Chapter 7
HANDS HELP ME stand. Lead me into the hall. Someone asks me to wait and other people in jumpsuits come running from every direction. I clutch my bag to my chest like a security blanket as activity swirls around me. Ryme is cut down from the ceiling. A gurney appears. When she is whisked past me, I recognize the rope still around her neck: her dress, the one she looked so lovely in yesterday, tied to a bed sheet. I can't help my stomach from emptying or the tears that flow hot and fast — for her, for me, for not seeing the desperation and depression under the arrogant façade. Did my taunting her with finishing the final written test push her over the edge? Could a kind word have saved her? "Cia?" I blink and realize Dr. Barnes is holding my shoulders. Looking into my eyes. I blink twice and swallow the bile building in the back of my throat. Mutely, I nod that I hear him. "They are going to assign you a different room. " He leans against the wall next to me. "Would you like to talk about it?" No. But I will. I have to. Softly, I tell him about Ryme's arrogance and her taunts today. My reaction and the apology I eventually gave. Even the corncakes and what I suspected they might contain. He's a good listener. His deep brown eyes meet mine without censorship. His head nods, encouraging me to say more — never once letting his eyes travel to the officials walking in and out of the room, cleaning the floor next to me, talking in hushed tones about removing her belongings. When I am done, I feel empty, which is better in a way than feeling smothered by guilt. Dr. Barnes assures me Ryme's death is not my fault. As we discussed earlier, stress is difficult. Some students handle stress better than others. Some can't eat. Some never sleep. Ryme took her own life. While this is a tragedy, it is better for the entire Commonwealth population to learn now that she is not capable of dealing with the kinds of pressure she would be forced to deal with in the future. This event is unfortunate, but The Testing served its purpose. He hopes Ryme's choice to end her candidacy will not impact the results of mine. End her candidacy? Inside I am icy cold. An official in purple informs us my room is ready, and Dr. Barnes gives my shoulders a squeeze. I smile and tell him I'll be fine and that talking to him made me feel better. I hope he can't see the lie. Because while his tone was kind, I heard the indifference in his words. To him, this was just another test. One Ryme failed. If I am not careful, I will fail, too. I am shown my new room at the very end of the hall. The walls are painted yellow. They remind me of the dress Ryme was wearing when I first met her. The official asks me if I'm okay not having a roommate. If I don't want to be alone he is certain a female official would be happy to sleep in the spare bed. No, I do not want to be alone. Awake, I am having trouble keeping Ryme's lifeless eyes out of my head. Asleep, I will be defenseless to stop her from haunting me. Knowing I will be alone through the ordeal makes me want to curl up in a ball. But Dr. Barnes's words ring loud in my head. The Testing is about more than what happens in the classrooms. Asking for help through the night will be seen as a weakness. Leaders are not weak. The Testing is looking for leaders. So I thank the official and tell him, "I'm fine being alone. " He tells me to let the official at the desk know if I change my mind. They can even give me drugs if I need help sleeping. Then he shuts the door behind him. I look around the room. Aside from the color it is an exact replica of the one I previously occupied. I hear muted voices and the sound of footsteps. Other candidates returning to their rooms from dinner. For a moment, I consider opening my door and going in search of my friends. A smile from Zandri, a hand squeeze from Tomas, or even one of Malachi's quiet looks would help ease the sadness. But I don't open the door because that, too, could be considered a weakness. Instead I shower, change into my nightclothes, wash the daytime ones, and hang them to dry. Lying on the bed, I stare up at the ceiling, trying to conjure happy memories. Anything to ward off images of Ryme hanging from the light fixture. I can't help but wonder whether my father witnessed something similar. Whether his brain had made up an even worse memory of The Testing to compensate for the horrific one he used to have. At this very moment, I believe it is more than possible. Everything is quiet. The others have taken to their beds and are sleeping in preparation for whatever is to come tomorrow. I am still awake. I keep the lights blazing bright and fight against the heaviness of my eyes. I am losing the battle when something catches my eye. A small circular glint in the ceiling. One that matches the one I saw in the skimmer. A camera. It is all I can do to keep the discovery