“And he’s cute,” the girl said in a matching accent, appraising Lucky, scratching a sore on her neck. “Has all his fingers and toes and everything. Prime stock, not like us rejects. What, did you fail out of an enclosure?”
Lucky cracked his knuckles. “Something like that.”
“I’m Jenny. This is my brother, Christopher. And this”—she nudged the burlap sack with her toe—“is Roger.”
Blood seeped from the sack, seriously creeping Lucky out.
“Come on. Dane will have a fit if we aren’t back soon.” Jenny grabbed her brother’s jacket and they turned back to the lodge. Lucky craned his neck to look out the door, hoping for a glimpse of other human kids to see if Cora was among them, but the backstage door thudded closed. Pika reached out and squeezed his biceps, making him jump. She giggled. “You’re strong. You carry Roger.”
Dazed, he knelt by the burlap sack. He started to pick up the corner, gagging on the tangy smell of blood. He followed Pika back down the hall to one of the smaller rooms. It had a clogged drain in the floor and medical equipment on the walls. Pika pointed to the center of the room, where he set down the sack. She opened it, and he saw fur, in a pattern that he recognized.
“A bobcat?” he said. “Jesus, I thought it was a person.”
“Jenny named him Roger.” Pika started muttering to herself as she dug around amid the equipment in a cabinet.
Blood poured from a deep puncture on the bobcat’s left shoulder. Its eyes were open and glassy. Its chest didn’t move. It looked as dead as anything he had ever seen.
“Now watch.” Pika pulled out a tool that looked like a long-handled plastic lighter. She grabbed a tattered cloth from a bin and wiped the blood from the bobcat’s shoulder, then set the lighter-tool over the animal’s wound and punched a button. The machine started whirring. Lucky got the sense that Pika had been taught to use this piece of Kindred technology in the way you’d train a child to operate a microwave: memorize which buttons to hit with no understanding of how it really worked.
The machine whirred louder and then stopped suddenly. Pika flipped it over and pulled out one of the used firecracker casings. When she ran her fingers over the wound, it was red, but healed.
“This is the most important part,” she said, stroking the bobcat’s stump of a tail. “You gotta make sure they’re in their cage before you wake them up. Otherwise you’re in trouble. At least with the big ones. Roger’s pretty tame.”
She struggled to drag the bobcat by its front legs back to the main room and into a cage just high enough for it to stand, with a water trough and food pellets. She locked the door with a pin, then reached through the bars and set a small package by the bobcat’s nose.
She tapped her own nose. “Releases a smell that revives them. It’ll take a few minutes. There are pods that do the opposite too, if you need to calm one down.”
She started mumbling to herself while she cleaned up the rest of the blood streaking the floor. She didn’t do a very good job. He peered into the bin where she tossed the soiled cloth and found hundreds more rags, all soaked with blood.
Lucky stared at the bobcat. The wound might be technically healed, but it still looked raw and painful. Slowly the bobcat opened one glazed-over eye.
There was pain there, and suddenly Lucky was back on his granddad’s farm. He’d seen the same look in his granddad’s horses when they were ill or injured. But that was different. Illnesses couldn’t be helped, sometimes horses just went lame, but this . . . This was sport.
His fingers curled around the bars of the nearest cage, squeezing so tight his joints ached. The Kindred had healed his busted hand when they’d taken him, and now he was in danger of breaking it again out of anger.
Something in the bottom of the nearest empty cell caught his eye. A book. The Call of the Wild. And in a bin in the corner, there was a blanket and one of those old-fashioned ball-and-cup games.
His head whipped to Pika. “They keep people in these cells too?”
She chewed on the tip of her braid. “Of course. This is where we all sleep.”
Her words sank in slowly. All of them—humans and animals, as if there was no difference. And maybe, to the Kindred, there wasn’t.
In the cell, the bobcat’s eyes were both open now, and it was breathing steadily, but it hadn’t bothered to stand up. Why would it? It had probably gone through this dozens of times already. An endless cycle that always ended in pain.
