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

by Sheriff, Mike

  Daoren had chatterwailed more with her over the last few weeks than over the last few years, though the conversations were still as likely to lead to argument as agreement. Many of their quarrels stemmed from his continued inability to say the right thing in her presence, but she brought her own brand of friction to the mix; the unflinching desire to get in the final word. If one word described Heqet, it was challenging.

  He managed to cram one more handful into his grooll pouch and pivoted to the door.

  Cordelia blocked it, skin wane in the subdued light. Her cheekbones had sharpened to a dagger’s edge since Lucien’s funeral. They matched her eyes.

  He masked his surprise. “I didn’t know you were awake.”

  Cordelia folded her arms and nodded at the bulging grooll pouch. “You must be working up quite an appetite . . . doing whatever you’ve been doing these past weeks.”

  He shifted to the side to step around her. She mirrored his movement. Her brow pinched, rumpling the skin between her eyebrows. “What have you been doing, Daoren?”

  “Nothing to warrant your worry.”

  “You must tread carefully.”

  “What makes you think I’m not?”

  “Nineteen years of being your mother.” She cupped his chin. “And with Sha’s sapience you’ll be my son for many more.”

  Her finger tracked up his cheek and crossed his forehead.

  Daoren closed his eyes and regressed to his childhood, to the last time she’d touched his face. He wasn’t certain, but it may have been in this very spot.

  He would have frozen the present moment, stretched it to infinity if he could, but her finger reached his nose. An outlying memory told him it would descend from the bridge to the tip, then retract . . . and it did. He opened his eyes.

  “You’ve seen what happened to your brother and father.” She moved aside, unblocking the door. “You never know who’s watching, so promise me you’ll tread carefully.”

  He stepped past her, squeezing her forearm to affirm his promise. The limb’s thinness unnerved him. “I’ll tread carefully if you’ll take some grooll.”

  Her fragile smile channeled the understated beauty not seen since Mako’s test. He nodded at the urn. “Now.”

  Cordelia extracted a piece and held it in her palm. She stared at the grooll, reddened eyes fixed and unblinking—the same way she looked upon Mako’s quantum images. With agonizing lethargy, she raised the piece to her mouth.

  Daoren cupped her hand, assisting.

  She placed the grooll onto her tongue. Her eyes closed.

  “Chew and swallow.”

  Tears traced the sidewalls of her nose. She chewed and swallowed.

  “The first piece is the hardest,” he said. “Now promise me you’ll eat.”

  “I will.”

  He exited the abode.

  * * *

  PYROS ENTERED THE chamber and embarked on the long march across the crystalline floor to the Unum’s desk. On average, it took seventy-six paces to cover the distance. He’d taken to counting them a few weeks ago.

  Why he’d taken to counting his paces, he couldn’t say. It might be a subconscious tactical imperative bubbling to the surface, or a superstitious reflex manifesting from the genetic sequence handed down by his ancestors. Perhaps he needed a final, mindless distraction before responding to the Unum’s frequent summons. This latest summons centered on his obsession with Daoren al Lucien.

  Over the past few weeks, it had become clear that the Unum planned to have Daoren’s score switched with Narses’ score in the upcoming S.A.T. The Unum wasn’t so brazen that he admitted it. Narses had let the information slip during an idle conversation a week earlier. He’d boasted about it, in fact, and more.

  A source at the Librarium had sent Daoren’s prep-tests to the Unum, in direct violation of one of Daqin Guojin’s most sacred edicts. The results apparently showed the potential for a perfect S.A.T., which made Daoren a dire threat or a stellar opportunity. Pyros had little interest in the machinations of power; he couldn’t be sure how the Unum viewed the boy. Nor could he be sure whether Narses’ tale was true. The odds of a prospect writing a perfect S.A.T. were so low they were all but nonexistent.

  He was sure of one truth though. In the unlikely event that Daoren lived up to his potential and the plan to switch scores succeeded, Narses would be named Unum Potentate. The consequences for the city-state would be more disastrous than a mongrel incursion.

