The Proving (37 page)

Five billion, three hundred million, nine hundred and twenty-eight thousand, one hundred and seven dead.

Seamus closed his eyes as the Tumbler hit another bump. His stomach was empty and it hurt; all the bumps were making it a hundred times worse. When he closed his eyes, he saw the memories of the past two days running through his head in perfect detail. Fifty-three dead bodies. He forced his mind to go back farther, to his first days in secondary school when he made the decision to become a Historian.

At least, Master Diego had
called
it a “decision.” But what else was Seamus good for, really? His mind was a near-perfect recall machine thanks to a combination of genes that gave him eidetic memory, a rare condition that usually went away by the time an affected person reached adulthood. But for Seamus, the condition did not cease. He could memorize entire history books on the first read. He could recount the events of every single day for the last fifteen years. They told him he was special. He was a unique individual capable of doing great things for the Alexandria Library.

And then he went into secondary school, and was surrounded by teens exactly like him. Some were born into families with the same gifts. Others had been picked out of the population just as Seamus had been. Two dozen, total, from all over the world. Kids who’d taken the mag-rail trains from city to city, during the day when it was safe to travel. Kids who could remember everything. Some already had such horrible memories — falls, arguments, accidental cuts, accidental spills, seeing an autotaxi accident and a wounded person lying in the road. All these memories stacked upon one another in each child’s mind, refusing to fade into something more manageable.

What was happening to Alexandria now? Seamus didn’t want to think about it. No one there was a friend but some he was acquainted with, and he worried about their safety now. Were they as worried about him? Probably not. There was little room for emotion in the Historian’s life. There was little room for anything but History.

So let them die, he thought morbidly. Let them all die and maybe he would be able to call for a do-over, an opportunity to reject the life of the Historian and save his Basic Income to build a quaint little print book store. It would be the kind of store for people who still desired the relics of the past, the ones that humanity could never quite give up — paper would always be with us, Seamus believed. Where does one put a book in a modern living space? Pre-fabbed shelves and cubbies in homes were designed for computing consoles and holoscreens and 3D printers, not
books
.

So Seamus would offer a place to read. He would offer coffee and tea, and people could get together and read the classics and have lively discussions. And Seamus would remember every single discussion, and at night he would play all of the wonderful discussions inside his head and he would smile in the darkness.

No. Even if humanity survived this attack, there would be no room for bookstores. There would be only death and destruction. Only the most essential survival elements would remain. Those who survived would be conscripted, ordered around, working from the moment they awoke until the moment they fell asleep. They would live in terror, thinking nothing about books and everything about survival. If they fought back the onslaught, the free citizens would rebuild and the Historians would dutifully record. That was the way of things.

“We’re five minutes out,” Cleo announced.

Seamus took a deep breath, hoping it might quell the sick feeling in his stomach. It did not. In his lifetime, he’d had fifteen colds and two bouts of influenza. Both cases of influenza had made his stomach feel similarly icky, though now his stomach felt
heavier
. His stomach muscles were sore because they’d been clenched since the moment the Tumbler began picking up speed.

He wished he could tell them the truth. Ever since the Specters arrived, they had been studied in top-secret facilities. But there had been so little learned — and so many accidents — that telling the people meant stoking only panic and fear. And they had been so close to a breakthrough. If only they’d had a few more years . . .

He shook the thoughts away. It was not his place to
lament
.

Beyond the lake, the road smoothed out. Seamus felt the knots in his stomach tighten, as if the others suspected he knew about this, too. He did, of course. This road had been repaved for the scientists in the research facility. The scientists and techies and Spartans and management flew in, then traveled to the research facility. It was not coincidence that General Mitchell had sent coordinates to an airstrip tucked away in the mountains.

Seamus closed his eyes. Oh, how close they’d been. The scientists had found something, some new key to understanding the Specters and so their work had been granted Level One clearance. Seamus knew only that tests were occurring, but knew nothing of the tests. He’d seen some files he should not have, and had not reported his insubordination because the memories of punishment had prevented him from doing so.

His stomach lurched again.

