The Gauntlet

by Megan Shepherd

The final moral test.

  A whisper of what that might mean tickled the back of her head and she clutched the slick lamppost, feeling a panicky sort of laugh bubbling in her throat. In puzzle two, the candy shop, she’d had a foreboding feeling as she’d typed her own name on the anagram puzzle with the other names of the dead, as though she were somehow ensuring her own death. And maybe I was. Maybe it really had been a deadly promise that all led to this moment.

  To the final moral test: selflessness.

  This was what the stock algorithm had meant when it said an individual must prove a willingness to put the good of the entire species over oneself. Cora had to prove she valued humanity’s existence more than her own.

  At the cost of her life.

  She sucked in a quick breath. There was nothing moral about taking one’s own life—that was tragic, not selfless. But this was different, she realized. The Gauntlet demanded a symbol of her ultimate dedication to her species.

  And there could be no greater symbol than self-sacrifice.

  She had always wondered why there were no previous Gauntlet winners. This was why. They’d all completed this final moral test. The only ones who lived to tell about it were like Willa, competitors who had dropped out in earlier rounds. She pressed a hand to her head, feeling faint. The Kindred, the Axion, the Gatherers, even the Mosca—all had been willing to make this symbolic sacrifice.

  But could she?

  She let out a shaky cry.

  She’d cheated death that time on the bridge.

  Now, if she wanted to save humanity, she would have to let death win.

  43

  Cora

  THE RIVER BELOW WAS dark and fast.

  Rain streaked Cora’s face as she stood on the bridge, clutching the lamppost, staring down at the precarious thirty-foot fall. Somewhere in the back of her head she knew the bridge wasn’t real, just as the rain and the smell of pines wasn’t real, but it didn’t matter. The danger was real. Just as in the treetops course, if she fell, she’d crash all the way to her death.

  She gripped the lamppost harder. She’d known running the Gauntlet meant putting her life at risk, and she had accepted that. But there was a chasm of difference between a calculated risk and certain death. Did Cassian know that this was what would happen? That she’d end up with this final, deadly test?

  No. He couldn’t have. She felt it deep in her core. He hadn’t known how powerful the stock algorithm was, and even he had been surprised by the nature of many of its puzzles. He’d never have asked her to sacrifice herself willingly, not even to save the galaxy.

  But now the stock algorithm was asking her. Did she dare say no? Did she dare say yes? Maybe I can cheat it, she thought in desperation. But no—the stock algorithm could see into her heart, just as she had seen into Cassian’s in the eleventh puzzle. There was no cheating now.

  A terrible ripping sound tore through the night, and she spun around. The rear half of the puzzle chamber was still the plain grid-pattern cube, though the stock algorithm’s avatar had disappeared. The ripping sounded again and half the ceiling wrenched itself off. Her mouth fell open. Wind tore at the metal, pulling off panels and sending wires sparking. Cora hugged the lamppost harder, sheltering her face against it.

  A gaping, angry hole yawned in the ceiling. Dark wind howled through it, and cracks of lightning sent jagged, dangerous flashes of light into the chamber. The storm was literally tearing the Gauntlet apart, piece by piece. Maybe it had already demolished the control rooms, where her friends were. Maybe it had destroyed all the other eleven puzzle chambers, including whichever one Cassian was in. Maybe this chamber—this puzzle—was the last intact structure on the planet’s entire surface.

  She tasted warm and salty moisture and freed a shaking hand to wipe away her tears. Panic was pulsing within her, punctuating each of her fears: They’re all dead. The Axion have won. It’s too late.

  But it couldn’t be too late. The bridge illusion was still there, which meant the Gauntlet’s mechanisms hadn’t been completely destroyed. If the illusion still worked, then the puzzle still worked, which meant she could still win.

  All she had to do was jump.

  She turned back to the rushing water below, trying to put the storm out of her mind. Carefully, with trembling limbs, she climbed to the top of the guardrail, balancing against the lamppost to keep herself steady. A wave of dizziness hit her as she looked down. Bile rose in her stomach. For years she’d had a fear of heights and a fear of deep water, both caused by what had happened on this very bridge.