  Cang’s work was all the more vital as a result. She’d been busy, traveling to all fifty Chengs to meet with the district commanders, using her investigation into the Primae Jiren as a guise to gain their trust. Pyros appreciated the irony.

  He’d chucklebucked when Cang described her ominous afternoon meeting with the Unum. He could relate to the dread she must have felt walking into the chamber. As Primae Jiren, he’d always assumed he was under one covert investigation or another. The Cognos Populi lived in an echo-chamber of self-reinforcing paranoia. The tremolo of whisper-campaigns and mutterings of covert inquests forever filled the Assembly’s hallways. That Cang was conducting the latest probe eased his concerns.

  So did the results of her meetings. One-third of the district commanders had pledged to back the plan to remove the Unum from power. Another third promised not to oppose it if rewarded for their apathy. The rest were bedded in the Unum’s camp—including the personal guard responsible for his close protection—and refused to be roused. A meeting with the sympathetic commanders was scheduled for after the May S.A.T. to discuss the path forward.

  Another of Cang’s probes had raised fresh concerns. The investigation into Laoshi al Euclidius had uncovered disturbing evidence related to a silica-sourcing expedition led by Laoshi’s son, Fengsei. Five years ago, fifteen denizens had embarked on the expedition, including Fengsei’s wife. Within a month of their return, all were dead. The causes included levitran accidents, falls from structures, and mysterious illnesses. Despite this, no subsequent investigations were carried out. No reports on the expedition’s destination or findings could be located.

  On the surface, the evidence was as sinister as it was sparse. It showed the hallmarks of a purge. Why someone would want to erase a silica-sourcing expedition from existence defied understanding; dozens of them occurred in a given year. Who could erase it presented less of a puzzle; the number of people in Daqin Guojin wielding sufficient power wouldn’t fill a levitran. One of them occupied this very chamber.

  Seated behind the desk ten paces away, the Unum raked his hands over his blotchy scalp. Those were never good signs, and they were becoming more and more common of late.

  “I shouldn’t have to chase you for these reports on Daoren,” the Unum said.

  Pyros halted before the desk. He chose his words with care. “You wanted him locked in our sights. My men have done that.” He consulted his quantum tile—a convenient way to break eye contact. “Daoren has met with Laoshi daily for the past three weeks.”

  The Unum thumped the desk with his fist. “Every day you come in here and tell me the what. I’m interested in the why. It’s seven days until the May S.A.T. and I still don’t know why he’s meeting with Laoshi!”

  “My men can’t access the Temple undetected.”

  The Unum leaned back and lifted his gaze to the ceiling as though seeking an answer in its carvings. He must have found one. “Detain the boy.”

  “Detain him?”

  “In the Rig. And do it immediately.”

  “On what charge?”

  The Unum’s head flushed, skin turning sour purple. His lower lip bulged and quivered.

  For a hopeful moment, Pyros suspected the man might be experiencing a terminal cerebral violation.

  “He’s a prospect! Does it matter?”

  The thunderous shout verified that an easy resolution to the problem of the Unum’s reign wouldn’t be forthcoming. Pyros came to attention, masking his disgust. “As you command.”

  He spun on his heels, happy to
show the Unum his back. He made it five paces from the desk.

  “Tarry a moment, Pyros.”

  He halted and turned around.

  The Unum leaned forward, elbows propped on the desktop. His skin’s sour hue receded. “I heard that a Hexalite levicart came under attack,” he said, the words cold and colorless. “Three weeks ago. In Meiguo Cheng.”

  Pyros expended every ounce of willpower to censor his shock. “That’s correct.”

  “Why wasn’t I informed?”

  Pyros tried to read the intent behind the question, but he faced a master of inscrutability. If the Unum knew Pyros and Cang were the sole occupants of the levicart and failed to report the attack, they’d face extensive questioning in the Rig. If the Unum was testing whether his Primae Jiren would lie to his face, Pyros would face summary execution before the day was out.

