Shaking off the images, I say, “Killing Dr. Barnes and his top administrators might gain you control of The Testing, but people will panic when they hear that many government officials have died. There has to be another way.” When solving geometric proofs, often more than one path of logic can lead to the correct solution. Surely there must be a different route we can take now.
“The more we talk, the better I understand why Dr. Barnes chose you.”
Despite my own proximity to the fire, the president’s compliment makes me shiver.
“You are correct,” she acknowledges. “The death of several Commonwealth officials will be cause for concern. But that is far more easily dealt with than the alternative. Safety officials will be deployed in larger numbers. After a week, I can say that the person responsible for the attacks was killed when officials attempted to apprehend him. Personnel schedules and power allotments will return to normal. People will believe the crisis is over because they want to believe their world is safe.”
I try to imagine how I would feel if I were a Tosu City citizen who heard the president say a murderer that close to top government officials was no longer a threat. Would I believe the danger had passed and that life could return to normal?
Yes. Not because I was shown proof, but because I’d want to believe. The president’s plan might work. But only if someone were to perform the step that came before.
“Murder is wrong.” I’m amazed at how composed I sound, because inside my head I am screaming.
“Think of how different the world would be if someone had eliminated Chancellor Freidrich before she had Prime Minister Chae assassinated.”
The assassination of peacemaker Prime Minister Chae fractured the Asian Alliance and sparked the First Stage of War.
“Leaders are often forced to make determinations they find distasteful for the good of the people they serve. Asking you to help eliminate the leaders who champion the current mission of the University is the last thing I wish to do. I do not make this request lightly. But it is the best chance we have to avoid a path that will certainly lead to a far worse fate.”
President Collindar stands and crosses to me. She takes the folder from my hand, walks to the table, and picks up a pen. While she flips open the folder and writes something on one of the pages it contains, I swallow hard, close my eyes, and wish that I were back in Five Lakes. That I had never come to Tosu City or learned the secrets behind The Testing. War would still be looming but I would be unaware. The president would not have asked me to betray everything I have ever believed in order to fix what she cannot. That is not my job. Coming here and alerting her to the danger was supposed to pass the responsibility of keeping me, my brother, Tomas, and my friends safe to one who has been officially charged with leadership.
“If I thought I had a chance of successfully orchestrating this plan with my own team, I would. Perhaps I will have to attempt that as a last resort if you do not take up this task.” She places the folder back into my hands. “Throughout history, leaders have used targeted means to eliminate threats that, if allowed to remain unchecked, could cause far greater damage. When the United Commonwealth was founded, our leaders vowed we would do whatever was necessary to forward the country’s mission of revitalization and peace. That mission is now threatened. I’m asking you, Malencia Vale, to help keep our country and its purpose alive.”
The speech stirs my blood. Since I was little, my goal has been to follow in my father’s footsteps. To be selected for The Testing. To go to the University. To help my country. But this . . .
“Do not give me your answer now.” She takes one step closer and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I understand the difficult choice I have laid before you. I can hold off the rebels for at least a week. Two if I am lucky.”
So little time.
“Inside that folder is the list of those who need to be removed if The Testing is to end, along with information on each of them. Also, there is a room on the fifth floor that you might find useful in completing this task. I have written the entrance code on the top page.” The president squeezes my shoulder and then steps back. “I do not expect this to be easy. You may die in the trying. Even if you do not, there is a strong chance you will fail—although I would not ask this of you if I believed either to be the inevitable conclusion. If by the end of this week you have decided not to pursue this assignment, I ask that you send a message saying that the project is unsustainable.”
One week to decide.
“Regardless of what you choose, I warn you to be careful. Symon has indicated that members of the rebellion exist among the University students. They could expose you without realizing what they have done.” She walks toward the door. Hand on the knob, she looks at me. “Trust no one, Cia. It’s not just your life but also the lives of many others that depend on that.”
As she strides out I hear her say, “I think it is safe to say the young woman has now learned her lesson. I’ll be in my office if anyone else needs to meet.”
The door stays open as her footsteps fade. I know it is time for me to leave, but I am too stunned by what I have heard. Too overwhelmed by the task I have been asked to perform. I want to believe I imagined what just happened, but the folder in my hand belies that wish. My hands are cold when I open it and glance at the first page, which contains the code the president spoke of as well as the eleven names. No. Now there are twelve. Written at the bottom in the president’s strong block handwriting is the name Symon Dean. Below the name is a series of seven numbers and the words “I am counting on you.”
I close the folder and place it on top of my bag. Then I stack the piles of paper from my earlier work onto the table. At the last minute, I take the three pages that contain information on Five Lakes Colony University students. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it is just because I cannot bear the thought that this information is in the hands of anyone who does not know or care about them. Or maybe I need a reminder of where I came from and who I am. My parents raised me to believe in my fellow citizens and in the United Commonwealth. To fix things. I wonder what they would say if they knew I had been told that in order to fix the country they have worked so hard for I must now deliberately take lives.