  You have no choice, she told herself. You’ll probably die either way. The bridge or the Axion.

  But her feet didn’t move. Because deep down, she knew that she did have a choice. She didn’t have to jump. She could forfeit the Gauntlet right now, just as Willa and countless other competitors had done, and she’d be free. She’d be returned to Cassian and Mali and Leon and the others, and if they were going to die at the Axion’s hands, at least they would die together. Now, perched on the guardrail overlooking her worst nightmare, she had never felt so alone.

  But I’m not alone.

  The reassurance came with a flood of familiar warmth—the paragon burst. It warmed every cell, every blood vessel. The strength of humanity was always with her. And self-sacrifice wasn’t a foreign concept to humans. People had sacrificed themselves for loved ones or causes they believed in for as long as humanity had existed. The paragon burst filled her with a flash of visions. Soldiers dying in war. A mother dying in a difficult childbirth. A father working with toxic chemicals to give his children a decent life.

  And it wasn’t just strangers. Lucky had sacrificed himself so that she and the others could escape the aggregate station. He’d thrown himself on that Mosca soldier, taken the knife to his gut to protect them. And there was Lucky’s mother, who had spun the car on this very bridge so the driver’s side would take the brunt of the impact, protecting Lucky.

  Cora opened her eyes. Tears still streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the rain, but she knew she had no choice. If her friends were still alive, they needed her. In their own ways, they had each made sacrifices for her.

  She heard more metal twisting behind her, but she forced herself not to turn around. She didn’t want to see the storm tearing the rest of the chamber apart. She didn’t want to know how bad it was.

  She looked down at the rushing water.

  “I’m scared—,” she whispered to no one, her voice cracking. “I don’t want to die.”

  Another sob slipped from her throat as her fingers loosened their hold on the lamppost. The rain fell harder, streaking her face, washing her tears away. She didn’t want it to end like this. Maybe sacrificing herself in this way was noble, but it didn’t feel noble—it felt terrifying, sickening, so very final.

  She cried harder. Time seemed to telescope, and she was back on that bridge two and a half years ago, watching herself and her father fall into the water. She saw herself pounding on the closed car window. The slack look of shock on her father’s face. And then him reaching out to her and holding her close as the car slammed into the river.

  “This is my choice,” she whispered. “My life.”

  And then one foot was off the bridge. More twisting metal squealed behind her. Wind from the storm pushed at her back. The illusionary night sky flickered once, then twice, showing nothing behind it but a grid on the wall before returning to the illusion.

  The Gauntlet wouldn’t last much longer.

  It had to be now.

  Now.

  She jumped.

  She suddenly felt no guardrail beneath her, no lamppost at her hand. Falling happened faster than she remembered from that night in the storm, the rushing water coming up at her so quickly, her stomach flying up to her throat and crawling out of her in a scream.

  She hit the water.

  The impact jarred her to the bone. At first she thought it had knocked the breath out of her, but then she realized she was g
ulping water. The river current was strong, dragging her down fast. Without the protection of the car, she was being swept straight into an eddy. A scream hurtled up her throat, erupting in bubbles. Time seemed to blur again and suddenly she was back in the ocean habitat in the cage, swimming hard against the current with Mali and Lucky and Leon. Down, down, toward the exit that she knew must be there, deep beneath the water. The exit that Cassian had promised her existed when he’d stood in the surf and kissed her.

  Her eyes blurred with salt water—no, tears. She was in the river, not the ocean. The water was so very cold, colder than she had ever felt in her life, and felt impossibly thick. Her limbs were moving slower now. Her lungs screamed for air that wasn’t there, and she felt so heavy, as though she’d swallowed a hundred gallons of water.

  This was it.

  She was really going to die.