  He had no choice but to lie; his path was set. He petitioned Sha that it wouldn’t lead to a premature plunge into the Sea of Storms. “My men suffered no casualties,” he said, “so I didn’t think it warranted your worry.”

  “Then you have a full report on the incident?”

  “Yes, though there wasn’t much to report.”

  “Regardless, I want to see it.”

  “You’ll have it before the end of the day.”

  “Excellent.” The Unum flicked his fingers. “That is all.”

  Pyros bowed and resumed his long march to the chamber door.

  He petitioned Sha that he wouldn’t throw up before he got there.

  17

  The Rig

  LAOSHI GRIPPED THE handrail, whistling. During his twelve years as Primae Librarian, he’d never grown tired of the elevating chamber’s free-fall sensation. It reminded him of the night his section of Jireni assault troops performed an aerial insertion into Havoc during the resource war. The numbing howl of buffeting airstream and malevolent hiss of hostile projectiles were the only sensory elements missing.

  The memory conjured a wistful smile—as terrifying recollections tended to do when viewed through the long lens of time. His days of aerial insertions may be over, but he could still save Daqin Guojin from a new enemy. To do that, he first had to save Heqet and Daoren. He glanced at his granddaughter.

  Her twin braids stood at attention, their tips tickling the paneled ceiling. Her sparkling eyes and giddy grin hinted that she, too, relished weightlessness.

  Beside her, Daoren gripped the handrail with both hands. He’d needed no additional prompting after his first descent into the Void. White knuckles and a clenched jaw signaled he didn’t savor free-fall as much as Heqet, but he seemed to have grown accustomed to it.

  Laoshi had enjoyed watching the two of them work together over the past three weeks, solving the puzzles of the grooll mill and developing the techniques to circumvent its host of deadly threats. Working toward a common goal of survival had helped sooth their more antagonistic tendencies, at least some of the time. They still fought like the fiercest rivals—as evidenced by their feuding in the Temple minutes earlier—but it was obvious they cared for one another, from his perspective if not their own.

  The elevating chamber slowed and stopped. Its double-doors swished open. They stepped into the Void and proceeded to the work area Laoshi had set up last week.

  Glass decanters, pressure vessels, coiled tubing, and thermal isopads spanned several tables, resembling a haphazard model of the human digestive system. The distillation of stable liquid glass was a labor-intensive process at the best of times, but this batch also required precise insulating qualities. The lives of his granddaughter and Daoren depended on it.

  Laoshi grabbed a beaker from the isopad beneath the output coil. He held it up to the light and swirled its contents. No air bubbles clouded the viscous glass. That was crucial. “Good. It’s set properly.”

  “What now?” Heqet asked.

  “We test it. Or rather, one of you tests it. Who wants to volunteer?”

  Daoren and Heqet exchanged dubious glances. Heqet spoke first. “I will.”

  Daoren scowled. “No, I’ll do it.”

  “Are you deaf? I said I would!”

  Laoshi inserted himself between the pair. “Now, now. It doesn’t matter who—”

  “You shouldn’t be the one to test it!” Daoren said, ignoring the attempted mediation.

  “Why? Because I’m female?”

  “That isn’t—”

  “Would it emasculate you?” Heqet lowered her voice and adopted a mocking cadence that matched Daoren’s timbre. “I’m the great Daoren al Lucien, capable of felling scores of Jireni with a single brooding glance, and I won’t let a mere girl show more courage than me.”

  “For the love of Sha! You’re such a pain in the—”

  “Enough!” Laoshi said. “Try not to cull each other before you sit the S.A.T., hmm? Heqet will test it. You can apply the voltage, Daoren.”

  The pair fell silent and let their brooding glances do the talking. Laoshi tipped the beaker and poured a drizzle into his cupped palm. The liquid glass warmed his skin like a sunbeam. It was a good portent, and another indication it had set properly.

  He coated a fingertip and smeared the glass onto Heqet’s palm, rubbing it in expanding circles, careful to apply an even coverage. The material glistened before disappearing.