The world spins around me. Nausea stirs in my stomach and sears my throat. I shove the folder into my bag and stumble over a crease in the carpet as I hurry to the door. The president has given me a week to choose what I will do, but I don’t see how I can make this choice. To allow The Testing to continue, or to do what I could not when I was Tested and kill. I am not like Will or Roman or Damone. I cannot commit murder to push myself forward. But can I end lives to ultimately save more?
I don’t know.
And still, I find that instead of climbing down the stairs, I go up. I hear voices coming from offices on the third floor, but no one is in the hallway as I quickly climb the next two sets of stairs. The fifth floor is quiet. I stop in front of the door with a red-lit keypad at the end of the hall and turn toward the stairs to check if anyone is coming. I see no one. After pulling the paper out of its folder, I punch in the seven-number code, watch the light go from red to green, and slip inside. I wait for the door to close before feeling around the wall for lights. When I find them, my heart begins to hammer.
Guns both large and small.
Stack upon stack of boxed ammunition.
Knives of varying shapes and sizes.
Bulbs filled with an explosive powder that my father and his team use to loosen sections of rock in unrevitalized areas.
After a moment, I notice the room contains more than weapons. Long-range transmitters. Pocket-size pulse radios. Tracking devices. Recorders made in various shapes. Some look much like the ones I remember being used in our Testing bracelets.
And I realize that this room reminds me of the one Michal brought me to before the fourth test. During The Testing, I looked at the weapons provided and saw tools to aid in survival. Now I see them as so many of my fellow Testing candidat
es must have—as a means of taking lives.
I slide four of the smallest pulse radios inside my bag. Beside them I place several recorders and tracking devices as well as a small monitor that must be used to display the location of the transmitter. I look at the other shelves and consider taking one of the larger knives. But their serrated edges remind me too much of the weapon Tomas carried during The Testing. The one that killed Zandri.
Telling myself I have no need of the weapons since I do not plan to carry out the president’s directive, I walk back to the door and turn off the light. In the darkness, I listen for sounds on the other side. When I hear none, I slip out the door, wait for the light to turn back to red, and head downstairs.
One of the officials who brought the files spots me as I reach the third floor. She asks if I need help with my work, and I tell her I finished the assignment and am going home. With a wave, I continue down the next two flights, hoping she isn’t one of Symon’s rebels.
More officials are in the halls on the first floor than when I arrived. I keep my head down and walk to the exit. The fresh air feels cools and wonderful against my skin as I grab my bicycle and begin to ride. I try not to think about the president’s request, but it is impossible to forget what she has charged me to do. Dr. Barnes. Professor Holt. Symon. Raffe’s father. All people who have had a hand in killing Testing candidates either by active participation or passive acceptance. They deserve to be punished for their parts in the deaths of those who came here in hope. But do their actions mean they deserve to die? And if so, can I bring myself to kill them?
My stomach heaves as I recall the feel of Damone’s blood running over my hand while life drained from his body. If the president has her way, his will be just the first blood I shed. I try to tamp down the nausea, but after three blocks, I jump off my bike and run toward a group of bushes huddled near the side of a sandy-colored brick building. My bike clatters to the walkway behind me as I empty my stomach onto the ground. I wipe my mouth and try to stand up straight. But my stomach tightens again and I hunch over. My legs feel like jelly. Sweat breaks out, and I start to shake as the images of those who have died run through my mind. Ryme’s empty eyes. Roman’s bloody body. Michal’s face as it drained of color just before he crumpled to the ground.
Slowly, the shaking subsides and I straighten. I take careful steps. The weakness I felt seems to have passed, but when I pick up my bike, I choose to walk with it down the city street instead of riding. I fumble with the fastenings on my bag and dig out a bottle of water. The water cleanses my mouth and throat of the taste of bile, but it cannot wash away the cause. I wheel my bike north while taking sips of water, not paying attention to where I am headed. When I come to a small fountain in the middle of a grassy area surrounded by a small square of shops, I set my bike on the ground and take a seat on the stone lip of the fountain.
It is cool, but the early evening light has encouraged many to come out of doors. Children play a game of tag. Several couples sit on benches along the walkways that surround the park. Everything seems so normal. No one here feels the tension of the power struggle that is about to threaten their world.
I pull the Transit Communicator out of my bag, hit the Call button, and close my eyes as I wait for Zeen to respond. But no matter how much I want to hear his voice, the Communicator remains silent and I have no idea what I should do now. I went to the president so she could save him and everyone else from Dr. Barnes, Symon, and the destruction the false rebellion will cause. She was supposed to take charge and solve this problem. Instead, she has turned it back on me and I am not sure I am capable of walking the path she has pointed me toward.
