I have to convince her to help.
I pull on a pair of brown pants I acquired after arriving in Tosu City and a fitted yellow tunic adorned with silver buttons. I clean my comfortable but worn boots to make them as presentable as I can. Most days I pull my hair into a tight knot at the nape of my neck. Today, I take special care to brush it until it shines before braiding it in a style that my father lamented made me look like a young woman instead of his little girl. I hope he was right. In order for my plan to succeed, I need the president to see me as more than a University student. She has to see a woman.
Then I roll the bloody clothes I was wearing yesterday into a tight ball and shove them into my bag. There is no removing Damone’s blood from these garments. While I rarely have people in my room, I do not want to risk someone seeing the clothes. I need to get rid of them.
I reach under the mattress and pull out a small handgun given to me by Raffe. The weight in my hand feels insignificant compared to the weight in my chest. Guns are used in Five Lakes. I learned to discharge a shotgun at an early age, and Daileen’s father taught us to fire his handgun around the same time I learned how to multiply and divide. My father’s job required us to live near where he worked, which meant living close to the unrevitalized land where meat-seeking wolves and other, mutated creatures roamed. More than once I have injured or killed an animal intent on attack. But if this gun is fired it will not be at an animal looking for food. After shoving the Transit Communicator into my bag, I slide the bag’s strap onto my shoulder and walk out the door, careful to lock it behind me.
The halls of the residence are quiet. The students I pass speak to each other in tones more muted than usual. No doubt because of Damone’s disappearance. As I pass students on the stairs, I am careful to keep my eyes down in case they can see the guilt in them. With every step, I find myself listening for a click from the Transit Communicator to tell me that Zeen is okay.
When I reach the first floor, I force myself to walk in slow, measured strides to the front door so no one can see the anxiety I feel about Zeen’s silence. With each moment that passes I am more certain something terrible has befallen him. As I push open the door, I look behind me in case Raffe has seen me going down the stairs and has followed. No one is there, so I step outside into the afternoon sunshine. According to my watch, there are two hours until dinner is served. If I am not back in time, my mealtime absence will be noticed. But I have no choice.
I straighten my shoulders and walk around the residence to the vehicle shed, trying not to look at the place where Raffe and I pushed Damone over the edge of the ravine. Wheeling my bicycle out, I look around for anyone who might be watching, then throw my leg over the seat. My feet push the pedals. Worry about my brother propels my body forward despite my fatigue.
The wheels glide over the bridge that spans the twenty-foot-wide crack in the earth that separates the Government Studies residence from the rest of campus. It isn’t until I turn down the roadway that leads to the library that I glance over my shoulder. From this distance, I can’t be sure. But I think I spot Griffin standing motionless on the bridge, staring into the darkness of the ravine below. Despite my desire to find Tomas and ask him to join me on this journey, I don’t. Drawing unwanted attention to Tomas is the last thing I want to do. I turn and begin to ride as fast as I can in hopes of finding help for my brother and myself.
Riding under the woven metal archway that so closely resembles the design of the band that now circles my wrist serves as a reminder that my whereabouts are being monitored. University students are not forbidden to leave campus, but if I venture too far afield, Professor Holt and Dr. Barnes will certainly question my motivation. Luckily, as an intern in the president’s office, I have reason to be traveling to my destination.
Past the archway I stop my bike, pull the Transit Communicator out of my bag, and turn on the navigation display. While I have traveled these roads before, I am still not confident of choosing the most expedient path. Using a strip of fabric from my stained clothing, I tie the Transit Communicator to the handlebars. Once it is secure, I press the Call button once. Twice. A third time. No answer. I swallow my disappointment and point my wheels toward the center of the city. As I ride, I picture the faces of Zandri, Malachi, Ryme, Obidiah, and Michal. All came to Tosu City looking to help the world. All are dead. I have to help my brother avoid that same fate. I just hope I won’t be too late.
Chapter 2
I BARELY NOTICE my surroundings as I zigzag through the city, careful to keep an eye on the Communicator’s readout. As I ride, I consider what I know. The president’s disapproval of Dr. Barnes is obvious. I have observed their mutual dislike firsthand. But though the president wishes to remove Dr. Barnes from power, no one knows whether she will alter or end the University selection process. The Testing is terrible in its methods, but it has gotten results. The clean water we drink and the number of colonies with revitalized land prove the leaders the University has trained are skilled.