Was this his life now? Sleeping in filth? Spending his days cleaning up the Kindred’s messes? He looked at his nails, his breathing coming quick and unsteady, wondering how long before he was as scraggly as the rest of the kids.
The bobcat blinked.
“You said the Kindred hunt with rifles?” Lucky asked.
Pika’s mumbling ended. She chewed harder on her braid, darting looks toward the red door that led to the lodge. “Don’t get any ideas. The rifles don’t work for us, only for the Kindred. If you tried to pull the trigger, nothing would happen. Trust me, we’ve all tried.” She giggled again, more nervously. “The Kindred aren’t stupid.”
He watched the bobcat slowly close its eyes. He sank down next to it, wanting to hide his face from Pika, his breath coming faster, the panic he was trying to swallow back. There was no going home—that’s what he’d learned from their botched escape. Not for him. Not for Pika. Not for these animals either.
He gently stroked the bobcat’s mangy fur.
He wished he could do more. He wished he could do anything. Because if the Kindred hunted animals just for sport, what did they do to humans?
The backstage door opened, and two Kindred carried in sealed crates. Pika jumped up, tugging on Lucky’s jacket. “Fresh supplies!” she said, their talk of rifles already forgotten. “Oh boy! Sometimes they put in salt licks for the animals, but we get first dibs. They’re so good. Like potato chips. Only without the chips. So basically just salt, I guess.” She trailed off, mumbling to herself excitedly as she dragged him toward the feed room.
The Kindred set down the crates. “Is it only the two of you back here?” one asked.
“Yep!” Pika said, tearing open the crate.
“Do not leave this feed room until you have finished unpacking all the supplies.” The Kindred exchanged a look, then closed the door firmly behind them.
4
Cora
THE GAUNTLET.
Cora raised an eyebrow at the word Cassian had just spoken. “Why does that sound suspiciously like something that’s going to get me killed?”
Cassian motioned for her to follow him into the alcove, where they could speak privately. Through the wooden screen she could still hear the music and feel the breeze, but they were alone.
“The Gauntlet,” he said, “is a series of tests used to rate species on four categories of intelligence. It is run by the Stock Algorithm, which serves as an impartial third party. Because it is a computer program, it cannot be influenced by any outside factors.”
“And what does it have to do with me?”
The expression on his face softened. “Everything. It is humanity’s chance to prove its value, and thus gain freedom.” He paused. “However, it is true that the Gauntlet’s puzzles are challenging, even dangerous. If the test were easy, it would serve no purpose. It was originally established a million and a half rotations ago, when there were only two intelligent species: the Gatherers and the Axion. The Gatherers had taken my people under their guidance long before, and taught us to improve our minds and bodies over generations, until we had mastered the essential abilities. They wanted to admit us into intelligent society, but the Axion questioned our qualifications. They are an ancient species, but secretive and suspicious. And so the Gauntlet was created to prove our worth. That is how the Kindred became the third intelligent species.”
“I’m guessing that means the Mosca were the fourth. Did they beat the Gauntlet too?”
Cassian recoiled slightly at mention of the Mosca, like h
e had smelled something rotten. “Eventually, yes. For all their faults, the Mosca have incredible perceptive abilities. But they struggled with the morality puzzles. It took them nine tries until one of them could manage to curb his innate inclination to steal long enough to pass the test. Other species have not been as successful. The Conmarines. The Scoates. A half dozen others, in sectors very far from here. Even a chimpanzee tried to run it once—the Axion had experimented on it to give it higher intelligence. But they all failed the perceptive puzzles.”
