The Proving (27 page)

Stop trying to spread the blame, he told himself. Accept responsibility.

No. He wouldn’t.

Don’t be stubborn.

He was trying not to. He just . . . couldn’t
not
be stubborn.

“Does this facility have a Xenoshield?” Ben asked Cleo.

“Yeah, but it’s totally shot,” Cleo said, looking up toward the ceiling. Gabriel followed her eyes, then realized she was looking at something on her contact lenses. “Their little Phenocyte reactor’s preamplified lasers are all out of . . .alignment.”

“What does that mean?” Skye asked.

“It means something interrupted the controlled ignition process. And given that the doors are locked . . .”

“There was a malfunction,” Ben finished. “So we can’t turn the shield back on.”

Cleo shook her head. She glanced toward the dead body in the office, then took another step away from it. “This entire base is running on an emergency gravity battery. It’s at about seventy percent capacity. I’ve got the lights on and the doors unlocked and the main CPU powered up . . . beyond that, we’ve got nothing.”

Gabriel watched the little Athenian girl wrap her arms around Ben’s waist. Reza was looking at his sister, maybe trying to figure out a way to run over to her without looking childish. The Spartan boy didn’t seem to have any such notions in his head, content to stay near the shipping containers, his body leaning just a little bit as if it was fighting the urge to hide behind them. He’d taken off one glove and was chewing on his knuckles, looking up at the big steel boxes.

“So we’re here,” Ben said. “Now what?”

“We do a quick search,” Gabriel answered without hesitation. His voice sounded unsure so he took a deep breath, steadying himself before continuing. This is all being recorded, he reminded himself. He needed to represent his family. He couldn’t make another mistake. “We came here to respond to a distress call, so that’s what we’re going to do.”

Skye didn’t respond. Gabriel had expected another retort, but the Spartan girl had apparently expended all of her anger. Good. Because really, it wasn’t all his fault. The Historian probably hadn’t used his pistol at all, and not because he was maintaining his oath. At least Gabriel had shot at
something
.

Just the wrong one.

According to the Spartan.

“I’m pulling up a map of the facility,” Cleo said. She tapped her finger on her VRacelet. “I’ll upload it to your glasses. OK. So look: the loading bay leads to two different sectors. Sector One is the research labs. That’s a Level One clearance, hoo boy, and it’s locked down tight. Sector Two has a mess hall and residencies and leads deeper, to the Phenocyte reactor.”

“Are there any logs?” Ben asked. “I know when we have a lab lockdown, the computer logs everything.”

Cleo clicked her tongue. “Hmmmm . . . lots of restricted access. From what the computer will tell me — and keep in mind it’s not much — it looks like there was a lot of activity in Sector Two in the last couple days.”

“I’ll take the Historian,” Skye said. “We’ll search for survivors. The rest of you stay here and make sure nothing else gets in.”

“I’ll keep snooping through the data,” Cleo offered. She stepped back inside the small control room and very carefully turned the dead body in its seat so it was facing away from her. She tapped her finger on the big touchscreen on the wall, moving inhumanly fast through the programs. “They’ve got an incredible amount of encrypted storage off-cloud and about a dozen suspicious search strings in this console’s cache. Maybe I can get a better idea of what caused the distress signal.”

“Are you sure you don’t want anyone else with you?” Ben asked Skye. “Um, I’m not great with a pistol, but I can hold my own.”

“That’s why you should stay here,” Skye said. She turned to Cassidy. “We have to hold out until morning now, no matter whether we find survivors.”

“If there are survivors, they may be injured,” Ben pointed out.

She gave him a funny look. Very un-Spartan-like, Gabriel thought. Almost
warm
, if Spartans were capable of such a look. “If there are injured survivors, I’ll contact you.”

Gabriel didn’t like the idea of the Historian going. He may not have liked Skye, but he valued her at the very least. And maybe he could redeem himself in her eyes if he proved to her he was useful. “I could go,” Gabriel offered, forcing a weak smile, “if you promise not to shoot me in the back. I have more experience with pistols than the Historian.”

Seamus raised a finger. “He makes a good point.”

