BRINK: Book 1 - The Passing (5 page)

I feel like crying again but furiously stamp out the impulse. I am
so
done with tears for the day. Still, I'm not quite ready to face reality, so I stay where I am and do something I've only read about but never actually tried. I pray.

The practice of prayer is not completely unheard of, but it is generally considered disrespectful to God. If he wanted to speak to you, people say, he would initiate the conversation. But Harlow has been coming up with bits of scripture that suggest otherwise for years, and, frankly, I'm a little desperate right now. I hope God will overlook any sins I may be committing.

“God. Hi. I'm not sure if I should be trying to talk to you or not. Dad says...well, I guess I don't really care what Dad says...I mean, I care, but, like, I don't think he knows how you really...work. Not to say that I
myself
know how you work, but...argh.”

I shake my head, take a deep breath, and keep it simple.

“I'm scared. I don't know what to think about anything. I don't know if this is your plan, and I don't know what's right. If you're listening...just...help me figure out what to do. Please.”

I wait for some kind of change to occur – for peace to settle over my heart like it does for the characters in my books. But I just feel incredibly tired. Before I can put too much thought into it, there is a knock on the door.

“Miss Bowen? The system indicates your sim finished ten minutes ago. Is everything all right?”

I sigh. Time to go. “I'm fine,” I call. “You can come in.”

The analyst gives me a strange look when she enters, but says nothing, releasing me from my restraints in silence. As she ushers me out the door, she mentions that there are restrooms across the room if I need them, but that I shouldn't dawdle.

“Your sim took a long time,” she says in a voice carefully devoid of inflection. “Most of the others are already back in the auditorium. I'd hustle if I were you.”

Nodding at her, I bypass the restroom and make my way back to the auditorium on legs made of deflated bicycle tires, wondering why my sim would have lasted so much longer than the others. The thought does little to sooth the uneasiness gripping my heart.

The moment I step through the door, I can feel the soft pressure of someone watching me. Intent. Curious. I scan the faces of the people until I'm looking straight into the eyes of a tall, bearded guy with dark blond curls standing across the room. He's wearing dark jeans and an open plaid button down over a t-shirt that reads, “Sorry I'm not better looking.” Which is funny, really, both because of how much thought he apparently put into the awkwardness of the coming situation, and because the warmth I feel in my cheeks suggests that I find him very attractive indeed. I drop my gaze to my hands, but when I gather enough courage to look back up, he's still there, still watching. He lifts his hand and waves, friendly. I blush harder. He grins.

With a vigorous shake of my head, I force myself to disengage. This is ridiculous. I have too much to worry about to add a prospective suitor to the list. Besides, in a few hours, I'll be spoken for. We all will be. I look for Johanna's red dress and find her standing with Harlow near the center of the room, talking with her hands, as usual.

“How was it?” she asks as I sidle up to her. “The test?”

I shrug, trying to hide the fact that my heart still feels like I've just sprinted a mile. Uphill. In the snow. Wearing Wellingtons three sizes too big and carrying a squirming baby panda on my back. “I guess we'll see. You two still look nice and calm.”

“It...”

“...doesn't really matter. I know.”

Johanna smiles, softly apologetic. Then her eyes flick up to focus on something over my right shoulder.

“Incoming,” she murmurs with a slight tilt of her head.

I know it's Bearded Guy without even turning my head - can sense it when he reaches my side. I wonder what on earth this stranger thinks he's going to accomplish by addressing me now, seconds before the Choosing begins. It's not exactly the most opportune moment to suggest meeting for coffee sometime. I hear him draw a breath to speak, and turn to look at him.

“You're kind,” he says without preamble, catching me entirely off guard.

“I...I what?”

“I saw you give that guy water earlier,” he says, his voice lower and more...musical...than I expected. “And I saw you hold the door for everyone before the test, and smile at that little redhead who keeps looking like she's going to burst into tears any second. You're kind. I appreciate that.”

I open my mouth to tell him that none of that meant much. That the water was day-old and luke-warm, and I was tired of carrying it around. That I held the door because I was terrified of what was on the other side. That I probably smiled at the redhead, who I don't even remember, because smiling is my default position. But before I have a chance, the microphone squeals and we cringe as a group, necks into shoulders, like frightened turtles. The stone-faced judge has once again taken the podium.

