Numbers Game (3 page)

Professor Bold didn’t even look at her. He squinted at the card and said in a monotone voice, “Taliyah Fairbanks. Your score is 651. Congratulations.”

A gasp ripped from my chest as the audience politely applauded. Yellow. High yellow, yes, but
yellow
. Tali’s expression was hard. She turned to the professor, who soberly handed her the card. Anger flashed in her eyes as she uttered a quick thank-you before walking stiffly down to the aisle. There was murmuring in the audience.

“It’s a mistake,” I muttered. “She should be in the eight hundreds at least!”

The girl to my left, Rena, pursed her lips. “Eight hundreds? Look at her hair. She didn’t even try
to dye it blonde.”

The girl next to Rena shook her head. “It wasn’t that. I heard her mom is a yellow, and nobody knows where her dad is. Besides, her uniform is always so . . . frumpy.” She shrugged, a cute, petite gesture, as Tali reached our row. “Seems like she fits the yellow mold pretty well.”

The anger welled up inside me like fire. I wanted to slap Rena. She hadn’t even tried to lower her voice. Tali stiffly lowered herself into her seat, head held high.

How could Dresden and Tali, my two best friends, have scores so vastly different? How well did the Raters, strangers we’d never met, really know us?

“Ametrine Dowell.”

My body stiffened and time seemed to stop. The whisperings in the room came to a halt. Students turned in their seats to stare at me until I felt like everyone in the city was watching me. They probably were.

Somehow my feet knew what to do, and soon I was standing next to Professor Bold. It was the closest I’d ever been to the man. He smelled like sweat and heavy cologne. A genuine smile spread across his face, his teeth bright in the dull light. In his hand was a card. I had a sudden urge to grab it and run away. But I forced my hands to my side and stood tall, facing the silent crowd. The spotlight was too bright to see Lanah, my mom, but I knew she’d be clasping her hands like she always did when she was nervous.

“Ametrine Dowell,” he said too slowly. “It gives me great pleasure to tell you that your score is . . .”

My gaze was fixed on the card as he squinted at it and then rubbed his eye with one slim finger. Someone coughed, and I nearly jumped. Every muscle and tendon in my body was taut. I found Dresden’s still-grinning face in the audience.

Except that this was taking too long. Something was wrong. I tried to lean over and see the card myself, but he turned and held it up to his assistant behind us. She stepped forward and stared at the card, raising an eyebrow. Professor Bold cleared his throat and ran a shaky hand over his sweaty head. The dramatic pause before another record-breaking score? My heart felt like it would leap out of my chest.

“Ametrine,” he repeated, his voice somber. “Your score is 440. Uh . . . congratulations.”

My expression must have been one of utter shock, because Professor Bold looked very serious as he handed me the card. There it was, clear and in black:

Ametrine Dowell: 440

Implant Level: Red

The auditorium was deathly silent. The squeaking of chairs and low whispering had stopped, and it seemed as though nobody dared breathe.

I was frozen in place. I stared dumbly at the audience, my neighbors and friends and people who had come to celebrate with us. Someone cleared their throat.

This was a nightmare. It wasn’t really happening. Sixteen years of work couldn’t end this way. My dreams, my relationship with Dresden, and my future—all shattered by one number. 440. It couldn’t be real. No Olympus graduate had ever gotten a Rating below five hundred. Especially not a student who had consistently been at the top of her class. This was dreadfully, horrifyingly wrong.

The audience began to murmur.

A stern-faced female with a tight bun stepped out of the shadows beside me. The woman wore the standard purple NORA uniform, but her right arm had three golden stripes. The Ratings Department. She gestured for Professor Bold to give her the mic and turned to the crowd.

“Students, I am a Ratings official. I ask you to remain quietly seated.”

The whispering decreased, but it didn’t disappear. A lone figure stood in the back, hands covering her mouth, and I didn’t need to see her face to know it was Lanah. She was too shocked to process the official’s order. A monitor headed in her direction.

“Young lady, give me the card.” The official stood next to me, her hand out expectantly. My eyes burned, but I pushed the emotions back. Maybe it really was a mistake. Perhaps she was about to say so. She’d fix it, and I’d go home and celebrate with my classmates, and everything would go on as planned. 440? It was nearly impossible to be that useless. I quickly handed her the card, as if it were smoldering.