Skye shook her head. “The son of Carmen Martinez isn’t expendable. The Historian is.”

So there it was. Finally out in the open. No more dancing around it. Still, the cold truth hit Gabriel hard. It angered him because deep down, he knew Skye was right. As the son of a famous Parliamentarian, he was considered more valuable than any of them. He was a freeborn child of Carmen Martinez, she who united all of Neo Berlin’s districts to pass sweeping Basic Income reforms that gave everyone an extra twenty credits per month. She who mended the rift between the Cryotec Corporation and the Geneti-bank Corporation, ensuring a fully operational gene bank and backup system on the Ark.

Gabriel got special privileges. He was something else, and so was Wei.

He was, technically, in
less
danger than others. Had it clouded his judgment, allowing him to rush to the conclusion that they should respond to this facility’s distress call, knowing that the others would be expected to give their lives before him? He didn’t know. It should never have gone this far. They were
all
in danger here in this place that shouldn’t exist, surrounded by creatures that shouldn’t exist, waiting for daylight to save them.

“Look,” Skye said. “This place is dead quiet, and there are only two probable reasons. We don’t need a Historian to tell us that.”

Seamus cleared his throat. “She means it’s very likely everyone in this facility is either dead or hiding.”

“Duh,” Cleo said.

“If everyone is dead,” Skye said, “then we need to secure the facility. If they’re hiding, that means that the only threat is outside, and the only way in is through those shutters.”

Of course — hiding wouldn’t help. The Specters didn’t simply give up. All the old footage of the invasion . . . the Specters were methodical and
relentless
. Gabriel cursed himself for even thinking about hiding. He looked at the others, wondering if any might argue. The kids were silent; Reza and Wei were both looking in the direction of the corpse inside the little office. Tahlia, too, only the Athenian girl wore a curious, interested expression. Ben was the only one who still didn’t look fully convinced. But he kept his mouth shut.

“OK,” Skye said. “We’ll be back.”

“Please be careful,” Ben whispered.

They made their way to the rear of the loading bay, toward the large steel door marked with a 2 and lined with horizontal strips of red, blue, purple and white paint. Gabriel bit his lip, stifling anger. His vote could have changed things. His vote could have sent them back to the safety of the city and instead all he’d been fretting about what the people would think. What his mother would think. What it would look like if the press knew that Parliament’s favorite son ignored a distress call.

Now they were here, in terrible danger.

And the others would be expected to give their lives to save Gabriel and Wei.

The steel door slid shut behind them, clanging unexpectedly loud as its horizontal interlocking edges came together. Seamus wasn’t used to doors like that. All of the doors in the Alexandria complex were near-silent, designed to enhance tranquility. Ambient sound, as a rule, was a disturbing sensory intrusion. Music was worse.

“I should confess,” he whispered, clearing his throat. “I only went through one firearms training module.”

“Are you going to keep doing that?” Skye asked, slowing down so that she was walking side-by-side with him. As they walked, the hallway’s thin lights along the top of the walls blinked on. The hallway was wide, industrial, with steel grated floors and simple curved white walls.

“Doing what?”

“Clearing your throat. It’s distracting. And dangerous.”

“How so?” he asked, curious. That a Spartan should worry about something so trivial interested him enough to temporarily put his fears on hold.

“I can very easily imagine a scenario where we’re hiding,” Skye said, licking her lips, “and then you clear your throat, giving away our position.”

“I would offer assurances to the contrary, but I doubt you would believe me. And also: you have a nervous habit, too. You lick your lips.”

She grunted, which he assumed was an affirmation. They walked slowly down the empty hallway. The white walls were smooth to the touch and lined with the colors of the clans. Purple for Clan Persia. Red for Clan Sparta. Blue for Clan Athens. It had a very sterile feel to it, though the smell was anything but. The stench invoked vivid memories of Seamus’s third-grade classroom during a week when the campus’s environmental controls shut off, leaving thirty third-graders soaking in their own sweat with no air circulation.

“These are storage rooms,” Skye said, nodding her head toward the sealed doors on either side of the wall. “According to Cleo’s map, at least.”

“Do you not trust her?” Seamus asked.

