod in its stand. “As always, there are consequences for any teen whose score falls at twenty-five or below. It is our hope that we’ll have no need of this marking of failure tonight. We’ll start with the boys. I call Thomas Baker to the weighing platform.”
“Good luck,” I say.
“Thanks.” Thomas pushes his sandy hair away from his face, straightens his shoulders, and walks to the seat under the Machine’s arms. Rourke fits the cap onto his head.
The female guard activates the button by the Testing gauge, and silver arms jolt into motion, transforming into weighing scales. I twist to keep an eye on the glowing crimson column. The level creeps up. Thomas sits motionless, his gaze glued to the indicator. The crowd waits in silence.
Ten, fifteen.
Sixteen. Nineteen…twenty.
Thomas squeezes his eyes shut. I can’t look away.
Twenty-one. Twenty-two.
The rise and fall of the arms halt with the gauge level.
“Twenty-three.” Commander Farrow’s voice is brittle. The crowd rumbles while my heart leaps. He pulled it off. He flunked and won’t be killed and eaten.
Tammi buries her head against Dad’s chest, while Aubrie sits stiffly by her family. Not far from them, Leonard leans against Peyton, who stifles a relieved smile.
“Guards. Escort this disgraceful graduate to the branding station,” the commander says. “He doesn’t deserve the honor of going to Promise City.”
His face flushed, Thomas is led to the station and handcuffed. He kneels. The female guard braces his head. Niya rocks next to me, moaning low in her throat. I slip an arm around her shoulders.
“Thomas made it,” I whisper. “Branding is better than being killed for food. Have you girls been trying?”
“A little. Peyton helped us. I’m scared it won’t be enough.”
Words of comfort won’t come. I pat her shoulder, hoping she’s wrong.
The hefty guard swaggers over and lifts the iron rod. With the red-hot B, he makes sizzling contact. Thomas shouts. The sound of his cry fills the stadium, and it’s over. The female guard releases his head.
“Thomas Baker, you are officially banished from Sanctuary.” Commander Farrow motions for the guards to remove Thomas to a bleacher. “You will be expelled in the morning to the outer zones. Continuing with our ceremony, I call Jay Lawton to the weighing platform.”
The crowd breaks into a huge commotion as I rise and walk toward the weighing platform. My legs feel almost numb. The murmurs and exclamations rattle my head. Sweat springs from my every pore.
“Quiet.” The commander holds up a hand to the audience. “I know Mr. Lawton’s work and obedience has been outstanding during his lifetime, and we are all curious to see how his recent rebellious actions will factor in, but I must insist on order.”
An unnerving and immediate quiet falls. I approach the alien contraption. I’ve never seen the Machine this close before. Its silvery arms gleam, smooth and iridescent.
I sink onto the seat, my heart thudding as the cap is lowered onto my head. Hundreds of tiny sensors press against my skull like a swarm of metal bloodsuckers. Commander Farrow jerks his head in a silent order. With a jab of the button, Rourke sends the arms slashing. A low hum echoes in my ears. I recoil as a slushy undertone from the Machine begins near my seat and surrounds me. It sounds just like the aliens themselves.
The gauge column inches upward. I try to slow it by the force of my will, silently begging it to stay low. Many seconds pass. The column moves higher.
Twenty. Twenty-one. The numbers continue to rise.
When the column stops and its glow fades, I stare at it, saucer-eyed.
Commander Farrow wrenches his attention from the gauge and points his hatchet nose at me. “Twenty-nine!” he shouts, his face livid.
My heart falters. No—no way.
My score is four points too high. I didn’t make it.
I’ve passed my Testing.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The crowd launches into cries and roars of protest. I jerk the cap off, jumping to my feet, my head reeling. Twenty-nine? How on Liberty did I end up that close and yet pass? After all the rebellion I logged in, my score should be close to zero. I demolished Farrow’s unit—I ravaged his UHV’s dura-coating—I killed one of his horde members, for freak’s sake. After that, I’m still going to be shipped off in the morning to be butchered and eaten? I wobble away from the Machine. A look of horror is etched on Thomas’s face.
