The Proving (28 page)

And had Seamus attended, he would have remembered all of it. Every. Single. Second.

Now, at the doors leading into the cafeteria, he faltered. He wanted to voice his worries, but before he could confess, Skye was behind him, hands on his back, pushing him right at the door. The door slid open before he could reach it. He cried out, unable to stop his momentum, stepping into the next room while his wobbly legs did their best to keep him from falling over. He held out his hands, planted his left foot, and held out his pistol at nothing in particular. Eyes closed. It was foolish but it seemed the best way to die.

When death didn’t arrive, he opened his eyes. And gasped.

“Well,” Skye said from behind him. “This explains a bit.”

Dozens of bodies littered the cafeteria. Most were wearing simple civilian clothes: tight-fitting black slacks and a button-down long-sleeved shirt dyed a neutral tan color — the preferred fashion style for the past twelve years. A few wore white lab coats. Men and women, none too young, suggesting a certain degree of experience shared between them. One was wearing an Ecosuit, his VR rifle resting beside his body. A Spartan. Someone, in a mad dash to escape, had stepped on the Spartan’s smartglasses.

“Are they . . . is it . . .?” Seamus struggled for words. He’d been able to keep his distance from the other body. He’d catalogued Mrs. Walker’s name and approximate age, and had done his best to observe Ben’s brief autopsy.

Closing his eyes only once when the Athenian sliced the dried, gray skin.

Skye went first to the Spartan, reaching under the collar of his Ecosuit and pulling out one of two ID chips. She knelt beside him with her fist to her forehead, a traditional motion of respect that dated back some 347 years. When the moment was finished, she put the chip in her utility belt. She checked the VR rifle’s clip, but didn’t grab it. Seamus speculated that it was empty, which meant the Spartan had shot at something.

Black proton marks peppered the walls.

“Hello,” she called out, rifle ready.

The corpses were silent. Most were lying on the floor but three were still sitting at one of the tables on the far end, off to the left where the walls were lined with viewscreens. Two women and a man, sitting at their table, their heads resting on their plates of spoiled meat covered in white sauce that had caked to their gray skin. Behind them, the viewscreen hanging on the wall was cracked. The one beside it cycled through images of Neo Berlin’s different districts. In each picture, the Ring loomed in the sky behind the towers — a reminder, perhaps, of the facility’s mission.

Yes . . . the mission.

“We should not be here,” he whispered. He wished he was back at the Archives, where it was safe and protected from Specters and people alike. From the balcony of his room in Babel Tower, Seamus could see the entire southern edge of the massive metropolis of Neo Berlin. He could see the fireworks, the smoke rising from the burning specter effigies during Carnivale. He could hear people shouting with glee and screaming and it all conjured up memories of the Specter invasion. No one seemed to see it except Seamus, which had only infuriated him. Carnivale was a celebration so eerily similar to humanity’s darkest hour that video footage of the two was nearly interchangeable.

Save for the casualties.

Carnivale had once been a ceremony. Humans once believed they could chase away spirits by performing fire rituals. It was a contest, a celebration, a chance for revelry and a tradition to bury old grudges, forgive and cancel debts. After the Specters were defeated, Carnivale had . . .
evolved
. It had become grander. Louder. Seamus hated it not only because it conjured horrible images in his head, but because he couldn’t participate, and no one invited him to do so.

“There,” Skye said, pointing. “It came through the wall. The people sitting at the table must have watched it emerge. The circuits in the viewscreen malfunctioned as the Specter came through.” She walked slowly between a pair of bodies, aiming her rifle in every direction. On the other end of the cafeteria was a stainless steel countertop with a handful of packages of breakfast food laid out in a row. Behind the counter was a grill.

“They cooked their own food,” Skye marveled, weaving her way around the circular tables. “Nice to know they were being taken care of.”

Seamus warily followed her, trying to keep his eyes forward so he wouldn’t spot any more of the bodies. An uncomfortably warm uneasiness had spread through his legs, running up his body. “You were right,” he told her. “About not coming here. It’s clear there’s a danger, and the people here are all dead. We must return to the loading bay and contact Parliament.”