  A haziness filled Cora’s vision as her arms slowed, then drifted to a stop. She let the current drag her down farther. She didn’t seem to feel the cold anymore. Her lungs were at peace. Her thoughts sank deeper into the blackness of her memory. But this far into her mind—this deep—a tiny light shone. A flickering image like an old movie projector. It showed the big oak tree that she and her brother used to climb when they were little. Happy shrieks of children finding a nest of wrens. Looking up at the sky through the branches. Charlie helping her jump down.

  With her final breath, she cried out.

  “Charlie!”

  She remembered. Deep down, her memories were still there. In her heart, she had never lost her family at all.

  44

  Mali

  WIND WHIPPED THROUGH THE ruins of the Gauntlet’s control rooms. Mali hunkered close to the wall of the recess room, her braids flying around her head. The other captives shifted anxiously as the last remaining support structures groaned precariously.

  “This place isn’t going to last much longer!” she called to Leon, cupping her hands around her mouth so the wind wouldn’t tear her words away.

  He jerked his thumb toward the Axion standing guard in the doorway. “Tell that to the guys with the guns.”

  Willa rested her hand on Mali’s other arm, pointing toward the monitor, which was flickering between static and displays of the coded symbols. Willa shaped a few gestures with her fingers. Mali hadn’t ever officially studied sign language, but over the years, trapped in different enclosures and cages with a variety of species that couldn’t always speak the same language, she had picked up the basics. She recognized several of Willa’s signs.

  Axion. Storm. Clever. Watch screens.

  Mali nodded. “I understand.” She twisted toward Leon to translate. “Willa says the Axion aren’t stupid—they know this place is about to go but don’t want to leave until they’re certain Cora has lost. That monitor is still showing some scrolling symbols, which means Cora’s still in the puzzles. It isn’t over. They’re still trying to get into the chambers.”

  Willa’s hand clenched harder on Mali’s arm. Mali turned around with a questioning look. The chimp’s wide eyes were riveted to the screen.

  Serassi’s eyes were on the screen too. “Fascinating,” she said.

  “What is it?” Mali asked, feeling a fresh twinge of panic. “Can you read it?”

  “Yes.” Serassi spoke in a hushed voice, eyes shifting nervously to the closest Axion guard, whose back was turned. “The storm is causing bad fluctuation, but I can make out most of it.” Suddenly the corners of her mouth dipped in a smile. “Cora’s made it to puzzle twelve.”

  Mali clamped her hand over Willa’s, crying out with relief.

  “That girl’s a fighter, for sure,” Leon said incredulously.

  Mali squinted in the wind, trying to see through the doorway to the central vestibule. “It looks as though the monitors in the main room have all shorted out completely. I do not think the Axion know the extent of her progress.”

  The main support beam groaned again. Even the Axion guard looked over his shoulder to give it a nervous stare.

  “What about Cassian?” Mali asked quickly.

  “The coding reports that Cora is alone in the puzzle,” Serassi said, keeping her voice low. Her brow furrowed as she tried to interpret the scattering of symbols on the screen. “It doesn’t mean he’s dead. The Gauntlet has been separating them and putting them together at random intervals. If he is in a different part of the Gauntlet, the monitor won’t register that, since it is only following Cora’s progress.”

  Leon eyed the groaning beam. “She’d better solve that last puzzle fast. . . .”

  “Wait,” Serassi said, focused intently on the screen. “There is new information. It is difficult to read, with the distortion. It seems Cora is in some sort of Earth-like scenario. I can read the symbol for trees. A road.”

  “That could be anywhere back home,” Leon said.

  “I’m trying to read more,” Serassi said tersely. “The puzzle has the coding for the color red. Red means a morality puzzle.”

  “She’s good at those,” Mali said, hope in her voice. “It’s the intellectual and perceptive puzzles that give her the most trouble, but she must have already passed those. She’s been reading Lucky’s journal as a moral guide.” Mali swallowed, squeezing Willa’s hand in her own and Leon’s in the other. She couldn’t tear her eyes off the screen, though the symbols meant nothing to her.

  You can do it, Cora. Think of Lucky.

  Serassi continued to focus on the screen. “Now I am reading the symbol for water. It’s distorted. I can’t quite make out more details. Rain, I believe.”

