Survival Aptitude Test: Sound (The Extinction Odyssey Book 1)

by Sheriff, Mike

  The dots fell into place like waypoints on a plasmonic map. The conclusion they led to culled Daoren’s breath. “You don’t think the Unum manipulated the test scores . . .”

  “Don’t even suggest it, boy!”

  “I’m not saying he manipulated them with his own hands, but what if he arranged for them to be switched between Mako and Julinian?”

  “No son of mine would dare speak such heresy!”

  Cordelia reached for Lucien’s hand. “Tread carefully, Lucien.”

  Daoren stabbed a finger into the table. “It’s the only explanation that makes sense. The Unum must have—”

  Lucien hammered his fist into the table. The crystal abodewares rattled. “Leave it alone!”

  Cordelia flinched and drew her hand back.

  “How can you say that?” Daoren asked. “We’re talking about the sanctity of the S.A.T.! We’re talking about Mako’s life!”

  Lucien craned forward. Veins bulged over his temples “I said leave it alone, damn you!”

  The shout struck with the force of a sparring staff. The parlor’s heated walls shrank inward, squeezing the oxygen from Daoren’s lungs. Numbness invaded his fingers and advanced up his arms. He searched for a focal point on which to fix his attention. His gaze found the abodewares across the table.

  Mako’s place setting.

  Lucien placed his hand atop Cordelia’s. His parents sat, heads bowed by grief, hands clasped before a set of tongs, a bowl, a cup, and a flexglass napkin that would never be used again.

  Sweat trickled into Daoren’s eyes. He squeezed them shut and focused on his breathing to dampen the tremors of anxiety wracking his body.

  The last thing he’d do was leave it alone.

  * * *

  LAOSHI ROCKED BACK and forth in his chair in the Temple’s parlor. Movement eased the numbness in his lower back and the ache in his right knee; the remnants of old wounds, aggravated by sitting for prolonged periods. For the past seven days he’d done little else but focus on the quantum tile embedded in his desk’s glass surface.

  The tile air-linked to the data repositories below the Spires. They stored the quantum images, genetic sequences, scroll-access records, prep-test results, S.A.T. scores, and patterns of movement of millions of prospects. The data’s collection had been facilitated by the spintronic diodes injected behind the eardrums of every inhabitant born in Daqin Guojin since 669 A.C.E.

  He traced a finger across the tile, scanning a dataset. It belonged to Bushudo alum Ventis, an Asianoid prospect from Riben Cheng near the Eastern Sea. She was one of a dozen of Heqet’s friends who hadn’t survived the January S.A.T., albeit not due to failing the test.

  Born in 681 A.C.E., Bushudo had spent most of her waking life on the grounds of the Librarium in Zhongguo Cheng according to her pattern of movement. That was typical. Although situated in Daqin Guojin’s most heavily patrolled district, the Librarium represented a rare haven for prospects. A sacred edict separating the functions of rule from the functions of sapience prevented Jireni from entering its grounds.

  He spent a few minutes reviewing Bushudo’s scroll-access records. They ceded insights into her interests; a mere caricature, to be sure, but insights nonetheless. The records sketched a picture of a young woman who’d divided her time in equal measure between the A and B stacks within the Spires.

  That wasn’t typical.

  Most prospects discounted the cultural scrolls of the B stacks. Instead, they invested their time in acquiring technological knowledge to maximize their chances of passing the S.A.T. In Bushudo’s case, a fascination with cultural history may have led to her downfall. Her prep-test records captured a litany of poor results.

  Laoshi navigated to the dataset’s quantum images. A tap of the tile converted them to plasmonic projections. One after another, three-dimensional transcriptions of Bushudo’s head assembled above the desk. Every curve of her face, every strand of her hair, and every facet of her glass implants rendered with lossless accuracy.

  Her eyes gleamed with unsettling sentience, fusing an odd mix of openness and wariness. Though smiling in most of the projections, she didn’t show her teeth. Perhaps they were misaligned, but it would take more than crooked teeth to detract from her beauty.

  Laoshi leaned back and winced. It wasn’t the old wounds that bothered him. It was the sense of violation emanating from the disembodied heads.