I gulp in air that has gone thin and shimmery around me. What can I do? My Testing score is final.
I am dead meat. Finished.
Commander Farrow lifts a stiff arm to signal the crowd to settle, and as he does, something inside me snaps.
With a mangled yell, I spring to the heating stand and grab the branding iron. Slashing wide with the heated rod to fend off Rourke, I leap back to the Machine. I attack one of its arms, beating it with all my might—one whack, two whacks, three—
Rather than denting it, the hot branding iron gashes and melts the Machine’s arm. Inky smoke rolls out. An oily liquid gushes up, spraying my shirt and hands. I gag from the heavy, bitter smell.
The crowd erupts into an uproar, much wilder than before. Rourke and the female guard spring toward me. Strong hands grab me from behind. Rourke wrestles the branding iron from my grip. Black gunk spews into the air as my arms are pinned in a savage grip and my wrists cuffed. I thrash, but it doesn’t do any good. My shoulder joints throb while chaos fills my ears.
“The Machine’s bleeding!” a little girl screams from the bleachers.
I grunt as Rourke forces me down and rams my kneecaps onto the floor.
“Silence,” Commander Farrow orders. “I assure you, this outrage will not go unpunished!”
The enraged commotion drops, though nowhere near quiet. Guards begin wrapping the Machine’s wounded arm with shirts and jackets to stanch the spray of dark fluid. Oh, man. That’s sickening. It is exactly like blood, gushing out from something alive.
The commander motions to the four graduates waiting to be Tested. “The rest of this ceremony is postponed and the girls will be scored later. We may have to use the Machine in Refuge until ours can be fixed—assuming it’s able to be fixed.”
A faint smile spreads across my face, but it’s short-lived. Commander Farrow stomps across the viewing area and punches me hard in the face. Pain explodes across my mouth. I yell and shrink back, squinting up at him.
“For that heinous of an act, you deserve extra punishment,” the commander says, a feral look in his eye. “And considering your pathetic initial score, I’m certain this last action has caused you to fail your Testing. Without any misgivings, Jay Lawton, I pronounce you banished from Sanctuary. Let the branding begin.”
Rourke hauls me to my feet and over to the branding station. He forces me to kneel again. The iron has been returned, a wavering heat rippling from it. The hardness of a tranq pistol muzzle presses into my ribs. My head spins.
This is what I wanted, but I’m not ready. It’s happening too fast—
The hefty guard approaches. Rourke clamps his hands on my head while adults in the crowd mutter and children wail. Bloody drool drips on the floor from my split lip. I wheeze, not able to look away from the guard reaching for the branding rod.
Smoking, the iron swings toward my face. I clench my teeth. The metal sears my forehead. A yell bursts from the bottom of my soul, a shout drenched in pain and the betrayal of everything that was my life.
The branding iron falls away. My eyes water. Excruciating heat remains.
“Citizens of Sanctuary, this ceremony is over,” Commander Farrow says in a hard voice. “Your final farewells to the banished boys will be allowed for precisely ten minutes.”
I slump forward, then groan as Rourke drags me upright. I take a few shaky steps away from him. My vision blurs, my forehead throbs. In another moment, a pair of small boots appears before me, and my gaze travels up to an elf-like face puckered in grief. Rachel.
Tammi appears behind her, bawling open-mouthed like a motherless calf. She sweeps past Rachel and launches herself against my middle. I grunt, struggling to breathe.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” I say down to Tammi’s curls, wishing my hands were free to stroke her hair or encircle her in a hug. How can I say a decent good-bye when I can’t touch my sisters or squeeze them closer to me? It’s like my arms have been amputated, and I’m already cut off from their lives. I try to curl myself around them anyway. Rachel presses herself against my side, despite the oily gunk splattered on my shirt. She and Tammi weep as though their hearts are splintering.