  Heqet positioned her palm below an optical lens on the next table. Laoshi peered through the lens’ polarized eyepiece.

  The glass’ birefringent property showed up well against the fine lines in her skin. It shifted them toward the red and violet ends of the spectrum, refracting the colors along different optical paths and doubling each line. No discontinuities tainted the film.

  “Flex your hand, child.”

  She flexed her hand.

  Laoshi adjusted the magnification. “Again.”

  She flexed it again.

  “No cracks or delamination. Good.”

  “That’s important?”

  “Critical. The film must be continuous to impart the proper insulation against the stun shock. Our preparations will be for naught if you lose consciousness before the grooll-making process begins.”

  “Will the insulation be adequate?” Daoren asked.

  “Let’s find out.” Laoshi handed a clear wire to Daoren. “Hold the end an inch above her palm.”

  Daoren complied. Laoshi hooked the other end of the wire to a discharge box and checked the voltage setting on its readout.

  “How high are you setting the voltage?” Heqet asked, voice weighted with concern.

  “High enough to cause pain, but low enough to avoid permanent damage.”

  Daoren’s brow rumpled. “How much pain?”

  “With any luck, none,” Laoshi said. “Ready, Heqet?”

  She swallowed and nodded.

  “Ready, Daoren?”

  He swallowed and nodded.

  “On three. One . . . two . . . three!”

  Laoshi pressed a button on the discharge box. A crackling spark jumped from the end of the wire to Heqet’s palm.

  She tensed, then raised her head and smiled.

  Laoshi clapped. It was precisely the reaction he’d hoped for. “Excellent!”

  Heqet eyed her palm. She flexed her hand. “May I try it on Daoren?”

  “Certainly.” Laoshi picked up the beaker. “Let me apply the—”

  “Without the insulation,” she said, leveling a defiant grin at her rival.

  * * *

  HOURS LATER, DAOREN and Heqet passed through the southern archway, leaving the Librarium. They stepped onto the deserted transway. Its blue surface shimmered. Stars speckled the sky.

  Daoren dug his hand into his grooll pouch. He had no idea what time it was—maybe a few hours from sunrise. The cool night air condensed his breath to a frail cloud, but the day’s work left him with a warm afterglow. Finding a solution for the stun shock represented significant progress.

  Heqet walked beside him, gaze fixed on the transway’s sparkling sheen. The
micro-studs in her cheeks twinkled. They put the patchwork of stars to shame.

  He extended his hand and offered her a piece. She stared at the grooll like it was an ill premonition. “What odds do we have of surviving the grooll mill?”

  He’d spent most of the evening pondering the same question. The insulating glass film would absorb the stun shock, so long as they heeded Laoshi’s warning and weren’t so absentminded to rub the fragile coating off their temples during the test. They’d memorized each step of the grooll mill’s sequence down to the split-second. They knew the best ways to exit the mill and the best routes to get from the Center to the Librarium afterward. The single problem left to solve was getting off the platform before the ultrasonic-liquifying process began.

  “Getting off the platform in time is paramount,” he said. “Unless we find a way to do that, I’d say the odds are dismal.” He turned to her without breaking stride. “Sliding down a support cable might work, but the friction burns to our hands would be—”

  Heqet twisted one of her hair braids while she listened.

  Daoren eyed the braid’s thickness and length. A trill of excitement vibrated deep in his chest.

  “Would be what?” she asked.

  He grabbed the braid and squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger. Its density confirmed his hunch. It would work; he was sure of it. He looked up.

  A blush tinted Heqet’s cheeks.

  Daoren sensed a flush in his own cheeks; touching the braid without her consent was an unspeakably forward act. He let go and drew his hand back. “My sorrow for that, but I think the odds of survival will swing in our favor if I can smuggle a dagger into the Center.”

  “Why would you need a—”

  A chorus of shrill hisses cut her off. Five Jireni on armored levidecks streaked across the transway. They whisked to a stop, encircling Daoren and Heqet.

  Daoren snatched Heqet’s arm, halting her.