“Welcome to the second portion of the Passing Ceremony. Before we begin I would like to briefly outline procedure. We will call each young lady in random order, announcing her name and number and asking her to come to the platform. We will then call the three young men with the most similar algorithm results to join the young lady on stage and allow her to make a selection. If selected, the gentleman will be permitted to either accept or decline her offer. If he accepts, the couple will then proceed to the room of blessing, and will enter society as unified partners. Be aware that anyone who refuses to make a selection or accept any offers faces almost certain death by the break of dawn tomorrow morning.”

I should be listening, should be thinking about the fact that this procedure seems, in the very best light, poorly thought out and skewed in favor of the first women called, but I'm overwhelmingly aware that Bearded Guy is still standing beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat from his body, smell hints of deodorant and fresh laundry detergent. I have a bizarre urge to touch him, to let my bare arm brush his, to feel liquid fire rush through my veins when he doesn't move to break the contact, as I feel absolutely certain he wouldn't. Instead, I clasp my hands together in front of me and draw them up to my collarbones, effectively keeping myself from doing something so silly and juvenile.

After a moment, I feel him look at me again.

“I'm Aaron, by the way,” he whispers.

I can't help it – I smile at him. “Brynn. Nice to meet you.”

The judge is droning on about the importance of the decision we are about to make, words he could undoubtedly recite in his sleep, given that he mostly likely repeats them fifty or sixty times every year. As he speaks, he keeps his body angled away from us, his nose slightly wrinkled, his lips tight. It is as though he were staring at a disease-ridden mutt, covered head to toe in its own vomit and urine. So much pity. So much revulsion. And yet he manages to keep his voice almost hollow. All the emotions have been carefully scooped out. I struggle to pay attention.

“...and therefore would simply ask that you keep in mind the fact that the closer two partners are in number, the greater their chances at a long and successful existence. Weak pairings frequently...expire...after a few years, making it nearly impossible to maintain the growth of our fragile human race. While we, the members of your governing body, do understand that this is perhaps the most difficult decision of your young lives, we hope that you will make your choice based on sound logic and duty to mankind, rather than on the whimsical, hot-blooded impulses so typical of your ego-centric generation.”

I glanced at Aaron, find him watching me, sidelong, and roll my eyes. He nods, understanding. “Douche bag,” we mutter at exactly the same time. I clap my hand over my mouth too late – a quasi-hysterical giggle has already burst, glittering, into the wet-leaf silence of the room. Johanna elbows me hard; the crowd leans away from us – water from oil. The judge's eyes narrow in our direction, and I feel like I've had my palm slapped by a ruler.

“Ahem. I also want to make you all aware of an unpleasant reality – that there will be two of you tonight who will not be chosen, given that the population of females is two persons smaller than that of the males. We will discuss options with the men left behind after the completion of this event. If there are no immediate questions, we shall proceed with the Choosing portion of the ceremony. Please separate and be seated. Men to the left, women to the right. Elise Barrunda, please come to the stage.”

“Hey,” Aaron murmurs before we move apart. “Try not to be so disruptive, all right?.”

I can't resist a return jab. “Hey, try not to be such a hypocrite, all right?”

His blue eyes light up at my retort, and I shoot him an uncharacteristically playful grin before I turn and join Johanna on our side of the room. As soon as we sit down, I locate him on the other side of the room and have to keep myself from laughing again when he sticks his tongue out at me. Johanna catches sight of my face and smirks.

“He's cute, huh?”

I blush. “Not bad,” I mumble, wondering how I went from relative disinterest to a fairly powerful crush in the space of about ten minutes and steeling myself to ignore Aaron from now on. This is no time to act like a kid in junior university.

From our seats with the other women, Johanna and I watch Elise, a sparrow of a girl with eyes too large for her face, tremble her way up the stairs and stand next to the administrators. “Ms. Barrunda, you have been issued a 400. The gentlemen closest to 400 in number are, in reverse order, Shawn Pierce, 420, Edward Shoemaker, 389, Arrow Mishka, 392.”

The three young men rise and climb up to the stage. Elise's huge eyes widen even further when she sees her closest match, Arrow, a surly, sour faced gargoyle with long, dark hair and a barrel chest. I am instantly certain they are the worst possible pairing on the planet. He will crush her, body and spirit both. Surely, anyone can see that. But she's clearly been instructed, as we all have, to choose based on the number alone, as survival depends on proximity. She bows her head and points at the gargoyle. I feel sadness clench my heart.

“Mr. Mishka, you have been selected as a partner for Ms. Barrunda. Do you accept?”

The tank of a man scowls. “Do I have a better match?” he asks.

The analyst types a few keys and shows the judge.

“No. It appears that Ms. Barrunda is your closest match as well.”

