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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.
Chapter 8
WHEN I WAS a child, I once cut my finger to the bone. My mother tells me I didn’t scream or cry out. I just froze as though staying still would stop the blood from flowing. The blood pooling on the white floor next to Malachi’s head has the same effect. A scream builds inside me, fights to get past my clenched throat, but I make no sound. Someone else’s shouts, maybe Will’s, wake me from stillness, and I race from my station to where Malachi lies twitching on the floor. A pair of purple-clad arms grab me and pull me back. In my struggle to get free I barely hear the head Testing official talking to me. Asking me if I have completed my test. If not, I must return to my station. Otherwise, there is a risk I will receive assistance from observing another candidate’s work.
I want to scream that the test doesn’t matter. Not when life is draining drop by drop onto the tile floor. But I choke out a yes, and I am released. The Testing officials make no move toward Malachi as I take his hand and hold tight. From their posture I can tell they will offer no aid. This is the penalty for an incorrect answer. To them he has earned whatever comes next.
The twitching is getting worse. While Malachi’s uninjured eye is open, I am uncertain if he can see or if the plant he ingested has caused some kind of coma as it wages war on his body. Still, I shift my position on the cold tile just in case. If he can see, he will recognize something of home. A girl who sang songs with him on the grass and asked him for help when she struggled with her homework. A girl who is his friend. Someone who can’t imagine what will happen when he is gone.
Only, I no longer need to imagine. The twitching stops. His muscles go slack as his chest stops its rise and fall. Malachi is dead.
Do I cry? I must. Because when they tell me to go back to my station, I touch my face and find my cheeks are wet. How long they let me sit next to Malachi’s unmoving body is uncertain to me. A while. Long enough for two of the other candidates to finish their tests—or perhaps, after what happened to Malachi, they chose to stop instead of taking their chances.
Giving Malachi’s hand one last squeeze, I brush a lock of dark curly hair from his forehead and kiss his cheek. The room swoops and spins as I stand. After a moment, I am able to walk stiffly to my station. I balance on my stool and wait for the officials to move Malachi’s body, but they don’t. Not yet. Not until everyone has completed this phase of the test.
I wait for the other candidates to protest. To say this is wrong. But I know why they don’t. It’s the same reason I don’t yell out. The reason is Malachi and his too-still body. We all want to live.
Several minutes later, Will raises his hand to indicate he has finished and then closes his eyes so he won’t have to see the shell of a boy he shared meals with. The girl to my right finishes. The Testing official checks our work. When she is done, she signals the other officials to remove Malachi from the floor. My fellow candidates look at the tops of their desks or up at the ceiling. I don’t. Malachi deserves someone who cares to bear witness. I force myself to watch every second—picking him up, carrying him by his arms and legs across the room, out the door. Away.
There is no time to grieve as the next boxes are brought in and placed on our tables. We are given permission to start.
My hands tremble as I smell the blood still staining the floor. I force myself to take deep breaths. Push myself to continue when I only want to run screaming from the room—leave the building—find my way back home. But I know that isn’t possible so I rub my hands on my pants, swallow my tears, and examine the box. I need several tries to figure out how to open it. Inside are soil samples and several capped beakers of solutions. We are to identify any soil samples that contain radiation.
I use only the solutions I can identify by smell and color. Out of the ten soil samples, there are four I am certain contain radiation, three that do not, and three on which I will not risk wagering a guess. Had this been the first test, before the plants, before Malachi’s twitching, bloody body, I
might have been arrogant enough to feign confidence. No more. Malachi made a mistake, and he paid for it. The price he paid would be worthless if I didn’t learn from his actions.
Four more test boxes appear in succession. There is a keypad to enter our answers to complex mathematical equations. I only answer half and am glad I didn’t guess on the last when the boy in front of me starts to shake. Electrocution. The punishment isn’t as severe as Malachi’s, but the boy can barely balance on his stool to work on the next three boxes.
I identify about three-quarters of the slides they ask us to view under what I suspect is a rigged microscope. Thankfully, we never learn what the penalty for mistakes would be. There is a solar power converter that I easily build—though the girl next to me ends up losing the tip of her finger—and six samples of water that we must purify using the chemicals provided. The purification test takes two hours, and we are instructed to drink the ones we think have been done correctly. I drink two. The electrocuted boy and the girl next to me drink none.
With that, the second round of tests is over. We are free to leave the room.
Will can barely walk. From the stress, the water he drank, or one of the slower-acting plants he might have ingested? I don’t know. But his legs tremble as he takes small, halting steps. I put my arm around his waist to lend my strength as we exit the Testing room. In the doorway, I stop walking and take one last look back at where Malachi fell—where his blood has dried on the floor. A tear falls. I say a whispered goodbye. Then, with a steadying breath, I lead Will away, wondering who else will be missing when we reach our table.
Boyd.
According to an ashen-faced Nicolette, he collapsed during the third exam and was taken for treatment. He never returned. They all look at me and Will, who is now seated but needs help staying upright. Tears prick the backs of my eyes and Tomas takes my hand and holds it. I am grateful to him for his support. For his survival. I share the story of our Testing room as quickly as possible, telling myself it is like pulling off a bandage. The quicker you pull, the less agonizing the pain. But I am wrong. Fast or slow, relating Malachi’s death digs a knife deep into my heart. Watching Tomas’s jaw clench and Zandri’s eyes fill with tears twists the knife until I don’t know if I can keep breathing.
The last of the Testing candidates straggle into the hall and an announcement is made. “All candidates who feel they are in need of medical attention, please report to the elevators.”
At least one candidate at every table gets up and heads back into the hallway. Nicolette tells Will he should go. He starts to rise, but I push him back into his seat and tell him not to. I study his face. His pupils are dilated, but his breathing has become easier. While his skin is still clammy, color is returning to his face. My gut tells me whatever caused this reaction is leaving his system. Do I think the right medicine would help him get better faster? Of that I have no doubt. But I remember Dr. Barnes’s words spoken in the hallway as Ryme was being cut down from the ceiling. About the Testing demonstrating the pressures a candidate can handle. About finding those who can deal with the pressures and still perform as leaders. I doubt those seeking medical attention will be deemed strong enough leaders to return.
Nicolette pleads with me, but I will not let Will go. I can’t. Dinner is served. I tell Tomas to get Will food and something to drink. That will help. I hope I’m right.