He removed a device from his pocket and twisted the end. “This is how it works.” Lines of light spilled out from the device, stacking on top of each other with startling speed on the table surface to form intricate shapes. “The Gauntlet is a governance module. It is its own ship, just as our markets and research centers and private chambers are independent, interlocking ships. It travels from station to station, planet to planet, to ensure that all the lesser species through the known galaxies have a fair chance to run it. That is why it only docks at this particular station every six hundredth rotation—there are many other galaxies very far away that it must also visit. It is composed of four categories of puzzles with three rounds each. Twelve puzzles in all.” The lines of light kept connecting, building, until they took shape as rooms and chambers. Cora realized she was looking at three-dimensional blueprints. She reached out to touch the image, expecting to feel only the warmth of holographic projections, but her fingers grazed a rigid surface. She pulled back her hand in surprise.
“This is a rendering of the Gauntlet itself. Note the twelve chambers. A candidate must traverse each chamber in order. Once one puzzle is complete, the chamber will allow access to the next puzzle. Naturally, they get increasingly difficult.”
She leaned closer. She couldn’t help but be intrigued, both by the structure of pulsing light and by what it signified—a chance, a purpose. As she watched, a small holographic figure no bigger than her thumbnail appeared in the first chamber, which started glowing a soft red. The figure moved to the next chamber, which glowed green.
“The colors represent the type of puzzle in each chamber,” he continued. “The first represents a perceptive puzzle, red. Then intellectual, green. Then physical, yellow. And moral, blue.” They watched as the figure moved through all twelve chambers, each lighting up with one of the four colors. “What you see here is the previous Gauntlet’s schematic. It occurred here six hundred rotations ago—about twenty years. Four humans and two Scoates ran it, all unsuccessfully. Each time, the puzzles within the Gauntlet change. We will not know ahead of time the order of puzzles or what specific skills each puzzle will test.”
Beyond the alcove screen, the sound of another hunt announcement began. Cora threw a look toward the screen, where she could just barely make out the sounds of the blond bartender speaking. “It isn’t sounding any less dangerous.”
“That is why I placed a variety of puzzles in your previous enclosure. You did not realize it at the time, but I was preparing each of you. The Gauntlet’s intellectual puzzles could take the form of anagram puzzles like in the candy shop, or the number games in the toy store. The physical puzzles might be climbing, like in the forest. Or balance, like in the sledding course.” He paused. “But there is a key difference. In your previous enclosure, you were always safe. If you fell in the forest’s treetop puzzle, you would only land on soft pine needles. If you got lost in the desert’s maze, there was ample water and shade. But those were merely training modules. In the real Gauntlet, there will be no safety nets. If you fall, you fall.”
Cora’s stomach tightened. “And you really think those puzzles trained me well enough?”
“We will have to hope so.” At the look of apprehension that crossed her face, he added, “I would not have chosen you, or any of the other potential candidates, if you hadn’t already shown exceptional abilities. Humans are already quite advanced in physical, intellectual, and moral development. It is the perception category that will require further training. We have just over two rotations until the Gauntlet module arrives. There is a docking procedure that takes one-tenth of a rotation, about three days. All in all, we have roughly thirty days to prepare.” He pressed the device again, and the blueprints folded back up into it and flickered off.
Cora blinked at the bare table. There was something about it all that made her skin tingle in an exciting way, urging her to take this chance—but then she saw that same flash of excitement on Cassian’s face too, and it killed hers.
“Don’t bother,” she said. “I don’t need to know how, because I’m not going to run it. It’s just a game to you, moving us around like chess pieces.”
“You don’t understand what is at stake. By the next Gauntlet, enough time will have passed that humanity’s evolution will be obvious. But instead of supporting it, the Intelligence Council will suppress it. We must do this before they understand your potential, while they think it is still harmless to let you run. It must be now. It must be this Gauntlet. You must have a sponsor; naturally, that will be me. That is how all of this will be possible.”
She crossed her arms tight, trying to act indifferent, though the allure of the Gauntlet was still fresh in her mind. “Then find a different girl to run.”
“There have been other candidates—Anya, for one—but none of them worked out. Even if another human displayed potential at this point, that human would not be able to sufficiently develop his or her abilities in time. It must be you.” He paused. “I want it to be you, Cora.”