  The Cognos Populi had enacted the spintronic tagging program following a short-lived civil insurrection. Two years prior to the program’s introduction, a sizable faction of prospects had taken up arms in response to a doubling of the S.A.T.’s frequency. The diodes helped enforce new edicts that stripped the caste of all rights and privileges. Thirty-one years later, the diodes and the edicts remained in place.

  Prospects could still be detained without formal charge. They were forbidden to own property, enter union, or engage in coitus. Their movements were severely restricted. Daqin Guojin comprised fifty Chengs, but a prospect today would be lucky to visit two Chengs beyond her home district. Far more disturbing, any prospect who ventured beyond the city-state’s borders invited instant death.

  The last edict was enforced by clusters of sonic nanocharges that accompanied the diodes. For those carrying the deadly microscopic cargo, a single step beyond the border before gaining denizenship would trip the bandnet surrounding the city-state and trigger the nanocharges.

  He deactivated the plasmonic projections and scanned the final biometric entries recorded in Bushudo’s dataset. They mapped her journey from the Librarium to the Great Northern Border, a journey that ended on the morning of the January S.A.T. when she stepped beyond the wall. The entries on the tile’s screen represented a desperate but deliberate choice; the girl had chosen suicide over harvesting. She was the same age as Heqet.

  The entries also represented a perversion of three technologies. The diodes had tracked transshipments of grooll and glass products throughout the city-state for centuries. Medical practitioners had developed the nanocharges generations ago to eliminate metastatic calcifications in soft tissues. The ultra-high-frequency bandnet had been installed in 558 A.C.E. to detect incursions by the mongrel colonies. None had been introduced to restrict the freedoms of Daqin Guojin’s inhabitants. A capricious man’s suspicious mind had contrived that aberration.

  Laoshi closed Bushudo’s dataset. He shifted his attention to the data-mining program running on the quantum tile.

  It accessed datasets containing encrypted prep-test and S.A.T. scores dating back to 501 A.C.E., the inaugural year of the test. Thankfully, it didn’t need to dig that far into the past. The program confined its interest to the previous thirty-one years, coinciding with the reign of the current Unum. Even then, the resulting data-points numbered in the millions.

  The program’s heuristic algorithms could compile and cross-reference the data-points a million times faster, but he’d opted for manual processing. Despite enormous advances in quantum computing, human intuition couldn’t be coded. His intuition told him something abhorrent had happened at the January S.A.T.

  Never in his twelve years as Primae Librarian had a prospect with dismal prep-test scores achieved a stellar score in the S.A.T. That made the January S.A.T. an anomaly. One prospect had pulled off a result that bordered on miraculous. The prospect’s lineage made the anomaly all the more ominous.

  It connected to the Unum.

  So far, the individual scores in the datasets showed no signs of overt tampering. That wasn’t surprising. Evidence of manipulation would disclose itself in the aggregate. Recognizable patterns would emerge—as clear as fingerprints on a crystal dagger. Uncovering them might take weeks, perhaps months, but he could afford the time.

  He couldn’t afford the visibility. Manipulation of S.A.T. scores carried one punishment—death. Anyone taking part in such a scheme would have no compunction with using an equal measure to prevent discovery. For reasons both fortunate and tragic, the past five years had given h
im abundant opportunities to perfect the art and craft of secrecy.

  A knock lured Laoshi’s attention from the desktop. He powered off the tile. “Come.”

  Gustar entered the Temple. An enormous yellow lanshan encased his body, filling the main door’s threshold. A patchy gray-black beard mottled the Slavv’s bulging cheeks. His smile revealed tapered eyeteeth that abutted his lower lip.

  If it wasn’t for the needling smile, Laoshi would be hard pressed to recognize the senior datakeeper anymore. Once tall and scrawny, Gustar’s body had been transformed by fate. A wealthy relation in Nansilafu Cheng had passed away five years ago, leaving him a small fortune in grooll. Not enough to retire from his position, Gustar always complained, but adequate to fend off malnutrition. More than adequate, Laoshi reckoned.