Can the president be trusted to change the system when it is yielding such results? I don’t know. But as the wind whips my hair, I realize that if I want to try to end The Testing, I am going to have to find out.
Residential streets give way to roads with larger buildings as I ride into the heart of the city. Personal skimmers hover above for those with business that demands attention on a Sunday. I turn down another street and see the distinctive gray stone turrets and clock tower of the building that houses the office of President Anneline Collindar.
I store my bicycle in the rack next to the entrance and pull open one of the large wooden doors. Two officials dressed in black jumpsuits approach. Two others hold their positions on either side of the arching door in front of us. The color of their clothing, their white armbands, and the silver weapons hanging at their sides signal their standing as Safety officials. Only Safety officials are allowed to carry weapons inside government buildings. The law was created after the Seven Stages of War when the people gathered to debate whether to form a new central government. Arguments for and against a new government body were heated. Many believed that the last president of the United States, President Dalton, and the other world leaders who held power leading up to and through the stages of war were to blame for corrupting the earth and causing so much death and destruction. Others argued that an organized government was still essential if the hope of revitalization was to be fulfilled. All citizens were allowed a voice in the debates, but some believed weapons were more persuasive than words. It was the firing of those weapons by opponents of a new government that swayed many to believe lawlessness would prevail without one. The first law passed after the vote to establish a new governmental entity banned all firearms from the Debate Chamber floor. Ten years later, the ban was expanded to all government buildings.
Today, I am in violation of the law. To obey, I would have to surrender the gun Raffe gave me. Something I am not willing to do. I do not know how the president will react to what I must tell her. I have to be prepared for whatever might happen.
Shifting the weight of my bag on my shoulder, I walk to the broad-shouldered Safety official who stands behind a small black desk. I give my name and show him my bracelet. When he nods, I straighten my shoulders and walk through the arched doorway that leads to the president’s office.
Since my internship began a few weeks ago, I have learned that while a few young, dedicated members of the president’s staff can be found working on Saturdays and Sundays, rarely does the president herself walk these halls on the Commonwealth’s designated days of rest. With the president scheduled to call for a debate on Monday, I expect more officials to be working. I’m not disappointed. The hallways I pass through to get to the president’s first-floor office teem with activity. The air crackles with tension as officials huddle around desks, talking in hushed voices. A few look my way as I pass by, but most are too preoccupied with their own business to notice me. I walk through a large meeting space where a board displays this week’s debate schedule. TESTING AND UNIVERSITY OVERSIGHT is marked in red letters under the date two days from now.
Finally I come to the large white wooden door of the president’s office. The desk to the left of the door sits empty. I put my hand on the doorknob and turn it.
Locked. A knock confirms my suspicion. The office is empty.
I retrace my steps back to the main hall and climb the iron staircase to the second floor. Weeks ago, I made this climb for the first time while following behind Michal. I’d been shocked to see him here. He’d pretended not to know me as he gave me the tour of the building—one of the oldest in Tosu City. After climbing the last step, I slowly walk down the hallway toward a set of double doors flanked by two purple-clad officials. Michal said the doors lead to the president’s private quarters.
Wishing he were standing beside me now, I walk up to the officials and say, “I have a message for the president.”
The dark-haired official on the right frowns. “The president is not on the premises. You can leave the message on the desk outside her office downstairs. A member of her upper-level staff will receive it tomorrow.”
I recognize the words for what they are. A dismissal. Though being cleared into the building says I have a right to walk these halls, no amount of confidence can hide my youthful face or small stature. Both mark me as a student who should not have any reason to send missives to the leader of the United Commonwealth.
“There must be a way to get a message to the president.” I use the firm, measured tone my father employed whenever he talked to Mr. Taubs about his goat eating the new seedlings planted near his farm.
“There is,” the gray-haired man to the left admits.
Before he can order me to leave, I say, “My name is Malencia Vale. I’m the president’s intern. President Collindar asked me several weeks ago to speak to her about a specific subject. I would like someone to get her a message that I am here and am willing to discuss that topic now.”
“The president does not take—”
The gray-haired official holds up a hand, cutting off his partner’s angry words. Quietly, he says, “I will have your message sent, and I hope it is as important as you believe. If not, you’ll discover there’s a cost to your misjudgment. Is that a price you are willing to pay?”