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I bite back a scream as I wake. The sky is still dark. The clock says only an hour has gone by since I climbed into bed. I push away the dreams, force myself to breathe in and out until my muscles relax. In three days, classes will begin. Professor Holt has set me up to fail. Why? Do the administrators believe I have regained my memory of The Testing and because of that understand better how they think? Is there a chance Dr. Barnes and Professor Holt know there is an underground movement to remove them from power and are looking for people who may be in contact with it?
Whatever the reason, Dr. Barnes and Professor Holt have a problem with me. They have set things up in a way they believe will lead to my downfall. Or, at the very least, my being ranked below the other first-year students. They mentioned irregularities in my Testing as the cause of their concern, but I can’t remember enough to know what I did to gain their attention.
The Transit Communicator recording tells me I figured out how to remove the bracelet and the listening device it contained. I must have removed it to make the recording. Could they be aware of my ability to keep some things hidden from them? Is whatever I kept from their watchful eyes now the source of their concern? I don’t know. And while the only way to beat them at this new game is to do as Ian says and excel at my classes, I cannot help but worry. If they expect me to fail, how will they react when I do not? Will scoring top marks keep me safe, or will it prompt anger and punishment?
All my life, I have believed that hard work and effort will be rewarded. Not just with grades but with results. Healthy plants. Abundant food sources. Clean water. Energy to light our homes. Machines that make it possible to communicate and share information to further our country’s growth and help us all not only survive but thrive. For the first time, I am forced to contemplate the possibility that the harder I work, the less I will achieve. That I should work to be average instead of endeavoring to excel. But I’m not convinced that doing so would not draw even more attention, since I have spent the last several months striving for the top marks in my class. Anything less might make my professors question my dedication to the University or make them wonder if I’m aware of their scrutiny. The only real hope I have for success is Michal and Symon’s rebels.
Tension makes my head throb. Closing my eyes, I pull the blankets tight around my shoulders and will the nightmares away. But the dreams still come. A gray-haired man smiling through a fence. Zandri asking me to explain how she died. I open my mouth to tell her, but nothing comes out. Because I don’t know. I need to know.
Zandri fades away, and I see Tomas smiling at me. Holding me in the dark. Speaking of love. Whispering that he might have found a way to keep our memories. He holds up a pill and smiles, and I yank myself out of sleep. Pushing aside the sweaty, tangled sheets, I sit up and work to hold on to the dream. Or is it a memory?
There is only one way to find out. Tomas.
The idea that Tomas has retained his Testing memories is hard to believe. That would mean he not only betrayed me by not telling me what happened to Zandri in The Testing but has deceived me ever since by keeping silent. The Tomas I grew up with in Five Lakes Colony was always honest. He would never have kept his memories of The Testing to himself.
But Tomas is changed. Just as I am. Memories or no, all of us who went into The Testing emerged different. Despite the alterations of our memory, somewhere in each of us resides the truth. Whether I like it or not, it is time for me to discover what that is.
Unfortunately, until the other three teams arrive and the bridge is replaced, I have no choice but to wait. With Professor Holt monitoring my behavior, the enforced inactivity is probably a good thing. All morning, I find myself pacing the floor of my room or walking around the grounds outside.
It is early afternoon when Griffin’s team arrives at the ravine and climbs out of the skimmer. After several minutes, I see them doing what we did—exploring the length of the divide for a better spot to cross. An hour later, they are joined by the four members of Jacoby’s team. From my place under the willow, I squint into the late afternoon sunlight and try to make out what both teams are doing. Jacoby’s team has begun to tinker with their skimmer—perhaps thinking they can use the parts to activate the motor on the bridge. Most of Griffin’s team is working to knot ropes together. All but Raffe. From here, I can see him rubbing the bandage on his arm as he stares into the void. Griffin yells at him to help with the work, but Raffe ignores him. When Raffe does finally turn back to talk to his team, it is obvious he has figured out the solution. They all drop their ropes. Then Jacoby’s group stops work as well. Ten minutes later, they are all standing in front of the residence.
The bridge has barely retracted when the last skimmer comes into view. Olive, Rawson, and Vance climb out. I wait for the fourth, and realize it is only these three. The fourth of their team, a girl with long brown hair whose name I can’t recall, is missing. Stranded at the zoo? Locked in a metal box, screaming for those who abandoned her to return? Or has her voice or air run out? I look toward the residence entrance, where Dr. Barnes and Professor Holt stand. Neither looks surprised by the missing team member. Do they know if she is alive or dead? Do they care?
I turn back and watch Olive and her remaining team members pick up the knotted rope Griffin’s team constructed. An hour passes. The rope bridge grows longer. Vance hammers pieces of wood together and attaches them to the ends of the rope. The sun begins to sink. The wind picks up, and several of the older Government Studies students disappear inside. After fifteen more minutes, Rawson throws down a section of rope and stalks away. Olive screams at him. He turns and yells something back. Vance stops his work and watches as his two teammates argue.
I see Rawson walk to the edge of the ravine and point across. Has he figured out the solution? Whatever he yells is too muddled for me to tell. Olive storms toward him, screaming something I can’t make out. I see Olive’s arms extend, make contact with Rawson’s torso, and shove. Deliberate? Out of anger? It doesn’t matter, because whatever the intent, the momentum pushes Rawson backward and he disappears over the edge.