“Students, let me explain something to you.” The official paused. “Your parents already know this, but it’s important that you understand something. The Rating Department regulates the data that determines your score through a massive interconnected network. The data is sent and stored from the moment you’re born. The Raters know more about you than you could possibly imagine. The Raters analyze the data, assign your scores, and finalize the numbers by printing these cards and affixing their signatures.” She finally turned, but she looked past me. “Young lady, will you tell us what is written in the bottom right-hand corner?”

I stared at it, numb. There it was, scribbled in ink: RMR

“Out loud, please.” She held the mic up to my lips.

I tried to speak, but I knew I’d lose control if I did. I just shook my head.

“It’s a signature,” the official said, her voice hardening. “That makes it a valid Rating. NORA doesn’t make mistakes. Enjoy the rest of the ceremony.” She handed the mic to Professor Bold, who stared at it, red-faced.

The audience was quiet. I looked out at the faces of students I knew well and professors I’d studied under. Their collective shock and confusion slowly dissipated but was replaced by something else. Disgust. I could see it in their downturned mouths and sour expressions. They assumed I had done something horrible to deserve this. And why not? That’s what I would have thought.

I caught a glimpse of the soldier in black. He stood at attention like the others, but instead of watching the audience, his gaze was locked on me. He frowned, eyebrows creased in something that looked a lot like concern, maybe even pity.

I pulled myself together. I didn’t need the pity of a red, because this was all a terrible mistake.

A hand touched my back, and a square-faced monitor eased me gently toward the steps. “Come. I’ve been instructed to stay by your side until implantation.”

I just nodded. Of course. They were afraid I’d run away. Too bad I hadn’t thought about it before now. When I started back toward my seat, he shook his head and pointed to the exit. “For your protection,” he whispered.

Protection? From whom? The words swirled in my mind, fading in and out like everything else. I felt thousands of eyes on my back as I shuffled down the aisle toward the doors. But the image that would haunt me forever was the expression on Dresden’s face. His eyes were dark, his mouth set into a hard line, his jaw tight. He leaned forward in his seat as if he wanted to leap up and run. I had a million questions, but only one mattered as I left the auditorium.

Did Dresden want to run to me—or away from me?

4

I
t
was as if I’d stepped right into my nightmares. A bonfire, hot and crackling, threw shadows across the town square. Except this time the people surrounding it weren’t running in panic but dancing. And the soldiers who stood about weren’t destroying but protecting. Watching. There was a big difference this time.

I hated fire.

“Look at those bubble blowers,” Semias said. “Dancing around like fools, celebrating their new implants. It’s not like they’ve never seen fire before.” He turned away, disgust evident on his round, shadowed face. I’d caught him gulping down nutrition pills again today, probably stolen from some poor family in the Red District. I’d kick him off the team, but we were down a guy from last month’s raid.

His name was Harell, Vance. Is that how you see it now—addition and subtraction instead of lives and people?

“Bubble blowers?” Daymond repeated. He absently fingered the scar on his cheek.

“You know. Kids. Whities. Newbies.”

“They’re only two years younger than you, Semias,” Daymond replied.

“They probably
haven’t
seen fire before,” Ross said in a thoughtful tone, as if he’d missed the entire exchange. “Look at this security. I doubt NORA will let this tradition go on much longer.”

I had to agree with him, but for different reasons. This was the wrong time of year to have a bonfire—the heat was already unbearable, and the fire made it a hundred times worse. No less than two-dozen monitors were stationed around the city square tonight, silver uniforms braided into the purple crowd, and the new graduates looked uncomfortable as they danced. They glanced often at the flames and the pile of blackening white uniforms, but stole glances at the monitors. If this uniform-burning ceremony was their graduation party, I actually felt sorry for them.

My team watched the crowd with envy and admiration. These guys had all grown up this way. The bonfire was a rite of passage for them, a point of no return. A last chance to be carefree and goof off, trying to impress the girls they knew they’d never see again.

A horde of blonde girls stood front and center, all wearing stiff, newly purchased purple uniforms and blazing green Ratings on their foreheads, chattering to each other like little birds.

Rating ceremonies were the worst. At least with criminals, I knew what they were thinking. It was the cold glares of green citizens I couldn’t stand. Those who didn’t look down their noses looked quickly away or pretended I wasn’t there, which was just fine with me. Except today, a girl in the audience had stared me down in curiosity, even responding to my smile with one of her own. And, strangely, she’d later become a red. She was the talk of the entire city tonight.

“Poly’s coming,” Neb announced. “Looks like they caught the kid.”

I straightened as Poly’s team approached dragging a scrawny kid with messy black hair. He wore red girls’ shoes that were too big and made him stumble. Those unfortunate shoes had cost him his freedom.