“I trust her just fine,” Skye snapped. “They’re locked, and we’re talking at a normal volume.”

“Ergo, if someone was hiding inside, they would have come out by now.”

“Exactly.”

“It smells strange,” he noted, trying to be helpful.

“That’s an understatement.”

“True. It smells
awful
.”

“Spoiled food. The cafeteria is up ahead. We need to be careful.” They were at the end of the hall now. Skye stopped a few inches away from the sliding door, checking her rifle’s power supply.

“You’re hesitant?” Seamus asked.

“I’m
careful
. Spoiled food means someone didn’t have time to clean up before, during, or after things got bad. Draw your pistol.”

He did as he was told, feeling the pistol’s hilt magnetically connect with the sensors on his glove. His gloves were uncomfortable, and possibly the wrong size. They seemed a bit too small, which he assumed would only hinder his ability to shoot straight. “Skye, I notice a spare latch on your belt.”

“And?”

“Before, it held a spare clip for your VR rifle. But you placed it in the Tumbler’s charging compartment and forgot about it. You only have one spare clip.”

Skye’s hand went to her belt. She cursed under her breath.

Seamus searched for something
encouraging
to say. “You’ll hardly need me for anything we may face, I’m sure. You’ve averaged eighty-eight percent in your classes thus far.”

She looked at him sharply. “How do you know my grades?”

“Because I was told to look them up. I was expected to know about everyone in the Coterie before the Proving.”

“And you just memorized all of it.”

“Yes,” he said. They passed a door to their right, and Seamus felt his legs move a little quicker to get him past it. His head was flooded with images of the Specters forcing their way through the steel shutters. “I have a very good memory.”

“Good for you.” Skye sighed. “That’s me, all right. Eighty-eight percent. A Jack of all Trades, master of none.”

“Skye, may I ask you a question? I must confess it is not simply for Historical records . . . I’m also curious.”

“If it helps you achieve your noble purpose,” she said the last two words with some acidity, he noted, “then by all means, Historian.”

“When we were in the station ready to leave, your father told you not to fail him again. I don’t understand. During your first Proving when you were thirteen years old, it was you who destroyed the Specter and saved your squad mates. Does your father not know this?”

“He knows it,” she said. Her hard tone faltered a bit. She cleared her throat, and Seamus bit his tongue to point out the hypocrisy. “Because the New Adults didn’t protect us, the Coterie failed its Proving, and that’s all that General Mitchell cared about.”

“But the Young Adults are not graded,” Seamus said. “The first Proving is merely experience, an opportunity to see the world beyond the shield and understand the weight of responsibility of the human race —”

“I know, I know.” She pulled back her curly red hair. “But that doesn’t matter to Father. He wants perfection. And I’m not perfect.”

The confession seemed to disarm the young woman. Seamus searched for something more reassuring, if only to bolster her confidence. Confident Spartans had a tendency to overperform in combat situations, historically speaking. “You are better than me at weapons proficiency, at least. I won’t be much help.”

“You’ll be plenty of help.” Skye smiled, and Seamus mistook it at first as something genuine and warm. He felt a warm rush of relief flood through his body. “If anything’s in there, you’re going to be the bait.”

The relief faded. “The . . . the bait?”

Skye nodded. “You’re going to distract it. I’m going to shoot it.”

Seamus, horrified, felt as if he might cry. “You can’t be serious!”

“Is your personal shield still working?”

He looked down at the small device attached to his belt. “Yes. I think so. I can’t be sure . . .”

“Tell your glasses to bring up your shield monitor.”

“Chi, bring up my shield monitor.” He waited. Nothing.

“I thought you had a good memory,” Skye said with a devilish smile. She seemed to enjoy his suffering. “Chi, shield status.”

“Chi, shield status,” he repeated. The little green bar appeared in the lower corner of his right lens. And he
did
have a good memory. The truth was that he’d skipped a handful of days during the mandatory Spartan-led defense training. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to learn; it was the atmosphere. The Spartan instructors put every child through basic survival training, but it was the kids destined to be part of a Coterie who were singled out for the toughest treatment. That meant extra activities. Pistol training. Specter escape tactics. Shouting. Screaming. Crying.