  “Ah, the Temple of the Primae Librarian,” Gustar said, flitting his gaze about the parlor. “Every time I come here, I expect to see it furnished.”

  Except for the desk and two nearby divans, the parlor was empty. No sculptures or decorative wares dressed its perimeter. The walls could display a variety of colorful geometric patterns, but Laoshi lacked any appetite to activate the program. The windows bracketing the door provided an unbroken view of the Librarium grounds to the south. It lent a pleasing aesthetic touch to the space, and an authentic one.

  “Too many denizens exchange too much grooll for useless abodewares,” Laoshi said. “I have no desire to mirror their example.”

  “We can’t all be ascetics,” Gustar said. “Besides, it’s the peoples’ right to trade grooll for whatever pleases them.”

  “The people also have responsibilities. A society that places vapid style over fulsome substance is one that flirts with doom.”

  “How so?”

  “Resource allocation.”

  “We have plenty of sand,” Gustar said, chucklebucking. “Glass production has never been so high.”

  Laoshi harrumphed. “Yes, we have more than enough sand to weave fibrous gleamglass into glittering shenyi, fashion pressure-shocked ceramic into transparent armor, and erect cold-rolled crystal into towering structures.”

  “Then why the concern with resource allocation?”

  “We also fashion glass, ceramic, and crystal into levicarts, abodewares, and countless frivolous adornments.”

  “Surely we can divert some production to items that help smooth life’s rougher edges.”

  “Sand isn’t the only resource we need for survival,” Laoshi said. “How much grooll is exchanged for these baubles and trinkets? How much intellectual capital is wasted on their creation and pursuit?”

  Gustar sighed. “I was commenting on your decor. I wasn’t trying to start a philosophical debate.”

  “That’s the problem, Gustar. No one wants to discuss it. A people so enthralled by superficialities can’t carry out their responsibilities to the planet, the city-state, or each other. The cultural records are filled with examples of failed societies that lost sight of what matters. They might teach us that extinction isn’t limited to plant and animal life—if we have eyes to see.”

  Gustar waddled forward. His gaze panned. “Well, my eyes see a depressing parlor. No wonder you spend most of your time in your underground lair.”

  “Then allow me to expedite your visit. What can I do for you?”

  Gustar halted a few feet from the desk. Sweat glistened on his shorn scalp. So, too, did an elaborate design of red and black studs.

  The fractal pentagram was new, and must have taken weeks to implant. Laoshi could only imagine how much grooll Gustar had exchanged for the crowning work.

  “It’s come to my attention that you’ve been accessing the datasets for prep-tests and past S.A.T. scores,” Gustar said.

  “I have.”

  “May I ask why you didn’t coordinate it through me?”

  Laoshi squinted. The question’s polite veneer clashed with its surly undertone. “I’m conducting a study on scoring trends. I want to know which subject areas show weaknesses in our collective knowledge.”

  “A noble aim, but one that will take time to bear results.”

  “I don’t mind the effort if it allows us to give better tutelage to our prospects.”

  Gustar scraped his fingertips across his whiskered chin. “And you felt no need to enlist your senior datakeeper’s help?”

  “I know how busy you are.”

  “Never too busy to aid the Primae Librarian. We need to look after one another, don’t we?”

  “Are you suggesting I need looking after?”

  “I am.” Gustar tugged a quantum tile from his tunic’s outer pocket. “Your recent writings could be misconstrued by the wrong people.”

  “Misconstrued as what?”

  “Criticism,” Gustar said, waving the tile. “You’ve written about the ill treatment of prospects, misplaced social values, and the past conditions that led to civil insurrection.”

  “Those aspects of our society deserve criticism.”

  “You’ve also criticized the shortcomings of the Cognos Populi.” Gustar tapped the tile’s screen. “This excerpt from your latest scroll, for example, in which you discuss the Cycle of Extinctions.”

  “I know my own writings,” Laoshi said. “I don’t need you to recite them.”

  Gustar ignored the warning. “Allow me to quote you.” He read from the tile’s screen. “The human migrations that marked this era were the largest and most chaotic in recorded history. They were also the costliest in terms of the preservation of knowledge. Some societies managed to transport their technological and cultural histories with them, preserving their treasures for future generations. Others weren’t so fortunate or far-thinking. As a result, countless insights and innumerable discoveries have been lost to the sands of time.”