off my face. I don't know why it should surprise me that there is a camera watching even when we are doing the most mundane chores like sleeping and getting dressed. But it does. Is this room alone being watched? Because I found Ryme? Immediately, I reject the idea. If they are watching one room, I am certain they are watching them all. The implication of that sucks the air out of my lungs. If there are cameras in every room, someone watched Ryme as she stripped her bed of the sheet. Tied it to her dress. Reasoned out the best place to affix it to the light fixture on the ceiling. They watched as she stepped off the chair. Saw her struggle against the rope, claw her throat in an attempt to free herself, and go limp as her body shut down. They could have saved her. Instead, they let her die. I force myself to appear calm as I walk over to the light switch and cast the room into shadows. Whoever is watching, I don't want them to see the horror I feel. I bury my head under the covers and out of habit clutch my bag to my chest. I wonder if the people behind the screen are reliving Ryme's death while they sleep tonight. It is mean of me, but I hope they are because I am even before sleep pulls me under. Ryme's blotchy red face and her glassy, blood-streaked eyes follow me into my dreams. Her voice taunts me with my inadequacies. She offers me corncakes and this time I take one and eat it. Each time I wake, I force myself to go still. Not to call out or thrash about. I keep my head under the covers just in case the camera can see more than I believe, and do my best to wipe my mind clean of the horrors before dropping into sleep again. When the morning announcement comes, I am grateful to climb out from under the sheets. I go into the bathroom and study myself in the reflector. I look tired, but no more so than I did yesterday morning. Taking this as a good sign, I pull on my clothes and brush out my hair while scanning the bathroom for prying eyes. No cameras. At least none that I can see. The Testing officials must not be interested in our hygiene habits. I leave my hair loose around my shoulders, hoping it will pull focus from the fatigue in my eyes, grab my bag, and head down to breakfast. Tomas and the twins are already seated when I arrive. Tomas's face is filled with relief and he wraps me in a tight hug before I have a chance to sit down. As I sit, Tomas gives my plate a long look. In my effort to appear normal, I have piled it with bacon, eggs, sliced potatoes, fruit, and sweet rolls. I immediately shove a piece of bacon into my mouth to discourage questions about yesterday. It works until Zandri, Malachi, and their roommates arrive. Once everyone is seated, Tomas asks, "Is everything okay? We kept waiting for you to come back last night. " They wait for me to reply. I replay Dr. Barnes's words in my head. Did he mean for me to keep silent? I don't think so, so I quietly say, "Ryme is dead. She killed herself last night. " The Five Lakes candidates show various degrees of surprise. The twins sigh and give each other knowing looks. After a moment, Will says, "We figured it might be something like that. Our teacher warned us about the pressure. He was a Testing official for a couple of years and said there were at least two or three suicides in every Testing class. " Ryme was one. I can't help wondering who might be next. Judging by their silence, I'm guessing my friends are doing the same. We talk about it a bit then concentrate on eating. I give some of my extra food to Malachi, who has definitely added on pounds since coming here three days ago, and shove a sweet roll into my bag. I don't know if we are supposed to take food from the dining hall, but I figure if someone on the other side of the cameras objects, they'll stop me. No one does. Another announcement is made. We tromp to the elevators and are whisked back to the lecture hall. Dr. Barnes is once again up front. He smiles at everyone as they take their seats and congratulates us on finishing the first phase of The Testing. "The tests are currently being evaluated by the Testing staff. Because we are aware of your unique skills, each group has its own set of requirements to achieve a passing score. After lunch we will meet with the Testing candidates and inform them whether they have been passed on or whether their Testing has come to an end. Until then, you will have time to spend as you like — either in your rooms, the dining hall, or the designated area outside. " Outside. The idea of fresh air lifts my spirits. Dr. Barnes tells us that all candidates going outdoors must stay within the fence surrounding the Testing Center. Breaking the rule is grounds for automatic dismissal from further Testing. Candidates shift in their seats, getting ready to bolt for the door, when Dr. Barnes's expression changes. There is sadness. And though I am prepared for his