My sisters, my little sisters. Will I ever see them again? As hard as I’m trying to be strong for them, I can’t help the tears that leak from my eyes and down my face. My mouth is trembling. My breath hitches.
“Why did you do that stupid thing to the Machine?” Rachel demands, weeping into my collarbone. “I don’t want you to die in the outer zones.”
“I don’t plan to die,” I say, my voice cracking. “Don’t tell Mom and Dad, but I’ll try to come back for both of you. I promise.”
“Why can’t we tell—” Tammi starts to ask.
“Hush, silly.” Rachel wipes at her eyes and glances to where Mom and Dad stand a dozen meters away. “Banished people aren’t supposed to come back, so it has to be a secret.”
“Can you keep it a secret, Tammi?” I ask, my voice low.
“Yeah.” Tammi thrusts out her lower lip. “I’m not a baby.”
“Rachel, Tammi,” Mom calls out. “Time to go.”
She sounds venomous, like Mom in a bad mood multiplied by a thousand. It’s clear she and Dad aren’t going to humiliate themselves by acknowledging me. They’ve publicly lost me, the harvest they’ve worked toward for eighteen years. Their rejection hits me, as gut-wrenching as the branding. I look down at Rachel and Tammi again, soaking in their sweetness and the curves of their faces, hoping to the moons it won’t be the last time we’re together.
“Bye, little fledgers. Take good care of each other, okay?”
“We will.” Rachel stands on her tiptoes, kisses the side of my face that isn’t bloodied, and then pulls Tammi away. They trudge off with reluctance as Aubrie comes up to me.
“Aubrie—”
“Good-bye,” she says, choking on the simple word.
She gives me a clinging hug, and I close my eyes as I feel her familiar curves against me, her silky hair against my cheek. Then she retreats with a sob, leaving me empty and a little lightheaded. She’s gone, in more ways than one.
Rourke steps up to loom over me. “Less than two minutes left.”
I swap hasty good-byes with friends who are either crying or looking miserable.
Harrel claps a firm but tense hand on my back. “Good luck.” Misty and Sean echo his words with anxious nods.
“Hey, Jay-Jay.” Leonard appears and gives me an awkward one-armed hug. He coughs. “Dude, you smell gaggy. Stay alive out there, okay?”
“I’ll try.” I pretend I don’t notice the tears in his eyes, and search the area for Peyton. I don’t see her. Is she still mad at me for accusing her of being jealous? Before I can ask Leonard where she is, Rourke grips my shoulder and spins me away.
“Time’s up.”
The female guard marches up to my other side, and without a word, she and Rourke escort me from the stadium.
Part Two: The Outer Zones
Chapter Twenty-Three
Morning. Really early morning.
A UHV pulls up to the permawalk by zone hub where I stand with Thomas, Rourke, and another guard. My mouth is dry. The wheat cereal and hard-boiled egg of my final meal came back up less than a minute after eating it in my cell. It doesn’t help that I’m still wearing the shirt from my ceremony, with its dried splatters of stinky gunk. Thomas and I are bound together by restraint cuffs. With his free arm he clutches the bag that holds his day’s ration of food and water. He throws me a wobbly glance. “Off we go.”
“Yeah.” The sun is up and hovering, barely above the distant aqua hills. Hot already. Most likely a blistering day ahead. It’s time to see if Thomas and I will really be dropped off in the outer zones or taken somewhere to be killed. I hope my hacking of the Machine hasn’t tipped my odds into instant death. Ready or not, I’ll find out whether I should’ve tried to escape through the tunnel.
“Get in,” Rourke orders, opening the rear door of the UHV.
I slide in after Thomas, white-knuckling my own supply bag. In the driver’s seat, Commander Farrow wears the dingy yellow coveralls of a scavenger team outfit instead of his normal black uniform. Lieutenant Boggs sits next to him, also wearing protective clothing. No safety gloves or masked helmets, but those could be stashed in the trunk for later use.