It wasn’t just motion sickness. The Coterie had stumbled upon secrets, and it was possible there would be no repercussions simply because there may not be anyone left to mete out any punishment. Post-war, societies changed. Sometimes, they changed for the better and grew closer, reforming health care programs and welfare and social networks. Sometimes, they broke into factions and fought over resources. Sometimes, humans divided themselves up and killed those who were different.

Seamus looked right. Wei was laying on a flat steel gurney that Ben had unfolded from the floor of the Tumbler. She was secured with two nylon straps wrapped over her chest and thighs. Ben had run a needle into a vein in her little hand and was running an electrolyte drip, the tube connected to the small medical terminal, its touchscreen providing a running tally of the fluids being distributed. Wei’s eyes were open. She stared up at the ceiling of the Tumbler, her mouth moving but no sound coming out. But her mouth was forming words. And Seamus could read her lips well enough:

What are you I’m scared you’re one of them how did you get here?

Gabriel returned to his seat beside Wei, running a hand over her head. “Little bug, what do you need? How do you feel?”

“I can see them,” she whispered.

“Who?” Gabriel asked.

“The Specters.” She turned her head. “Who are you?”

Her brother looked at Ben, who was sitting next to the medical terminal. Ben reached up, adjusting the drip by using the touchscreen. “I’m going to give her a minor sedative to keep her comfortable.”

“Why is she hallucinating?” Gabriel asked. “Why can’t she remember us?”

“I don’t know,” Ben answered patiently. “But her body scan didn’t show any problems. It could simply be an after-effect of the attack.”

“It could be the trauma,” Tahlia offered helpfully. She sat across from Gabriel, watching him with the same look she watched everyone else. It was purely speculation, but Seamus had the distinct feeling the girl was studying everyone. Including him.

“The important thing is to be patient,” Ben said.

“Two minutes,” Cleo announced. “I have a satellite connection to the airbase and I’m powering up its main computer now . . . no shield . . . no Phenocyte reactor on-base . . . getting an inventory list now. Oh. Oh
man
.”

“What is it?” Skye asked.

Cleo turned to her and said something to Skye in a low voice. The Spartan girl didn’t respond, but Seamus felt the Tumbler pick up speed. It hit another bump. He felt bile creep up his throat. He swallowed it, trying to push away memories of the Sebecus Specter that had pounced on him. Those teeth . . .

“They want me to be a part of them,” Wei croaked.

Gabriel used his thumb to rub the center of her forehead. “Shhhhh. Just relax, little bug.”

If Seamus had been there, he would have stopped them. He would have insisted they leave the shipping containers alone. What was in those shipping containers was meant for the researchers in the facility, not a bunch of brats going through the Proving. He ached to tell them the truth. Those shipping containers . . . they’d been so close to a breakthrough.

How could Parliament share the truth with the people? How could the terrible truth hidden inside those shipping containers be parsed and watered down to appeal to the frightened masses?

How do you tell humanity they’re not the Specters’ first victims?

Even the half-truth was too much to bear: that the Specters were a superior race. The full truth could
not
be shared. There was such a thing as too much knowledge. Historically, whenever new ideas and research bumped into conventions and beliefs, there was conflict. Pushback. Denial. It had nearly doomed the human race at least a dozen times.

“We’re coming up on the airbase,” Skye said. “Ben, Wei needs to be ready to move. Cleo’s satellite feed is showing Specter activity in the area. They’re moving in broad daylight.”

“Right,” Ben said. He leaned in, carefully removing the needle from Wei’s hand. The sight of it sent more bile crawling up Seamus’s throat. He turned away, watching the Persian boy nervously tap his fingers on the edge of his computer console. He was looking out the front windshield, watching the airbase approach.

The base was small, designed in the simplistic way that helped building bots function efficiently without human oversight. The building itself was hexagon-shaped, two stories tall with reinforced windows along one end and twin steel doors on the other. A thin control tower stood beside the main building, sleek like a needle and striped with rusty rain stains. There was one runway and two helipads, each one painted with neon yellow targets.