At the sound of her name, spoken not in his monotone voice but like that day on the beach, standing in the surf, her skin started to tingle in that dangerous way.
She turned away sharply. “I don’t need puzzles or bureaucrats or scorecards to tell me humans are intelligent.” She slid open the alcove screen. Beyond, the hunt ceremony had ended. A girl with dark-brown skin was onstage, tap-dancing to music, a bandage around one knee, dressed in a gown like Cora’s but knee length. The girl flinched every time she had to bend her hurt knee. Cora started to step into the lodge, but Cassian slid the alcove screen shut again.
He leaned in, not stiffly anymore, the patient look gone from his eyes. “I cannot force you to run the Gauntlet, but take time to think it through before you make up your mind.” And then his expression eased, and he took her hand, weaving his fingers between hers, turning her palm upward. “It isn’t a game,” he said. “It never has been.”
With her palm toward the ceiling, the markings were an even greater reminder that she was, and would always be, a prisoner.
She pulled her hand back, trying to ignore the tingling sensation. “I’d rather take my chances with the wild animals.”
Even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t entirely true.
The definition of stubborn, Charlie’s voice echoed, is to know what the right thing to do is, but not to do it anyway just to prove a point.
She snatched up the dress angrily.
Shut up, Charlie, she thought silently, glad that a memory couldn’t answer back.
5
Cora
CORA WENT INTO A different alcove to change into the gold dress, and when she came out, the dancing girl had finished onstage. The girl now slouched on a stool at the end of the bar, gulping water from a cloudy glass, shaking her head at something the Kindred guest on the next stool said. Cora recognized him as the one with the eerily sunken eyes. He produced a golden token from his pocket; it flashed in the lantern light. The dancing girl hunched further, massaging the muscles around her hurt knee, but then sighed and took the token. The Kindred patted her on the head as one would a dog.
Cora’s stomach turned. In the cage, she had been constantly observed, but there had been walls. The Kindred could watch but not touch. Here, there were no walls. Nothing to stop the Kindred from doing whatever they wanted to their human pets. And judging by the bandage on the dancer’s knee, and the scraggly haircuts on the others, the Kindred weren’t particuarly interested
in their pets’ welfare.
Cassian motioned to the empty stage.
“I’m supposed to start singing now?” she asked. “Already?”
“This isn’t like your previous enclosure. There is no adjustment period. Here you sing, or you starve.” He held out his hand to help her up, but she ignored it and stepped onstage. Her bare feet crunched over sand grit and something uncomfortably sticky. She lifted the gold dress’s hem, trying not to look too hard at the stains on the stage.
“What am I supposed to sing?”
“Whatever you like,” Cassian answered. “We do not create music; to us, it all sounds alike. Pleasant but vague.”
She stared beyond the microphone at the tables that were now cast in shadows. When she shaded her eyes, she just made out the dancing girl with her arms around the Kindred guest, the two of them dancing slowly in the center of the room.
Cassian started for the door.
“Wait,” Cora whispered, covering the microphone. “You’re just going to leave me here?” He was a monster, yes, but a monster she knew.
“My responsibilities as a Warden did not end when your enclosure failed. We are in the process of introducing new wards to that facility. Younger ones this time, taken from regulated preserves where they have been raised. There is hope they will adapt better than your cohort did, as they have never known Earth. We will have to suspend Rule Three until they are older, but it is an acceptable sacrifice.”
“You mean they’re just children?” she asked.
He nodded.
Her stomach turned again.
“You do not believe it is morally correct to take children,” he concluded. “If you don’t like it, then work with me to change the system. Consider what I’ve told you. This place will”—he looked around at the dirty floor—“give you needed perspective. You will soon realize that I am correct. If you have any hope of bettering your life, the Gauntlet is the only way. I will return when my duties allow to see if you have changed your mind.”