Great. Maybe genomide dust really does exist.
Rourke seats himself next to me. Automatic locks seal us in with a crisp snap.
“The usual location?” Boggs asks the commander in a lazy drawl.
“No. Too chewed up after last time. Brother Zemik got a little too enthusiastic, so we’ll aim for an area about a kilometer farther north.”
I frown, and regret it as the singed welt of my B puckers. What does Farrow mean, the drop-off place is “chewed up”? What did Lieutenant Zemik do to destroy it?
Whatever the reason, it doesn’t sound good.
The UHV carries us to the gates of Sanctuary, where four guards salute. Commander Farrow gives them a haughty nod. We speed onto the hovertrack that leads to Refuge, which I’ve taken by transport for work-project trips. However, a half hour later, when we reach the turnoff leading to Refuge and Fort Hope, we angle north.
Thomas shudders. Not wanting to catch his jittery mood, I try to concentrate on the small hills and grassy fields sweeping by. We travel for roughly another half hour. The hovertrack under the UHV grows rougher, riddled with cracks, weeds, and windblown debris. Parts of the track look blackened, like they’ve been burned. Ravaged by the War, maybe. We pass a chipped monolith marker that reads: New Paradise 4 km. Before we reach any hint of a colony, however, Commander Farrow pulls off the track and onto a wide dirt path.
Thick dust flurries as the UHV settles to the ground in a lightly wooded area.
“This is it,” the commander says. “Boys, leave your supply bags in the vehicle. They’re only meant for show in the safe zone. Lieutenant Boggs, kindly retrieve the equipment from the back while Rourke moves the boys into position by that large boulder.”
Crap. Is he serious—no supplies? And I hope he means protection gloves and helmets when he says “equipment.”
I twist to see what Boggs is retrieving, but Rourke prods me away from the UHV, along with Thomas. I leave my bag behind. My insides liquefy when I catch sight of the objects Boggs holds in his hands.
They’re not gloves or helmets, but weapons. Two weapons of apparent alien technology, guns that are bulbous near the grip and taper to a narrow barrel about twenty centimeters long. Pure black, glossy. Wicked bumps protrude from the bulbous section like spikes down a dragon’s back.
Beside me, Thomas makes a choking noise, and his face goes gray.
The commander strolls toward our boulder. “Let’s begin the standard banishment procedure. First, a little demonstration to start off the morning.” With a fluid motion, he seizes one of the dragon guns from Boggs, aims across the clearing at a fallen log, and pulls the trigger.
A shrill whine pierces my ears while a blinding flash zings outward. With a whomping noise, the fallen log bursts into flames.
“Here are the rules,” Commander Farrow says with a calm and patient air, as if teaching a training session to primary students. “We’ll give you a fifteen-second head start after the count of three. While Brother Boggs and I practice the accuracy of our aim, you will run for your lives. If you manage to escape, do not return to Sanctuary, or the guards will shoot you on sight. The same fate will await you in Refuge and Fort Hope. Rourke, remove their restraints. Any questions, boys?”
“What in the—are you joking?” Thomas says with a gasp.
“I never joke.” The commander narrows his eyes into slits.
“H-How long will you chase us?” I ask as the cuffs come off. Fifteen seconds isn’t long, and I don’t know how far that vicious-looking alien weapon can shoot.
Commander Farrow shrugs. “Until we get bored of pursuing you. Incidentally, my target will be you, and Brother Boggs will attend to your friend, since his father decided not to claim his privilege to hunt you, as did yours. After your appalling performance at your ceremony, I believe I’ll enjoy this hunt very much.”
Thomas moans. I take a quick, dazed scan of the area. Adrenaline spikes into my bloodstream.
“Let’s begin,” Commander Farrow says abruptly. “One…two…three!”
I peel out in a spray of rocks and dirt, racing away from the clearing.
“Split up!” I shout to Thomas. I zigzag away from him, putting as many trees and large obstacles as I can between myself and Farrow’s weapon.