words, my breath still catches and my eyes mist with tears. "I am sorry to announce that Testing candidate Ryme Reynald took her own life last night. " Some students gasp and cry out, but I notice more than one sly smile that says, One down. I try to remember the faces that go with those smiles just in case. Dr. Barnes continues. "We know that this is a difficult process, but I hope that those of you who remain will talk to me or one of the other officials if the pressure becomes too much. We are here to help. Please enjoy your morning of relaxation. I wish you the best of luck this afternoon. " Based on where we want to spend our morning, candidates are directed into one of the two elevators. The left goes up to our rooms on the fifth floor. All of us from Five Lakes Colony head to the right. The sun is shining, the grass is green and sweet, and a light breeze is blowing as we step outside. Two officials in purple are stationed at the front door, but otherwise we have the large fenced-in area surrounding the Testing Center to ourselves. We can see the University buildings shining in the sun — some only steps away from the fence. The buildings and the knowledge they hold remind me why I am here. Only about three dozen candidates opted to make the trip outside. Since most are finding spots in the grass in front, the four of us from Five Lakes head around the building to the back. There, we find several tall flowering trees and three benches next to a small pond. The ripples of clean, clear water and the sun shining down have a rejuvenating effect on me. While the others sit on the benches, I take off my boots and socks, roll up my pants, and wade in. That's when I notice the metal piping in the middle of the water. A fountain? I wade closer. Yes. I am certain of it. I wade around to the other side of the pond and find the power box nestled discreetly in a pile of rocks. The switch on the box says the fountain is on. So why isn't it working? Could this be another test? I drop my bag onto the ground and pull out the small hunting knife I brought as one of my two personal items. Flipping out the screwdriver, I take the cover off the box and look inside. None of the wires or connections appears to be severed. There are no black marks indicating an overload or a burnout. The switch is connected properly. The trouble must be the pump. Back at the center of the pond, I lean down and peer through the clear water at the pump. It's compact and looks undamaged. I consider removing it, but realize there is someone better equipped for the job. Someone who installed an entire irrigation system at his parents' farm. Tomas is more than willing to leave his bench and take a look. Zandri and Malachi laugh at us as we poke around the pump, but after a while they fall into quiet conversation, leaving Tomas and me to our own devices. Tomas thinks the problem might be the impeller. I guess the motor. We decide to remove the pump to find out who's right. Tomas uses my knife to unscrew the pump from its base, and we head to the shore. A few minutes later, we have the cover off and I give a shout of victory. The impeller is perfect. The motor has a loose connection. I tinker with it for a while and think I have the problem licked. Tomas puts the cover back on and installs the pump back in the pond. Minutes later, water shoots into the air, soaking us both. Problem solved. We lie on the grass, letting the sun dry our clothes, and I try to hang on to the happiness I feel whenever I make something work. I twist the bracelet on my wrist and use my fingernail to probe for the clasp as the four of us talk about our families and what might be happening in Five Lakes Colony right now. Zandri gets a faraway look in her eyes. She is missing home. I am, too, and I can't help but wonder if all four of us will still be here to talk of home tomorrow. I think I have found where my bracelet fastens when they call us to lunch. And when I poke the side of the second metal link with my knife, I hear a click that tells me I am right. I consider mentioning it to the others, but they have already started toward the building. Carefully, I refasten the bracelet as I walk to the other side of the pond and hit the switch. The fountain gurgles and stops. They might have power to spare here, though I can't help but heed the training I've had all my life. Waste is unnecessary. Tomas is waiting for me as I hurry to catch up. The warm approval in his eyes makes my heart skip several beats. While the last two meals have been filled with chatter, the atmosphere at lunch is subdued. You can see the tension in everyone's eyes as they stare at the clock hanging on the wall behind the buffet. No one knows exactly when the results interviews will begin, but we know they will start soon. Everyone leaves food on their plates. I shove an apple into my bag as the twins try to keep