They passed the runway. A small rover-like robot with two winged solar panels was moving along the nearest helipad, using a single arm appendage to seal a crack in the rubber-infused concrete. BOTCO upkeep robots — a Clan Persia corporation. Seamus knew their history only mildly well. Robotics had been a subject he’d avoided, worried all the technical jargon would bog down his day-to-day thinking process. He did not like memorizing technology. He liked memorizing
narratives
.

“This place looks new,” Reza said.

“It
is
new, bro-bro,” Cleo said. “Well, newish.”

“More we don’t know,” Ben murmured, unstrapping Wei. With Gabriel’s help, they got her sitting up. Ben kept a hand on her leg to keep her steady. “Wei? On a scale of zero to ten, how dizzy do you feel?”

“Three,” she said quietly. She looked around. Her eyes locked with Seamus for a moment. Seamus turned away, suddenly ashamed. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t decide what people knew and what people didn’t know. He was still a Historian in training. He absorbed History. Other people distributed the knowledge. Adults who knew what they were doing. He had to trust that.

Otherwise, his conscience would haunt him forever.

The Tumbler slowed. Ahead, the massive chain-link gate slid open. The road had flattened out considerably, intersecting with another road that led through the mountains to the northern metropolis of Homme. Seamus knew this, and he knew exactly how many researchers at the secret facility — 22 — had lived in Homme. Some of the dead bodies from the Commons room were those same researchers. Seamus couldn’t stop cycling through their terrified faces.

That could have been him.

“I’m going to park right outside the hangar,” Skye said. “Just in case we need to make a quick escape. Cleo.”

“Right. Doors opening. Abracadabra.”

The twin steel doors of the airbase rose up. Above the doors, two red lights began blinking.

“Get ready to move,” Skye said. “Cassy’s going first. Then Cleo. I’ll bring up the rear.”

“You’re going to be OK, little bug,” Gabriel said. He grabbed her hand. The Tumbler slowed. “Ready?”

Wei nodded dreamily.

“Clear,” Cleo announced. Skye unbuckled, punching a button over her brother’s shoulder. The Tumbler door slid open, revealing bright sunlight. Seamus squinted, watching the others disembark. Gabriel held onto Wei, guiding her while Ben followed with a hand on her back, ready to catch her if she stumbled. Reza went next — the boy looked afraid but also concerned. The boy’s secretive obsession with his video games the previous day would count against him during evaluations, but perhaps Seamus could also mention the boy’s clear connection to Wei, and the outpouring of empathy and compassion he’d provided to the girl.

If they got through this alive.

Skye nudged his arm with the butt of her rifle. “Go, Historian.”

Seamus hopped out of the Tumbler. The air had warmed considerably, allowing him a brief moment to relish the beauty of the natural world surrounding the airbase. Tall mountains farther north and west. Tall green pine trees in every direction. Bright yellow birds flying between the trees, singing three-note songs. Nature fought so hard against the Specter scourge. It was, perhaps, an opportunity for reflection in the official history. Something that humanity’s own resistance could be measured against.

Beside him, Cleo’s horrible pet robot floated by on its propellers.

“Move,” Skye ordered. “We’re not exactly out of danger yet.”

Seamus followed the others inside the hangar. Once they were all inside, Cleo pressed a button on her VRacelet. The doors lowered. Lights overhead turned on, revealing two heli-jets, sleek and sharp-looking, with twin VR cannons on their wings. To the right was a small square-shaped command center lined with windows overlooking the hangar. Inside were multiple consoles and holobulbs arranged in a half-circle around a much larger glass screen. It was a throwback to the old command centers of space agencies, when manned space exploration was the norm.

“I’m sending a ping to the emergency comm channel,” Cleo said. “The consoles in the command center are booting up. We should get a message in a moment.”

“They want us to evacuate somewhere,” Gabriel said, looking up at the massive heli-jet. “Skye, do you know how to fly one of these?”

“I know how to fly anything,” Skye said briskly. She swept her VR rifle in a slow arc around the hangar, taking two steps toward the command center. “But
we
are not evacuating anywhere. The orders were to get everyone here. We’ve done that. I’m going back to the city.”