Swallowing hard, I open my eyes and stare at the clean, clear water gurgling next to me. The fountain is not simply decorative but is used by citizens to fill their drinking bottles, and I find myself thinking of the people who survived the Seven Stages of War. The fear they must have felt when the South American coalition attacked. When President Dalton responded by ending the stance of isolationism he’d adopted in hopes that avoiding conflict would bring peace. It didn’t. Nor did the violence that came after. Cities around the world were leveled. Millions killed. Finally, leaders decided to lay down their weapons before they destroyed not only their enemies but themselves. The Fourth Stage of War ended and peace treaties were signed.
Despite the devastation, there must have been a sense of hope. A feeling that the worst was over. But the earth did not sign a treaty. The biological and chemical warfare employed during the first Four Stages could not be wiped away with the stroke of a pen. Peace would not be so easy. Earthquakes. Chemical-laden rainstorms. Floods. Tornadoes. Hurricanes. By the time the Seventh Stage of War ended, the weather and landscape had been unimaginably changed.
It’s amazing that humans survived. How easy it would have been to look at the horror around them and give up. Food was scarce. Uncontaminated water was almost impossible to find. But they didn’t surrender. They salvaged what they could from their homes and set out to find other survivors. They came here. They revitalized this city. Brick by brick, tree by tree, they began to restore what their leaders had destroyed.
There must have been terrible choices to be made. People who refused to endorse a centralized government created trouble. They hoarded resources. Caused fights on the Debate Chamber floor and turned the focus away from the good of everyone to themselves. City officials encouraged them to leave Tosu. Eventually, they did.
When my Five Lakes classmates and I were studying this part of history, our teacher told us that the dissenters disappeared from the city. I assumed she meant that they set out to find a new place where they could live as they chose. Now I wonder. Would those intent on bringing down the newly created government have been able to leave so easily? Especially when their dissent was causing the governing body so much trouble? There were food riots. Solar panels were destroyed or stolen. Vigilantes patrolled the streets, fighting with and sometimes killing those the government had assigned to ensure their safety. With a shortage of resources and a flurry of lawlessness, there must have been concern that the new government was flawed. That it was not in control. That, maybe, not following the new rules for resource distribution and revitalization would make things better.
How difficult those days must have been. With new food resources available and plants and trees thriving in the revitalized soil, it seems impossible to imagine that anyone could have believed trying to survive on their own would be better than working together and following the same rules. But quite a few did. Yet somehow the government regained control. In order to do so, did they eliminate those who were intent on wreaking havoc?
Maybe.
If so, were they wrong?
I look at the sparkling, uncorrupted water and then at the children laughing as they play. Would these things be here now if the dissenters had destroyed what was just being created? Does this end justify a means paved with blood?
I don’t know.
At one time I would have been certain. This situation would have appeared black and white. I wish it did now. I told President Collindar that I could not eliminate those whose names are written on the paper in my bag. I want to believe that this is the truth, but the pressure I feel growing in my chest as I look around at a city that was forged in struggle and in hope makes me wonder whether there might be another truth. That like the Seven Stages of War and the time that followed, peace will come accompanied by sacrifice and death.
I glance at the watch on the strap of my bag. The sun will soon be setting. I need to return to campus. I know I should get on my bike and return, but I find myself pulling the gray folder out of my bag again and opening it. There are the twelve names, the code to the fifth-floor room, and the note President Collindar wrote to me. Under that page are several more sheets of gray recycled paper. Eleven of them, to be exact. One for each of the original eleven names on the president’s list. At the top of each page is a name followed by the person’s residence,
family information, and role in The Testing.
Not surprisingly, the first page of this group centers on Dr. Jedidiah Barnes. The location of his home means little to me, since I am not from Tosu City. Although I do remember other students mentioning that his personal dwelling is on one of the streets that surround the University campus. I read the name of his wife and picture the woman I met last summer, after The Testing was over. His two children are sixteen and twelve—approaching the age when they can apply to the University. With their father as head of the program, they no doubt would be selected. But will they want to be a part of the trials that follow? Dr. Barnes has been in charge of The Testing for fifteen years. During that time, 1,132 students have sat for The Testing. Of those, 128 were passed through to the University. Over one thousand students who wished to help the world are gone. Because of him.
As the light fades, I read through the other pages, committing as much as possible to memory. Professor Holt—an advocate for adding another section to The Testing to push the ability of students to think critically while under emotional strain. Professor Markum—head of Medical studies, who created the newest version of the memory-erasure serum and is working on a neurological implant to help officials better monitor the way each prospective student deals with the strain of The Testing process. Professor Lee—who, according to this information, not only helped create the scoring system for each group of students during the first round of The Testing but is advocating for a larger pool of candidates to ensure that none of the best and brightest escape notice.
Page after page of leaders. All working to make The Testing harder. More invasive. Deadlier.
White-hot anger builds inside me as I start over and reread the descriptions by the fading light. These people were entrusted with the lives of the next generation of leaders. They have betrayed not only that trust but also the faith of the entire country.