  “Hardly revolutionary.”

  “Discussion of the Cycle of Extinctions is forbidden,” Gustar said without looking up, “but you didn’t stop there. In the next paragraph you write, ‘The edicts of the Cognos Populi have forbidden tutelage on crucial topics and locked millions of scrolls to prospect access. No longer can they study the role played by chlorophyl in photosynthesis. Or the number of offspring produced over the lifetime of a lesser-striped swallow. Or the pollen-collecting methods used by honeybees. This cheapens our repository. It also ensures that these insights, too, will be lost to the sands of time.’”

  “Those words are true.”

  Gustar lowered the tile. His eyebrows arched, rumpling his fractal pentagram. “Those words could be interpreted as outright dissension.”

  “I was pointing out the parallel between historical forces and social forces in suppressing knowledge.”

  “A fine point, Laoshi. Perhaps too nuanced for the ruling caste to discern?”

  Laoshi’s lower back issued another protest. He had no time for this nonsense. “And what’s your point?”

  “Only that we walk a delicate line between independence and domination,” Gustar said. “A sacred edict separates the functions of rule from the functions of sapience. The ruling caste places such importance on it that no Jiren has ever set foot within the Librarium’s grounds. It would be a tragedy if your ill-advised writings gave them cause to rescind the edict.”

  “Exchanging critical thought for imaginary independence would be a greater tragedy. If we don’t hold the Cognos Populi to task, who will?”

  “Another noble aim, but one that’s misplaced, I fear. I’ve locked the scrolls in question to prospect access.”

  “Then you can unlock them!”

  “Scrolls that touch upon forbidden subjects, however lightly, must be locked.” Gustar pocketed the tile. “I’m bound by the edicts, not your requests.”

  “It isn’t a request,” Laoshi said.

  “Yes it is. And one I can’t fulfill.” Gustar strode toward the door. He halted at its threshold and turned back. “I have your best interest at heart.”

  “I’d prefer you to have Daqin Guojin’s best interest at heart.�
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  Gustar flashed a needling smile. “In this world, the Libraria must look after one another.”

  “In this world, every life is precious!”

  Gustar’s shoulders brushed against the door’s threshold as he exited the Temple. “So you keep saying.” The door swung closed, muffling his clumpy chucklebucks.

  Laoshi grunted; the only interest the senior datakeeper had ever taken to heart was his own. He powered up the desk’s quantum tile and navigated to a new dataset.

  It belonged to Daoren al Lucien.

  * * *

  GUSTAR ENTERED THE data repository through the northwest door, still chucklebucking over the Primae Librarian’s parting words.

  In this world, every life is precious.

  What world was Laoshi talking about? The one orbiting the swollen sun had done its best over the millennia to cull off every life form. Daqin Guojin annually slaughtered hundreds of thousands of its young to survive. The mongrel colonies embraced even darker deprivations. Only a sanctimonious cudd would call any of those worlds precious.

  He shook his head. Laoshi may be a sanctimonious cudd, but he had courage. A Librarian willing to voice grievances against the Cognos Populi—to embed them in scrolls under his own name no less—was as rare as rainfall in the high summer. But such courage had a downside.

  Gustar descended a flight of stairs and stepped onto the repository’s main floor. It covered more than three hundred-thousand square-feet, making it the largest of the twelve housed beneath the Spires. And the coldest.

  He quickened his pace to offset the chill. Quantum-computing cradles partitioned the floor into narrow rows, creating a labyrinth that flummoxed every new datakeeper. Most kept site maps on their tiles to assist with the navigation.

  Gustar had long since memorized the myriad routes. He stalked up a row, following a path he’d walked a thousand times.

  The cradles bracketing him supported massive slabs of translucent glass. The slabs measured seven feet high, seventy-five feet long, and one-inch thick. Each contained numberless miles of optical channels for tracking the quantum states of numberless electromagnetically suspended ions. The cradles themselves were decoupled from the environment to mitigate decoherence.