“Then I accept,” he says firmly. All business.

“Congratulations, and best wishes for a long life together. You may proceed to the room of blessing. Next, Selena Zaretti, 768.”

Arrow leaves through a door at the back of the stage; his soon-to-be bride follows several feet behind, hugging her own frail shoulders. A tall, creamy-skinned girl with black braids replaces them on stage and the two men who were not selected return to their seats. I turn to Johanna.

“That first match? That was ridiculous. There is no way those two will ever be happy. The algorithm is....broken. It
must
be.”

“Brynn!” she hisses, looking past me. “You'll get us in more trouble!”

Unused to being chastised, I turn my face back to the center of the room and cross my arms over my chest. Beside me, Johanna sighs.

“Look,” she whispers. “Just because they seemed wrong together other doesn't mean the algorithm is broken. We don't know them. Maybe they're perfect for each other.”

“Right. Because there's no more complementary pairing for a gorilla than a baby deer.”

I feel Johanna shrug. “Appearances are deceiving. Maybe he's nicer than he looks. Maybe she's a conniving bitch with an anti-depressant dependency. In any case, happiness really isn't what this whole process is about.”

“Says the girl who's about to enter a life of eternal bliss with her childhood sweetheart.” I taste the tang of bitterness on my words and frown. What is wrong with me? I'm not usually this mean, even in my own head.

To her credit, Johanna takes no offense. She reaches for my hand and squeezes it, giving me a smile. “Everything is going to be fine,” she says.

I really wish she'd quit saying that. Suddenly, it strikes me as strange that Johanna just rigorously defended the algorithm when she herself has no intention of following its advice.

“Hey,” I whisper casually. “Did the sim test scare you at all?”

“No. Why would it?”

“I...found it pretty terrifying.”

Johanna laughs softly. “No offense, Brynn, but your list of phobias is considerably longer than most people's.”

She does have a small point. I'm still woefully afraid of clowns, spiders, public speaking, horizontal stripes, and, to some extent, the dark. Still. “Who did you choose to save at the end?”

“What do you mean?”

“The last scene. The lava.”

“There wasn't any lava in my sim. My last scene was me and Harlow in a hammock.”

I'm dumbfounded. “Oh,” I say, and stop talking.

It never occurred to me that the sims might be different for everyone. I have no idea what that means, or how to process that information. Across the room, Aaron is watching me, as usual, a puzzled expression on his face. This pleases me far more than it should, and I am struck by the urge to completely forget our surroundings and go find out what makes that man tick. Instead, I turn back to the stage just as Selena Zaretti leaves with her closest match.

Twenty more women walk on stage and make their choices. One of them rejects those closest to her in number, choosing instead the short, spiky-haired 23-year-old who came with her. Another, a girl with a badly scarred face, is rejected twice before her third match finally accepts her. Harlow is actually called up to the stage once, as a secondary match for Farreah Johnson, 213, but she picks a guy I know from Assembly, Mitchel Branert, instead.

“Well, now we know Harlow's number,” Johanna comments. “197. I wonder what mine will be.”

“Probably 198.”

She laughs. “It could be 700 and I wouldn't care. I'd rather die with him than live fifty years without him.”

My frown is back. For maybe the first time, I realize that I can't think of any married couples who feel this way about each other. No one with whom I work with or go to Assembly chose love over a long life. My parents certainly didn't. They let the algorithm choose their destinies for them, and got a perfectly amiable partnership out of the deal. Still, I can't help hoping that I get the chance to feel about someone the way Johanna and Harlow feel about each other.

Suddenly, I hear my friend's name.

“Johanna Nelson.....” calls Judge Crawler, making me catch my breath, waiting to hear her number. The judge pauses for an excruciating moment, squinting at his tablet screen as though he has lost his place. In the half-second it takes him to find it again, I am hit with the absolute, unshakable certainty that I don't want to hear what he's going to say. That none of us want to hear it.

“Ah,” says the judge. “Pardon me. Johanna Nelson....845.”

Johanna gasps; I stop breathing altogether. The universe slowly shudders to a halt.

Oh, lord.

More than six hundred points difference. The stats on a gap like that are dismal; no one has ever, in recorded history, chosen such a match and lived. Johanna knows this. We all do.

“Miss Nelson, please come to the stage.”

She doesn't move. Her hand is clenched so tight around mine that I can no longer feel my fingers. It's surreal to watch Johanna shut down like this. She's always been quick to respond – a girl of action, not introspection. The churning force in my stomach redoubles its efforts.