As we ride, I try to catch a glimpse of Raffe’s face to gauge what he’s thinking or feeling. After Zandri’s death, Tomas was quiet. Withdrawn. At the time I thought it was just fatigue or disillusionment with the world around him that caused his depression. But now that I know what happened during my absence, I realize it was because Tomas was struggling with his conscience. Had I not been with him, I doubt he would have continued with the fourth test. Taking a life, especially one he knew and cared for, ate at his desire to save his own until the only purpose he had was helping get me safely to the end. Raffe’s need to find his sister should keep him focused on us getting through the next several hours. After that, who can say what will happen. Perhaps if Emilie is still alive, Raffe will find purpose in bringing her home and helping her recover from whatever she has suffered.
Raffe turns to the left. I follow, although I notice that Raffe is farther ahead than he was before. Despite what has happened, the burst of speed makes clear that he has not lost his endurance. At first that thought encourages me. Then I realize that Raffe is not the one who has changed speed. I have.
I’ve been so concerned with Raffe’s state of mind that I have not noticed the weight that seems to press on me with every turn of the pedals. At the end of the journey to Raffe’s house was death. There had always been a possibility that I would come to Raffe’s aid if he needed me, but it wasn’t necessary. This journey is different. While blood stains my hands, I have never before set out to commit murder. Tonight, I am doing exactly that.
Raffe stops so suddenly, I have to turn my handlebars to avoid crashing into him. “Look,” he says. I squint into the darkness, trying to see what he sees.
Skimmers.
At the other end of the block, traveling toward us without their running lights engaged. The lack of lights is both illegal and dangerous. Neither problem is likely of much concern to those who pilot the vehicles.
“This way,” Raffe whispers, and he leads me off the paved roadway and onto the grass. I cast glances behind me, trying to see if the skimmer pilots have noticed us, but the black of the night makes it hard to tell. Raffe must think there is a chance we have been detected because he doesn’t slow as we ride in between two tall trees a hundred feet from the road. Riding on the rougher terrain has slowed his pace enough for me to keep up.
“This way.”
Raffe darts behind the house to our right and stops. Putting a finger to his lips, he glances around the corner at the street to see if we are being pursued. I hold my breath. A minute passes. Two. Then I hear the hum of engines moving closer, but from the sound I can’t tell if they are leaving the street or traveling along it. Finally I see a shadow darker than the rest slowly moving along the road toward the east. It’s small. The same size as the skimmers we used during our Induction, although I am certain this one is faster and in better repair. A second skimmer appears. Raffe points out a third. The seeming lack of urgency suggests they are performing a basic patrol. Three patrols in one location seems excessive on a normal day, but I am not surprised to see them congregated here, since we are near so many of the dwellings where top officials reside. We were lucky not to have run into more trouble on Raffe’s block.
Or were we?
I see the skimmers stop and watch as one by one they turn around and head back in the direction from which they came. If they were on basic patrol, they would keep going to secure the rest of the neighborhood. These Safety officials are guarding something. Since Dr. Barnes’s house is only a hundred yards away, I can guess what that something is.
The lead skimmer passes our position as I hear the click. And another. It’s coming from the Transit Communicator in my bag. Zeen.
Raffe turns his head. A second skimmer comes into view. The click sounds three more times. When I don’t pick up, a voice calls, “Cia, answer me.” Zeen’s frantic plea echoes in the quiet of the night. I reach into my bag to find the Communicator and shut it down. My fingers fumble with the fastener as Zeen yells, “I’m coming, but Symon is—”
I hit the Off switch.
Everything goes silent.
No. Not everything.
The hum of the skimmer engine turns to a roar. The running lights flare to life as the skimmer turns and heads across the grass, directly at us.
Chapter 17
TERROR FUELS MY feet. “Follow me,” I whisper as loud as I dare, hoping my words can be heard over the roar of the skimmers’ engines as they throttle up. These skimmers are bound to be fast and easy to maneuver. That’s almost enough to make me think our fate is sealed. Our only chance is to ride around the far side of the house and double back toward the road before they see us. If they can’t see us, they won’t know which direction to follow.
I take a standing position to gain more momentum. The sound of Raffe’s harsh, fast breathing tells me he’s not far behind. We are almost to the edge of the house when my front wheel hits something. I jolt as the bike slows to a crawl. Panic flares as Raffe zips past and around the corner. I try to push the pedals again but they won’t turn. Whatever I hit must be wedged in the gears.
Jumping off my bike, I lift it by the frame and run. Between the bulk of the bag and the weight of the bike, my movements are awkward. Engines roar somewhere behind me. I don’t think they are close—yet—but I can’t tell for sure and I don’t dare take the time to look. My feet stumble. Raffe takes the bike from me and runs to a small group of bushes. He slides the bike under it and then grabs my hand and dashes toward the front of the house.