  “It’s simulating somewhere back on Earth, with trees and a road and rain,” Leon said. “And it’s moral? What’s she supposed to do, stop a flash flood or something?”

  “Wait—another water symbol,” Serassi said. “A river. There is distance between Cora and the water. She’s above it. She’s—”

  Serassi’s face went suddenly slack.

  A dark premonition took hold of Mali. “What happened?” She grabbed Serassi, shaking her. “What about a river?”

  “It’s Cora,” Serassi muttered, her eyes wide. “She . . . fell. She fell into the water below. It happened just now. The symbols are going crazy. They’re coming so fast.” Serassi swung her head around, meeting Mali’s gaze directly. “She . . . she’s dead. Drowned.”

  Mali’s hand froze on her arm. Suddenly the wind didn’t seem as loud. The puddles didn’t feel as cold against her feet. She felt the blood draining from her extremities in a way that made her dizzy.

  “She lost,” Serassi stated.

  An awful numbness spread through Mali’s body. “No,” she whispered.

  She sank back against the wall, stunned.

  She didn’t know which piece of information was harder to process—that Cora was dead or that she had lost. Cora had been their last hope, and she’d gotten so far. They had traveled the galaxy to be here. They had learned to achieve things no human had before. They had fought their way to the very end of the Gauntlet.

  She pressed her hand against her mouth, silencing a sob.

  Willa started making a strange huffing noise that Mali thought might be how she expressed her grief. She glanced toward the Axion guard, but with the chaos from the storm, he hadn’t heard their exclamations.

  “Hey . . .” Leon pulled her into his arms, holding her tight. “Listen, she died for a cause. We’re still here. We’ll still fight, however we can. We won’t go down easy.”

  But even despite Leon’s reassurances, a blackness had appeared in Mali’s chest. She heard Leon’s words as only hollow sounds. Fighting was useless. They’d already fought and lost. They’d be enslaved now, not just humans but all the species, or else slaughtered. She stared at her hands, at the scars, and started shaking with anger. She had promised herself never to be a victim again. And yet here she was. Her fingers started trembling harder, tingling even. She shook them, thinking it must be the cold. But they tingled in a way that felt . . . strang
e.

  She pulled away from Leon, looking down at her hands.

  Why did they feel so different? Like energy was pooling in her fingertips. That energy spread into her palms and up her arms. She didn’t dare touch Leon, fearing the energy, like he might shatter into dust if she touched him.

  “I feel odd,” she said.

  Leon started knitting his fingers too, as though they were spasming. “It must be the cold,” he said. “And the shock of . . .” He nodded toward the monitor that had reported Cora’s death.

  But the feeling was now spreading throughout Mali’s body faster. She felt suddenly ten pounds lighter, as though she were barely even sitting on the ground anymore. It was a mix of euphoria and confidence so powerful it was almost scary. The sensation crept up her spine, her neck, into her head. A starburst of electricity radiated through her brain, and she gasped and clutched at a piece of the shattered wall.

  “Mali, look!” Leon pointed to Mali’s hand.

  Mali glanced down at the piece of wall beneath her fingers. It was made of something strong, like steel. The power of the storm, even of the bomb, had only barely managed to dent it. And yet the portion in her hand was crumpled like a ball of paper.

  She whipped her hand back.

  “How’d you do that?” Leon said. “You bent metal!”

  At the same time, Serassi’s head slowly tilted up. Her hair hung in messy waves by her ears, but there was a different look on her face. One not of despair but of wonder. Serassi knit her fingers against the back of her skull, eyes wide. “Impossible . . .”

  “You feel it too, don’t you?” Mali said.

  “What?” Leon asked in alarm. “What’s going on? Why are my hands all tingly?”

  “Because it’s happening,” Serassi said, her voice shaking. “The evolutionary jump. It’s happening. It’s strongest with me and Mali because our perceptive abilities are already honed, but it’s starting with you too, Leon. It’ll take more time with you and the others, but it’s happening. You feel different, don’t you?”