Graduation Day (6 page)

How difficult those days must have been. With new food resources available and plants and trees thriving in the revitalized soil, it seems impossible to imagine that anyone could have believed trying to survive on their own would be better than working together and following the same rules. But quite a few did. Yet somehow the government regained control. In order to do so, did they eliminate those who were intent on wreaking havoc?

Maybe.

If so, were they wrong?

I look at the sparkling, uncorrupted water and then at the children laughing as they play. Would these things be here now if the dissenters had destroyed what was just being created? Does this end justify a means paved with blood?

I don't know.

At one time I would have been certain. This situation would have appeared black and white. I wish it did now. I told President Collindar that I could not eliminate those whose names are written on the paper in my bag. I want to believe that this is the truth, but the pressure I feel growing in my chest as I look around at a city that was forged in struggle and in hope makes me wonder whether there might be another truth. That like the Seven Stages of War and the time that followed, peace will come accompanied by sacrifice and death.

I glance at the watch on the strap of my bag. The sun will soon be setting. I need to return to campus. I know I should get on my bike and return, but I find myself pulling the gray folder out of my bag again and opening it. There are the twelve names, the code to the fifth-floor room, and the note President Collindar wrote to me. Under that page are several more sheets of gray recycled paper. Eleven of them, to be exact. One for each of the original eleven names on the president's list. At the top of each page is a name followed by the person's residence, family information, and role in The Testing.

Not surprisingly, the first page of this group centers on Dr. Jedidiah Barnes. The location of his home means little to me, since I am not from Tosu City. Although I do remember other students mentioning that his personal dwelling is on one of the streets that surround the University campus. I read the name of his wife and picture the woman I met last summer, after The Testing was over. His two children are sixteen and twelve—approaching the age when they can apply to the University. With their father as head of the program, they no doubt would be selected. But will they want to be a part of the trials that follow? Dr. Barnes has been in charge of The Testing for fifteen years. During that time, 1,132 students have sat for The Testing. Of those, 128 were passed through to the University. Over one thousand students who wished to help the world are gone. Because of him.

As the light fades, I read through the other pages, committing as much as possible to memory. Professor Holt—an advocate for adding another section to The Testing to push the ability of students to think critically while under emotional strain. Professor Markum—head of Medical studies, who created the newest version of the memory-erasure serum and is working on a neurological implant to help officials better monitor the way each prospective student deals with the strain of The Testing process. Professor Lee—who, according to this information, not only helped create the scoring system for each group of students during the first round of The Testing but is advocating for a larger pool of candidates to ensure that none of the best and brightest escape notice.

Page after page of leaders. All working to make The Testing harder. More invasive. Deadlier.

White-hot anger builds inside me as I start over and reread the descriptions by the fading light. These people were entrusted with the lives of the next generation of leaders. They have betrayed not only that trust but also the faith of the entire country.

Emotions cloud my vision, making it hard to read through the last few pages. Rage. Sorrow. Fear. Despair. They chip away my resolve to refuse the president's request and pull at the beliefs I have been taught to hold dear. When I finally finish my second read, I slide the papers back into the folder, fill my water bottle at the fountain, and climb onto my bike. Using the Transit Communicator to guide me, I head back to the University, taking the same path I used to get to the president's office. The route isn't the most direct, but getting back quickly isn't my purpose. While I would prefer to destroy the papers the president gave me, there is a chance I will have need of the information they contain. Hiding them so I cannot be caught with them is my best option.

I spot a neighborhood where the roads and sidewalks are cracked and broken and the grass less green, and turn to enter it. The roofs of the houses sag in the middle. Boards across windows and doors signal a lack of materials to make repairs. Stairs are missing steps. Swirls of faded paint decorate the houses' exteriors. The front yards are mostly dirt with a few patches of scraggly yellowish grass. If it weren't for the hopeful budding of the healthy trees on the street, I would think this area had yet to be revitalized and that people did not yet live here. But they do. A rag doll sitting near the rotted front steps of a squat brown house with a porch that is carefully swept of debris and a metal shovel that is free of rust sitting outside another dwelling tell me that people are here.

Since coming to Tosu, I've realized that despite the best intentions of the government, it is almost impossible for a city this size to treat all citizens the same. Streets that government officials call home are repaired more frequently than those of people who do not hold influential jobs. But the run-down appearance of some areas notwithstanding, I have never seen another so poorly tended as this one. While that disturbs me, in a way I am glad. It's clear that the government rarely if ever notices this street, so it could be a perfect place to hide the papers I don't want anyone to find.

In the last rays of daylight, I study the dilapidated, graffiti-laden houses on either side of the roadway, ignoring those that show signs of habitation. A small one-story structure with boarded-up windows and a sagging roof catches my eye. The houses across from it show subtle signs of occupancy, but this one and the two on either side look as though nothing but rodents and small animals have gone near the front door in months.

Careful to keep to the grass so I don't leave footprints in the dirt, I cross to the back of the house. The door in the rear hangs precariously from its hinges. I can see at least one spot where an animal has constructed a nest in the eve of the roof.

I lean my bicycle against the back of the house and walk to the door. The hinges let out a shrill protest as I shift it open. I go still and wait to see if anyone appears. When no one does, I walk inside into a small kitchen. Doors of cabinets are missing. In the center of the room, the remains of a collapsed table lie sprawled on the floor, surrounded by three wooden chairs. Leaves and twigs are scattered on the ground. Still, I search the rest of the structure to make sure this place is not in use.