“Dr. Barnes lives two houses down on the north side of the street. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”
I don’t have a chance to argue as he darts away. Without thinking, I run to the front of the next house and cross the street. The slap of my boots on the pavement makes me cringe. When I reach the grass on the other side, I brave a look behind me. The skimmers have not yet reached the end of the house we came around.
My heart pounds. I run as fast as I am able and drop to the ground near the wall of the house, and flatten myself against the dirt.
I keep my face lowered, hoping my dark hair will blend into the shadows. The sound of an engine comes closer. Slowly, I move my right hand. My fingers search for the side pocket of my bag and the gun I have stored there. I can feel the seam of the pocket, but I cannot slip my hand inside without shifting my entire body, giving myself away.
I hear the sound of the other skimmer. I press my cheek to the ground and squeeze my eyes shut as I wait for shouts, increased engine power, or anything that would indicate I have been spotted. My whole body quivers with the urge to run, but I force myself to stay put. The smell of rich dirt evokes memories of my father. My first memories are of the smell of earth that surrounded him when he’d come home after a day of working in his greenhouse. It’s a smell I have always associated with hope. I cling to that as I wait.
Three gunshots slash through the night. Somewhere to the left. Perhaps a few houses away. Maybe more. Did a Safety official find Raffe? Has he survived? I want to look for him, but getting myself captured or killed will not help anyone. Instead, I bite my lip, force back tears of frustration, and hold my position.
The engine closest to me roars and disappears in the direction of the gunshots. I force myself to count back from fifty in case another patrol comes by. Fifty. Forty-nine. Forty-eight. Forty-seven. The seconds feel like hours. When I reach five, I lay my hands flat on the ground. Two. One.
Pushing to my knees, I blink at the darkness. There are no signs of skimmers or their running lights. Can I still hear their engines? No. My legs tremble as I climb to my feet. The pain that streaks up my leg makes my knees buckle. When I reach down to adjust the bandage, it is wet. My leg is bleeding. I consider my options. Go to the north and around the back of this structure toward Dr. Barnes’s house or see if Raffe needs my help.
There is really only one choice. Raffe could be captured or dead. All I can do is continue to follow our original plan and hope for
the best.
Slowly, I cross the grass to the back of the house. The breeze rustles the leaves on nearby trees. Somewhere in the distance I hear a dog bark. No engines. No sound of footsteps other than mine. I pass several windows as I walk but see no faces peering out.
When I reach the end of the structure, I glance around the corner, toward the street. Nothing. I quickly cross the expansive lawn between this house and the next. The one that Raffe told me belongs to Dr. Jedidiah Barnes. The house is two stories tall. A flicker of light from a second-story window tells me someone is home.
As I walk to the back door, I glance through the rear first-story windows, but it’s too dark to see within. The door is unlocked. I tighten the hold on my gun and start to push it open.
“Cia.”
I turn the barrel toward the sound of my name and squint into the darkness for the source. When I can’t make out the person running toward me, I raise my flashlight and hit the switch. After the events in the stadium, I think the risk of exposing my position is worth it.
When the beam illuminates Raffe’s face, I let out a sigh of relief and switch off the light. “Are you okay?” I ask when he reaches my side. “I heard gunshots and thought you’d been killed.”
“I used to play with some of the kids in this neighborhood,” he whispers near my ear. “There are old water ducts at the end of the block. They’re not easy to find if you don’t know where to look. I fired a couple of shots to draw the Safety officials in my direction and then went into one of the ducts and crawled until I came out on the other side of the block, which is harder to do now than when I was smaller. Are you ready?”
Am I? Could I ever be ready for what I now must do? “I’m ready for this to be over,” I answer.
“Then let’s go.”
Raffe pushes the door open and steps cautiously into darkness. I follow, closing the door behind me, then turn on my flashlight. We’re in a large kitchen. My light shows dark wood cabinets, white and gray countertops, and a large wooden table. There are no dishes in sight. No glasses in the sink. My mother would approve. Raffe frowns.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
“Probably nothing,” he says. “When my father and I came to visit, Mrs. Barnes let me hang out in here. She always had flowers on the table and things her kids made on the countertop by the sink.”
I shine my light again. The countertops and table are clear of decorations. Out of curiosity, I open one of the cabinet doors. In it are two plates, two bowls. The next one contains three mugs and two drinking glasses. I think of what my mother keeps in our kitchen. Because my father’s job requires him to be close to the area he is currently working to revitalize, we move often, so Mom tries to keep our possessions to a minimum for ease of relocation. Despite that we have at least six or seven pots and pans, over a dozen plates, and a large number of cups. I have a hard time believing that what’s contained in these cupboards is enough to service a family of five.
“Let’s go.” Raffe turns toward the door that leads to the rest of the house.
I keep the light pointed in front of us as we walk through a hallway that takes us to a large room. On one side is a wide staircase. A sofa, small table, and two blue chairs are arranged in the middle of the room. A shelf on the wall contains a number of books, but, as in the kitchen, there are no personal objects of any kind in the room. No paintings or baskets filled with knitting needles like I noticed in Raffe’s house. The furniture and rug look comfortably worn, but still the house feels as though it’s not really lived in.