“I’ve never had something off a grill,” Skye said. She looked around again, sweeping her VR rifle in a wide arc. “Once, for survival training, we cooked a rabbit stew. We used the bone for a stock. There’s probably a freezer in the back of the kitchen. They could have received a shipment of food and stayed here for months. Maybe years. Something special was going on here.”

“It’s not our business.”

She stopped, examining him. She had piercing green eyes; they made Seamus uncomfortable. But being here made him uncomfortable, too. What was worse? Being here was worse. Knowing what this place was and not being authorized to tell anyone else . . . that was the worst feeling of all.

Maybe he could tell her. Just a little bit.

No. It was classified. This place . . .

“We have to leave,” he blurted out. “We’re not safe.”

“What do you know?” she asked, suspicious—no, strike that. Speculation.

“I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

He didn’t answer. His eyes were darting around now, his brain recording the massacre with precise detail. Memories flooding into his mind’s eye, threatening to knock him over. Details. Classified information that couldn’t be trusted inside standard CPU systems. Information he shouldn’t have seen but couldn’t
un
see. A carelessly mislaid document here, a note left on an instructor’s desk there . . . Seamus remembered all of them and now his brain was piecing them together.

Specters held in captivity.

Tests.

The image of Mrs. Walker flashed in his mind’s eye. She looked at him accusingly. He could count the wrinkles on her gray skin as if she were still lying in front of him. He could see the chipped red fingernail polish on her right index finger. He could even count the old ear piercing scars on her left ear.

Three scars.

“We’ll check the living quarters and then we’ll get out of here,” Skye said, the hard edge on her voice at least temporarily gone.

Seamus exhaled in relief. He followed her past the counter, to a pair of doors on the other end of the cafeteria. They passed into another hallway, identical to the last one only a few degrees cooler. Seamus could feel the change on his cheeks. The muscle under his right eye twitched. One of the narrow lights above them blinked off and on; his body was hesitant to pass under it while it was off, putting too much space between himself and Skye. He hurried to catch up to her as soon as the light blinked on again.

“Spartan,” he started, fighting the urge to clear his throat. “If whatever killed those people is still here, where would you expect it to hide?”

“Underground,” she answered. “Right under our feet, most likely. Waiting.”

He’d hoped for a different answer. “And what if it’s hiding somewhere ahead?”

“That’s why you’re going first.”

He stopped and turned. She’d silently stepped right behind him.

“Just go. Your shield will protect you. I won’t let you die.”

“I doubt that,” he said, forcing his legs to keep moving. The sooner they went through the living quarters, the sooner they could leave. “You clearly don’t like me.”

“It’s nothing personal.”

“What a relief.”

She chuckled. “I didn’t know Historians could have a sense of humor. I thought that was beaten out of you while you were kids.”

“And I’ve heard that Spartans throw all the weak babies off a cliff,” he snapped, angry. Stupid, stupid, he thought. This was all being recorded by his smartglasses. When he returned to Alexandria, he would be disciplined. Not a beating, but perhaps a menial task for a number of months. Something simple and mind-numbing like verifying records of other Provings.

Provings no doubt less exciting than this. Why was his luck so awful, he wondered? It felt as if his life was one long string of bad situations. From the very first Historical lecture on paleontology where he was the only child to not have username and password set up on his notescreen, to his selection for Level Two clearance. Why had
he
, of all people, been granted
more
responsibilities? He didn’t ask for them. Level Two clearance meant only more History to memorize, and more interactions with Parliament, which meant more practice with diplomacy.

And more opportunities for mistakes.

“You’re not quite so reserved as other Historians,” Skye noted. “I like it. It doesn’t change my opinion of your people, but at least it makes you more tolerable . . . more so than many of your peers. If we get out of here alive, I’ll be glad to have you in our Coterie.”

Seamus, surprised, temporarily forgot all about the horrifying bodies he’d just seen. “I’m honored.”

“I still don’t trust you,” she added. “And I’m still using you as a shield. But I won’t let you die. Human life is precious.”