The living room floor is coated in a thick layer of dust. The lone sofa in the room is so worn that springs poke through its cushions. I search the bathroom and two bedrooms. When I see no obvious signs of habitation, I pull my pocketknife out of my bag, then open the bedroom closet. Kneeling, I use the knife to prod around the floorboards. Several are loose. I pry up three, stand up to pull the folder out of my bag, remove the list of names, and tuck the rest of the papers into the spot I dug out. I replace the floorboards and pile the clothes stained with Damone's blood on top of them. Then I close the closet door and hurry out.

I save the coordinates of this location on the Transit Communicator, then climb onto my bicycle and ride. When I reach the end of the street, I look back at the house where the papers lie hidden, knowing that if I return to retrieve them it will be because I have chosen to take up President Collindar's charge.

And not just me. Because this task is not one that I can complete on my own. My father told me to trust no one. I have broken that edict more than once—often to my detriment. And if the president is right and there is no other way to end The Testing and the destruction to the country that might come, I may have to break it again.

T
HE SKY IS
dark as I cross under the arch that marks the entrance to the campus. Solar lights illuminate the roadways and the buildings that I pass. I see fewer students than usual. Many spend their Saturday evenings in their rooms, catching up on sleep or blowing off steam, but normally there are more than the handful of students I see going to and from the library or sitting on the benches outside the residences. The inactivity makes my heart race as I pedal across the bridge toward the vehicle shed. I store my bike and hurry around to the entrance of the residence.

“Cia.”

I jump at the sound of my name and squint into the shadows, looking for the source. For a moment I see nothing. Then a figure moves away from the trunk of the weeping willow tree into the faint moonlight.

Enzo. Of all the University students, Enzo is the one I think I most understand and the one I am more inclined to believe has my best interests at heart. He is not like the others, whose families have ties to the Commonwealth Government. He could not rely on his parents' connections in order to get accepted to the University. Enzo worked for it. He, like me, wanted to come to the University to help better our country. That similarity and the lack of connection to those who currently lead the University are the reasons I cross the grass instead of going inside. If Enzo has been waiting outside the residence for me, the reason must be important.

As I walk toward him, Enzo looks around to make sure we are alone. When I reach his side he says, “Professor Holt is looking for you.”

I swallow hard. “Do you know why?” Does she want to know what I was doing in the city today? Does she suspect what the president has asked of me? Or is this about what happened last night?

“Professor Holt has been interviewing everyone in the residence to see if anyone has information as to Damone's whereabouts.”

“Maybe he went to visit his family,” I say, hoping Enzo doesn't hear the strain in my voice. Many Tosu City students use their free hours on the weekends to spend time at home. The action isn't encouraged by University staff, but neither is it condemned. Their being able to visit those they love is just one more aspect that separates those of us from the colonies from the students born in Tosu City. Even Enzo has taken time away from his studies to make the trek to the south side of the city to see his family.

“I told her that I spotted Damone this morning from my window. He had a bag over his shoulder as he came out of the vehicle building with his bicycle. Professor Holt is checking to see if Damone went home.” Enzo looks toward the bridge as if searching for answers. After several long moments, he quietly says, “I couldn't sleep last night.”

Five words. Enough to make my pulse pound.

My heart ticks off the seconds as I wait for what comes next. Ten. Twenty. Finally he says, “My bedroom window next to my desk faces the back of the residence. Normally I don't bother to look outside. But I did. I saw Damone.” His head turns toward me. “And you.”

“I . . .” I what? I wasn't there? I was, and Enzo and I wouldn't be having this conversation if he had any doubt that it was me he saw in the moonlight. “What did you see?” My voice sounds harsh. Panicked. I'm both. If Enzo has lied about what he said to Professor Holt, I will have two choices: run or be Redirected. Maybe that is why he is telling me now. To give me a chance to flee.

“I saw Damone and you fighting. I was going to come help, but by then my help wasn't necessary. Damone is dead, and I'm not sorry. He shouldn't have attacked you. He shouldn't have even been here in the first place. It's people like him that made my father agree to help change things. He and my brothers—” Enzo looks back to the horizon. Taking a deep breath, he says, “Look, I'm not telling you this to make you afraid. I just want you to know that I could see you and Raffe. If I could, someone else might have. Professor Holt is talking to everyone inside the residence. You need to be prepared.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask. “You could go to Professor Holt, tell her what you saw, and collect your reward.”

“I'm not Damone.” Enzo's voice trembles. “He and Griffin want to be important. I want to make a difference. I promised my family I would. They're counting on me. Selling you out to Professor Holt wouldn't make them proud or help them. They are fighting against what she stands for. I am too.” Enzo takes several steps toward the residence and turns back to face me. “I don't know why you were out of the residence last night or why you let Raffe help you. He's one of them. I think you and I are on the same side. So be careful. Okay?”

For a moment we just look at each other. Enzo watching me for signs of agreement. Me waiting for . . . I don't know. Something that tells me he really is on my side. That he is not repelled to know I am responsible for taking a life. That he can be trusted to aid me if I see no other way to end The Testing than to follow the president's command.

Whatever he sees on my face must be enough of an answer because without another word, he turns and leaves me standing under the willow, struggling to think through what he has told me. Is it safe for me to stay, or should I pack my bag and run now while I still can?

Part of me wants to flee. If I could talk to Zeen, I know he would tell me to run. But he still isn't answering. I want to believe that he hasn't been able to find a place isolated enough to contact me. To think otherwise would shatter me. My brother is smart and resourceful. I just have to be patient. But I cannot wait to hear from him before formulating a plan. If I were to run, Tomas would go with me. The two of us are resourceful. We would have a greater chance of survival than most. Our survival of The Testing proves that. Running would mean I wouldn't have to face the choice I have been given.