the mood light by telling jokes. Everyone pretends to laugh. The loudspeaker crackles. "Please return to your sleeping quarters. When your name is called, quickly exit your quarters with your belongings. An official will escort you to your designated results room. Best of luck. " Chairs scrape against the floor as candidates head for their rooms. Our table is the last to rise. I look from face to face. Tomas. Malachi. Zandri. Nicolette. Boyd. Will and Gill. The chances of us all making it to the next round are small. We say nothing. Wishing each other luck will not change the work we have already done — the results that have already been determined. So we squeeze hands and say we'll see each other later, knowing full well the words are a lie. I wait in my quarters as names are announced over the loudspeaker, trying not to think about my father's words. I can't help but wonder why no one has ever mentioned what happens to past Testing candidates who didn't succeed. What became of them? What will become of us? Unfamiliar names are called. But then I hear Malachi's name quickly followed by Tomas's. Time stands still although the clock says otherwise. Finally, my breath catches as my name is called. I enter the hallway. A woman in red silently escorts me down to the elevators. She pushes number two, and the doors close. When they open, a male Testing official nods and asks me to follow him down a long white hallway to a set of dark wood doors. He opens the door on the left and steps to the side. I enter the room alone. The room is small with only a shiny black desk and two black chairs. The walls are white. The dark-haired woman behind the desk asks me to sit. I follow her command and wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment she says nothing. My heart slams against my rib cage. I swallow hard and try not to fidget. Finally, she smiles. "Congratulations. You have passed the first round of Testing. " Relief fills me. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding in as she tells me I should get plenty of rest before the next round. An official walks me back to the elevators. The doors open on the third floor. I walk into the lecture hall and strong arms immediately swoop me close. Tomas's voice whispers, "Congratulations, partner. I knew you could do it. " Then Malachi is giving me a shy hug. Of those at our dining hall table, the three of us are the first to arrive. Boyd arrives next, looking pleased. He high-fives Malachi, almost knocking him over. The room begins to fill up. Nicolette arrives, looking flushed with pride. We watch the door from our place in the back of the room, waiting for the next of our party. Will strolls in with a cocky smile. We wave to him. He breaks into a large grin and starts walking over. The grin fades as his eyes move from face to face. By the time he reaches us the smile is back, but I can tell something is wrong. I remember the way I could hear the names of candidates over the loudspeaker as they were called for their results before me. Will must have heard a name called. A name of someone not returning. Of our group only two have not returned. Dread coats my stomach. Five minutes pass before the last two candidates arrive, followed by Dr. Barnes. One of them looks around the room, spots us, and breaks into a large smile. Zandri crosses to us and gives Malachi the first hug. Most of our group congratulates her, but I walk toward Will, who is still watching the door — waiting. Realizing his other half won't be returning. Dr. Barnes asks us to take our seats and congratulates the Testing candidates who remain. I have to lead Will to a chair. Force him into the seat. Tomas and I sit on either side of Will as he begins to tremble. From their stories, I know Will and Gill have never been apart for more than a couple of hours. I've watched them complete each other's sentences. I wonder how one half will survive without the other. Will holds my hand like a lifeline as we are told the second round of tests will begin tomorrow morning after breakfast — the first of a series of hands-on examinations that will allow us to demonstrate our intellect, unique skills, and problem-solving techniques. Dr. Barnes then warns, "If there is a part of the test you do not understand or do not know how to complete, please do not guess. Raise your hand and let the Testing official in your designated room know you cannot finish. Leaving a problem unsolved is better than giving an incorrect answer. Wrong answers will be penalized. " He lets the words settle on us and dismisses us with one last round of congratulations. Tomas helps me get Will up and moving. By the time we get to the dining hall, Will is telling us his brother probably failed on purpose so he could go home to his girlfriend. He tells more jokes at dinner. Every once in a while I see him glance to his left as though waiting