Gun in hand, Raffe leads the way up the stairs. As I follow, I run my finger along the wood banister. It comes away clean. No dust. Despite the meager furnishings, someone still lives here.
We reach the top of the stairs and turn to the left. The light I saw from outside is coming from an open door fifteen feet away. The rest of the doors in the hall are closed. No lights shine from beneath them.
Raffe glances at me and nods. I turn off my flashlight, put it in my pocket, and nod back. This is it.
It is easy to keep our approach quiet. The carpet on this floor is thick. When we are steps away from the door, Raffe looks at me and mouths the word “Go.” He races through the door. I step in after him with my finger poised on the trigger, prepared to fire. Only, no one is there. The chair behind a large desk stacked with papers is empty. The shelves in this room are stuffed with books worn from use. A large rocking chair sits near a window. Beside it is a small table stacked high with paper-filled folders.
Without discussion, Raffe and I walk out of the room and search the rest of the upstairs rooms. No one occupies them, but we do find answers of another sort. In the largest bedroom, we see a portrait of Dr. Barnes, his wife, and their children on the nightstand, but when we look in the closets we find clothes that belong only to him. There are no toys or clothes in the other bedrooms. Dr. Barnes still lives here, but his family does not.
Why?
We go back to the office to see if answers can be found there. Raffe stands at the desk. I walk to the rocking chair and sit on the floor next to a pile of papers. But before I can open the first file, I remember Zeen. Opening my bag, I take out the Transit Communicator, turn it back on, and click the Call button. When Zeen doesn’t answer, I click the button three more times, hoping he will understand that I am now able to talk. That I have not heard the message that he took such a chance to relay to me.
The Communicator stays silent. Whatever Zeen is doing at this moment, he cannot hear me or cannot get to his Communicator. Biting my lip, I set the device to the side and search for the pulse radio. The message light is on, so I press Play and feel a tear slide down my cheek as Tomas’s voice fills the room.
“The first step is complete. We are moving on to the second.” His voice is strained. He promises to contact me once their next task is finished and then says, “I hope you are safe. Remember, I love you.”
Warmth floods my body as I cling to one thought—Tomas is alive.
“He didn’t say what happened with Professor Chen,” Raffe says.
“No.” I noticed that omission too. Perhaps Tomas is being careful, but his tone tells me something went wrong. Since there is nothing we can do about what has happened, I say, “They must have found her or he would have said they were unable to complete the first step. They might be with Professor Holt now. We have to decide what to do next. Where do you think Dr. Barnes and his family could be?”
“Dr. Barnes must have decided to move his family somewhere safe in case something went wrong with his plan. But I can’t imagine he’d leave Tosu City.”
I agree. Symon is in charge of directing the rebellion, but Dr. Barnes gives orders to Symon. He wouldn’t leave. Not when the events he has orchestrated are about to be put in motion. “According to the president’s information, he spends a lot of time at The Testing Center. I think our best chance of finding him would be there.”
“Getting off campus was hard.” Raffe frowns. “I’m guessing security is even tighter now.”
“If we have to get past the Safety officials, we will,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “But it would be better if we knew for certain if Dr. Barnes is there.” I glance at the papers in piles around the room. “Maybe there’s something here that will help. We might even be able to find evidence of what happened to your sister and the other students.”
That kind of proof to supplement the death of some of the top Testing advocates might aid us in ending The Testing even if Dr. Barnes has gone into hiding. But we can’t stay here for long. My gut tells me Dr. Barnes is still in the area. If we are going to find him, we need to continue our hunt. “Let’s do a quick search,” I say, opening the first folder in the stack next to me. “If we don’t find anything after ten minutes, we should get going.”
As Raffe flips through papers on the desk, I focus on the pages in my hand. At the top of the first page is a name. Ayana Kirk. Beneath it are listed grades for twelve years of studies a
s well as notes that say the student especially excelled in physics and music. There are several recommendation letters from teachers. In a different hand, I see notes in the margin questioning whether the student’s musical proclivities make her too sensitive to withstand further education or whether she might be better served by a mid-level education job instead of reaching for a higher position. These questions must have been sent to those who wrote the recommendations because more letters follow, addressing the concerns, as well as a note that an invitation to take the University exam was sent. I flip the page and my heart sinks as I see the words “Redirected and assigned to resource program under Professor Cartwright.” Beneath that is Dr. Barnes’s signature and a date. This student failed her examination last year. The signature is in the same hand as the notations in the margins throughout the file.
I skim through the next file. Another failed student. Another Redirection. This one also from last year. As I quickly scan the pages, I notice that all the files stacked here are from the past ten years. No students previous to that time are included. All were Redirected. The older the application file is, the fewer notations in the margins. Not a single question is written for those who applied a decade past. As I do the math, I notice something else. Unless files are missing, over three times as many students were Redirected ten years ago than last year.
“What did you find?” Raffe asks.