Before his memory could conjure the particular speech when General Mitchell had uttered those exact words, Seamus felt her hand press against his back, nudging him through the doorway, into the living quarters. It was as he expected: an empty, well-decorated Commons room complete with a small standing bar, plush gray couches circling a holo-bulb in the floor and an old-fashioned table tennis table at the far end. It was grand, leveled on one side where three couches surrounded the holo-bulb. The room was shaped in a circle, and along the walls to their right and left were doors leading to individual living quarters. Some were open, some closed.

“No shortage of amenities,” Skye murmured, stepping beside him. She looked down and took a cautious step onto the thick, carpeted floor.

“Are you perhaps envious?” Seamus asked. When she turned and looked sharply at him, he felt his back stiffen. “I only ask because Clan Sparta offers so little in recreation. I imagine it must be difficult at times, seeing others enjoying the fruits of humanity’s labors.”

“I’m curious,” Skye said, “because if Parliament is footing the bill for real food and holo-screens and alcohol and plush couches, then this place is important.”

“Holo-
bulbs
, technically. And it’s not our business. You know this.” Seamus followed her to the center of the Commons room, his gun held limply in his hand. The girl was smart. If the others decided to be as curious as her, it wouldn’t be long before they pieced together the horrible reality of this place. Then there would be consequences — not for Seamus, perhaps, but for the others. If they survived, they would know things they shouldn’t know.

Life would change. They would be removed from their classes, perhaps even forced to live in a research facility just like this one, sworn to secrecy on penalty of death. It would be the only way. And that was just the New Adults! The Young Adults would be at the mercy of one of Parliament’s merciless tribunals. For thirteen-year-old children to know the horrible truths . . . they would never be able to keep a secret. Desperate measures would need to be taken.

It wasn’t Seamus’s problem. He mustn’t waste his time thinking about it.

Still . . .

He followed Skye from room to room. Some of the beds were made, some of the rooms clean and organized. Other rooms were littered with clothes and 3D-prints of office supplies that littered the little white desks beside the beds. In one bed lay the corpse of a woman, still tucked in, her eyes open and staring at the ceiling, one hand her face, touching her gray skin as if in shock. Seamus looked away quickly, stepping out of the room before his nose could inhale the strange, bitter dry scent of the shriveled body. The woman’s room had had a distinct pop flavor: a bubblegum pink harmonica and a viewscreen still of the electronica band Tokyo Rosa hanging on the wall, not to mention a neon pink Tokyo Rosa t-shirt laying crumpled on the floor. Tokyo Rosa used a harmonica in some songs . . . perhaps the woman had tried to play along in her spare time. There had also been notes taped to her vanity mirror, dozens of them, leaving barely enough room to fit her reflection.

Laundry tomorrow.

Re-test specimen 3-X-14.

Archive messages before Kaleb blows his top.

Even after only a glance, Seamus remembered it all.

“Skye,” Cleo’s voice came in through their earpieces. On Seamus’s glasses, the words INCOMING: CLEO, CLAN PERSIA appeared in green letters.

Skye stepped out of the bedroom, pulling a stray strand of curly hair behind her ear. “Go ahead.”

“We’re . . . the . . . power . . .”

“Hold on,” Skye said, walking away from the door. She stood beside the glass countertop of the bar. “You’re breaking up. Say again.”

“We’re getting a battery drain,” Cleo said, “and it’s coming from somewhere inside the research labs. Ben and I . . . knock it out of commission . . . before . . . lose power.”

Seamus felt his chest tighten. “I wouldn’t recommend —”

“Go for it,” Skye said. Her finger had found a sticky brown stain on the bar countertop, tapping on it a few times. The stain clung to her glove. Multiple glasses had been knocked over, spilling their contents across the glass. Behind the countertop was a frosted glass partition with shelves of alcohol bottles — in the reflection, Seamus watched Skye’s facial expression relax, her eyes reading the labels of the bottles.

Seamus followed her behind the bar. His lips felt numb and tingly. Sweat puckered his forehead. “Cleo and Ben must not enter the research labs . . .”

“This is whisky.” She searched the bottles, pulling one with a black label from the second shelf. It was half-f. “My father drinks this whisky. Two fingers. In a little glass that he got from Parliament in recognition of some service his Coterie performed.”