for his brother to finish his thought before realizing he isn't there. We go to our quarters early to get ready for whatever will come with the morning. I dream of Ryme with a makeshift noose tight around her neck, offering corncakes to Gill. She smiles at me as he takes one and falls to the floor dead. In the morning I scrub with cold water to wash the grainy feel from my eyes and then head to breakfast. I'm the last of our table to arrive. Spirits are high. Especially Will's as he flirts mercilessly with Nicolette. Her cheeks and the tips of her ears are tinged with pink as she sips her glass of apple juice. Judging by the way she smiles back at him, I don't think his attention is unwelcome. I hope he isn't just using her as a way of coping with his brother's absence. Things are stressful enough. The announcement is made and we all head to the elevators, back to the third-floor lecture hall. Dr. Barnes, with his smile bright against his graying beard, watches us as we take our seats. He tells us that there are eighty-seven of us left. He reminds us the second phase of Testing begins today and asks us all to remember that in this phase wrong answers are penalized. We are called in groups of six. I am surprised when Malachi and Will are called with me, and we trail down the hall after a testing official. The Testing room holds six waist-high worktables in two rows — three in front, three in back — each with a small stool seated directly behind it. On the left-hand corner of each station is a small sign depicting a candidate symbol. In the center of every table is a large wooden box. A silver-haired female official asks us to find the table marked with our symbol. My workstation is the back center one. Malachi's is at the front to my right. Will is next to me on my left. He catches me looking at him and winks. The official tells us to raise our hands when we complete the test in front of us. The box will be removed. When all candidates have finished the current box, a new test will be brought out. We are to complete as many tests as we can in the allotted time. This test will not break for lunch, she warns. Then she repeats Dr. Barnes's instructions about raising our hands if we don't know how to complete the test, stressing that we are not to guess at answers we are uncertain of. She tells us to solve the puzzle of opening the box and then follow the instructions for the test we find inside. Seems easy, which is enough to make me nervous. The Testing is not designed to be easy. I study the box while out of the corner of my eye I can see several of my fellow candidates tapping and tugging at theirs. My mother has a puzzle box at home that her grandfather created for her. It requires the opener to slide pieces of the box to the side in a specific order — otherwise, the box will not open. Slowly, I turn the box on the table so I can view every side. The wood is rich and smooth and has a swirling etched design that makes it quite beautiful. I'm sure Zandri would be able to identify the technique used to create the pattern, but I'm not interested in admiring it. I want to open the thing. Ah. There in the bottom corner I see a small knot in the pattern. Nowhere else on the box is there that tiny, circular shape. A button? I dig the tip of my index finger into the small spot and feel something give way. Sure enough — the side of the box is now able to slide up and off. I set that piece to the side and pull out the instruction sheet. Test the plants inside the box for edibility. Separate those that are edible from those that are poisonous. Again there is a warning: If you do not know an answer, do not guess. Set the unknown plant to the side. I smile. This test was designed for me. There are eight plants in the box. I recognize six immediately. The white flowers arranged in an umbrella-looking shape are water hemlock. My father says they were deadly even before the lakes were corrupted by biochemical warfare. The deep green leaf with the threads of red veins I believe is also poisonous. At least the rhubarb leaves that grow by us are not to be eaten. The branch of deep green oval leaves with brown nestlike shapes hanging from the branch has to be a beech nut. I'm also positive I recognize sassafras, wild onion, and nettle, which are often eaten by the bugs in our colony. The last two species give me pause. I sniff the first — a large, jaggedly shaped green leaf. There is a faint hint of a floral scent. I can see on the stem where a flower might have been connected recently. The leaf is soft and reminds me of a flower that my father pointed out to me a few years ago — not one he created, because it is poisonous and his work is to create things that will sustain life. Still, he thought the plant had value because of its fragrant beauty. Is this the same plant? If not, I believe it to be related. I put it in the poisonous pile and