Screams fill the air. I race with everyone on this side toward the ravine. Ian pushes a sequence of buttons that engages the bridge’s mechanisms. Several students peer over the edge. I pray that Rawson somehow landed on a ledge or grabbed on to a piece of protruding rock and choke back a sob as those who are closest shake their heads. The bridge locks into place, and I can’t help it—I run onto the platform and look down into the hole that goes on for hundreds if not thousands of feet. And see nothing. Rawson, a boy who left his colony and survived The Testing, is gone.
Chapter 11
MINE IS NOT the only face streaked with tears. As I look around, I see students huddled in groups. Their eyes wide with shock and sorrow. Across the bridge, the final-year guide Sam has his arm tight around Olive, who is kneeling at the edge of the ravine, shrieking Rawson’s name. Horror is etched into every inch of her face. The shrieks turn to sobs as Sam gets Olive onto her feet and steers her to the bridge.
Olive takes one step onto the metal walkway, breaks free of Sam’s hold, and runs. Not over the bridge toward the residence, but away. Sam turns and races after her, but Olive is fast and soon disappears. Whether the push was deliberate or an accident born of anger and stress, it’s clear from her reaction that Olive never intended for Rawson to go over the edge. I can’t imagine how she will live with the guilt that action will bring. Quiet murmurs and sniffles fill the air as we all watch the horizon, waiting for Olive and Sam to return. They do not.
Once a dry-eyed Vance stands on this side of the bridge, Professor Holt steps from under the tree into the dwindling sunshine and asks us to gather near. “Normally, we would hold the Induction ceremony tonight. However, in light of this tragedy, it will be postponed until tomorrow so together we can mourn the loss of Rawson Fisk. Dr. Barnes and I will be available to talk to those who need help dealing with this terrible event. All leaders are forced to confront tragedy, but we are sorry that you have to face it so early in your careers. Please let an official know if you are struggling to cope with this horrible loss. We are here to help.”
Dr. Barnes puts his arm around a sniffling girl and leads her into the residence. His posture speaks of caring and concern, but I see the cold calculation in his eyes as they sweep across the mourning crowd. Is he making note of the students who cry or the ones whose eyes are dry? Does he believe tears make a better leader? Will the students who come to him in search of comfort find themselves suddenly placed behind the rest of the pack, or will they be considered worthier of a high leadership position? It is impossible to know, and I am not interested in staying here and finding out.
When Dr. Barnes and Professor Holt disappear inside the residence, I head in the opposite direction. Away from whatever new test Rawson’s death has spawned. When I cross the bridge, my throat tightens. I know I will see Rawson in my dreams and wonder for the rest of my life if making a different choice when selecting my team could have saved his life. Would he be safe inside, preparing to start classes on Monday, if I had picked him first instead of the person I thought would help my team come out on top? While I know Rawson’s death is not my fault, I cannot help the guilt I feel. My team won this Induction task, but that victory wasn’t worth the cost. No victory is.
One more tear slides down my cheek and into the darkness below as I stop at the end of the bridge and whisper my farewell to Rawson. I wouldn’t have counted him among my friends, but he deserved so much better. Then, taking a deep breath, I turn in search of Tomas and the answers only he can give.
The Biological Engineering residence is easy to find. Unlike Government Studies, Biological Engineering houses its students just steps away from the classrooms and labs they’ll be studying in. But while it is easy to find the red brick two-story structure, I’m not sure what to do now that I’m here. In the short time I’ve been assigned to my residence, I have yet to see anyone other than Government Studies students inside or around our building. If there are rules that govern how students of different designated studies interact, I’m unaware of them. Still, there’s a chance my appearance at the Biological Engineering residence could cause trouble. Tomas might not appreciate the unwanted attention, and I’m held in enough suspicion as it is.
I find a spot on the grass next to the building across the street from Tomas’s residence and pretend to stare off in the distance, all the while keeping the front door in my periphery. Several older-looking students come out laughing. A few students go in. I wonder whether the Biological Engineering first years are still undergoing their own Induction. Maybe that’s why I see so few students come and go. A metallic taste fills my mouth at the idea of Tomas and the others facing the same kinds of challenges we did. The same dangers. But then I see a familiar tall brunette strut out the front door, and I spring to my feet. I’d almost forgotten that Kit was assigned to Biological Engineering. If she is here, Tomas could be nearby. She might be able to tell me where to find him or pass along a message.
I follow Kit as she heads down the walkway and turns a corner. Once we are both out of sight of her residence, I pick up the pace. “Kit. Wait up.”
She stops and turns, and her eyes narrow. “What are you doing here? I thought people in Government Studies were going through orientation this week.”
“Who told you that?”
“Tomas. He asked his final-year guide if he could visit some of his friends in other designated fields of study and was told both the Medicine and Government Studies students were unavailable until classes on Monday.” She tosses her waist-length hair and smiles. “What happened? Did you get Redirected like Obidiah?”
The mention of Obidiahs’s name and the amused expression on Kit’s face combined with the fresh horror of Rawson’s death make my hands ball into fists. I want to lash out the way I used to do when I was younger and my brothers picked on me.
Swallowing the bitterness bubbling inside, I say, “There was an accident. Rawson is dead.”