“I’m no smuggler, I swear,” the boy said when they stopped.

“Sure, kid,” I said. They always said that, but it didn’t matter. Our job was to deliver him, not interrogate him. That made seven smugglers today. Hopefully that was enough to curb the Demander’s appetite and let us leave this blasted city. The heavy rotten-lake smell was driving me insane. “We’re going to test you now. If you pass, you can go home free.”

He paused. “What kind of test?”

Poly retrieved his testing device from the transport and held it up to the flickering light. He’d helped invent it himself. It was simple, smaller than his hand—even though
everything
was smaller than Poly’s hand—but he never let anyone else touch it. “Hold out your arm.”

The boy’s eyes went wide. “Wait. What does it test?”

“Food,” I said. “If you haven’t eaten real food recently, you have nothing to worry about.”

“What is going on?” a woman shrieked, her voice bordering on hysteria as she pushed her way through the murmuring crowd. Apparently our presence had caught the attention of the graduates, and they watched us in fascination. The woman planted herself in front of me, hands on her hips, her long hair tucked over one shoulder. I stared at her in shock. It was Selia Dunstrep, wearing a yellow 629 Rating. She’d been in my clan—at least, when it had existed. Not only that, but she’d served in the Circle and worked with my father.

“Your mom?” I asked the boy. He trembled, his eyes shifting from the woman to me. Then he nodded.

Blasted woman
,
I thought. It would’ve been so much smoother if she hadn’t come. Quicker than anyone could react, I leaped and yanked her arms behind her, locking her wrists together. She let out a surprised gasp and tried to jerk away, then gritted her teeth in pain. Her bonds were linked to her techband, so she’d feel that jolt every time she moved. I knew all too well how that felt.

“You are ordered to submit to a food test,” I said.

“This is ridiculous! I just came to see—”

“Are you the boy’s mother?”

“I—” Her mouth tightened in pain. “I will not submit to a test, and neither will he. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“The boy has already been tested.” Poly watched his device, holding the boy’s shoulder with his other hand. His deep voice rumbled over the growing noise of the crowd. “He’s positive.”

The boy stared at his mother in shock. Her mouth dropped a little. “It must be the device! He wasn’t—you can’t take . . . Please. I have other children at home.”

Great.
Our last smuggler had just become an entire family. I motioned for a couple of guys to assist. They hurried to obey. “We’ll need to test all of you, then,” I said.

Poly waved his device over the woman’s skin, making her flinch. It took a couple of seconds for the result to appear. The light turned red. Positive.

“It’s all my fault,” she said. “Just let my children go. Please! They’re innocent and still getting used to this place. Whatever the punishment is, I’ll take it instead.”

I forced my face to remain impassive, sending a quick techband message to the monitor station to request a search team for the woman’s home. They’d be there within minutes. “Your family will meet you shortly,” I told her. “Whatever happens, at least you’ll be together.”

“Don’t you dare pretend to care about us.” Her eyes flashed in the firelight, giving her a strangely demonic look. Her voice dripped with venom. “You’re taller now, but I know who you are. You’re Iron Belt Hawking’s son.”

“Daymond, put her in the transport.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your father was a good man!” she snapped. Daymond grabbed her arm, but the woman twisted away. Her hair fell into her face as she spat the words. “He would be ashamed of you now, hunting down your own. Becoming one of them.”

I refused to reply. It wasn’t the first time a member of my clan had recognized me, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“Sir?” the boy asked next to me.

I’d forgotten about him. “What?”

He winced at my tone but seemed to gather his courage. “Um, what will happen to us?”

I glanced at Poly, but he chose this moment to stand and walk away, flipping the screen up on his techband as if calling someone. With a heavy sigh, I leaned against the transport. Kids were the worst. I could handle hysterical mothers and angry, fist-throwing fathers—but when they dragged children into this stuff, nothing good came of it.

“Look, kid, I doubt we’ll even catch the rest of your family. Your clan members will probably hide them before we get there. That’s what usually happens.”

The boy shook his head. “No. We can’t be separated. My mom said we have to stay together.” He paused. “Was she right? Are you really a Hawking?”

I yanked the transport door open and motioned to the boy. He hesitated before stepping in and settling onto the oversanitized plastic seat. Parents didn’t know everything. They meant well, but there was a lot they couldn’t control. It was about time this kid learned that lesson. “I was, once,” I said and slammed the door shut.

It wouldn’t take him long to grow up. NORA would make sure of that.