move on to the last — a dark hairy root with white flowerlike leaves attached to the top. I scrape away the outside of the root with my fingernail and sniff it. It smells sweet. Not like a beet or a carrot. Those are very different. But something about this seems familiar. I can hear Dad's voice as he talks about a variety of roots that have had luck growing in southern colonies. One called chicory that Zeen wanted a sample of to study in case it would help with the new version of potato. This is chicory or something near to it. I feel confident enough to place it in the edible pile and raise my hand. The other candidates look at me as the official checks my work. She asks if I am confident in my answers. Wiping my palms on my pants, I look over the plants once more. Yes. I am as certain as I am going to get. She smiles and scribbles something in a notebook. Then she removes the nonedible plants and tells me to take a seat until the other candidates are finished. Ten minutes later, everyone's work has been checked. The Testing official has removed the plants the candidates separated as not edible and has recorded those in her notebook. Back up front, she asks us one last time if we want to change our answers. She calls each of our names and waits for us to answer yes or no. None of us takes her up on her offer. "Well, then," she says cheerfully, "you should have no problem ingesting a sample of each plant you have deemed edible. " The room goes silent. Finally, I understand. Yes — a wrong answer will be penalized. Dizziness. Vomiting. Hallucinations. Maybe even death. I glance around at the tables in the room and see each Testing candidate has a different sampling of plants. There is no way to compare answers. Did I make a mistake? The boy in front of me seems confident he did not. He quickly samples each of his plants. Next to me, Will samples his four. I take a deep breath and eat the beech nut, a small piece of the sugary root I hope is chicory, and the other three plants. None of the plants I deemed poisonous would be fast-acting. We will have to wait to learn whether any of us has made a mistake. There is no time to worry about whatever might be happening inside my body as Testing officials carry in the next box. This one has a complicated sliding pattern to remove the top and all four sides. Inside is a large pulse radio and a set of small hand tools. The instructions say to restore the pulse radio to working order. We are told that before the Seven Stages of War, the world was able to communicate through devices that bounced signals to satellites in space. I don't know what happened to those satellites. Maybe they are still floating somewhere above us or maybe they have crashed into the earth without any of us knowing. And with the earthquakes that pulled apart the earth, all underground wires for communication were severed. After the war, scientists decided to use the much higher concentration of electromagnetic radiation to restore communication. Pulse radios were born, although they can broadcast more than just voices. With the right receiver on the other side, pulse radios can broadcast images as well as sound. They record large chunks of communication and then create a pulselike signal that propels out to receivers. My father has a pulse radio to communicate with other colonies and Tosu City, so I have seen one before. My father even let me take a look inside it. Which means it is easy for me to find the wires that are mistakenly crossed, fix the solar-powered motor, and make a few tweaks to the transmitter. In between each adjustment, I pause and check my heart rate to determine whether the plants I consumed are making me sick. At any sign of illness, I plan on purging the other plants from my stomach. It won't impact the poison already in my bloodstream, but I have to try something. While working, I notice a few wires that clearly don't belong in a pulse radio and some small metal hinged boxes that don't look familiar. If I were at home, I would poke around to see what they contained. But this isn't home. I will do only what I am certain of. I screw the top back on the pulse radio and am about to raise my hand when I notice Malachi swaying on his feet. Fatigue or one of the plants he consumed? I think of the plants that I received and try to decide if one of them would cause this kind of reaction. Sweat pours down his face. His hands begin to shake as he starts work on an area of the radio that I ignored. One that contained an unfamiliar metal box. I know we are not supposed to help our fellow candidates, but Malachi's shoulders are twitching and I am worried the plants he ingested no longer allow him to think rationally. I open my mouth to call out — to tell him not to touch the metal box. But he already has. A moment later a nail imbeds itself in Malachi's eye, and he drops to the floor like a stone.