Independent Study

by Joelle Charbonneau

  We walk up the steps, and I glance over my shoulder to look for the other teams. None are in sight as we step into a room buzzing with activity. The antechamber is filled with people. Large white panels hanging from the two-story ceiling bask the room in light. On the wall to the right is a mural of the colonies and boundaries of the current United Commonwealth. Directly in front of us are two large sets of doors that lead to the Debate Chamber.

  “Where do we start looking?” Enzo asks. “The observation gallery? The offices?”

  Will frowns. “Cia and I came here for orientation a couple months ago. I don’t remember seeing anything with scales on it. Then again, we only went through about half the rooms in the building.”

  “We should split up,” Damone suggests.

  I have only to think about Damone’s desire to leave me locked in that box to reject his idea. “We should stay together. Otherwise, we’ll spend even more time trying to reconnect with one another.”

  Damone gives me a flat stare. “Fine. You’re the captain. You tell us how we’re going to search hundreds of rooms and find the scales before the next team does.”

  “I don’t know,” I admit, but my desire to outthink Damone has me determined to find out.

  Our orientation leader said the building contained almost two hundred thousand square feet of offices, meeting rooms, and discussion chambers. Searching through them all could take days.

  “We’re wasting time. Can someone make a decision already? Or is talking all they taught you how to do in the colonies?” Damone scowls at me and Will.

  Will glares back. “At least they taught us something. The only reason you’re here is because your father is a hotshot Commonwealth official. I bet he knows where the scales symbol is in this place. Too bad he isn’t here to ask. Instead, we’re stuck with you.”

  Damone moves fast. Before I realize what’s happening, he pushes Will back toward the wall behind us. I see shock register on Will’s face a moment before he slams into the hard surface. Will grabs Damone’s shoulders and shoves, sending Damone staggering back. I race in between the two, hoping to talk some sense into them before we get thrown out of the building or worse.

  “Stop,” I snap, trying to mimic the tone my mother uses on my brothers when they are fighting. “Unless you’re hoping to impress the government officials with your right hooks, I think we should find what we came here to do. After that, the two of you can beat each other senseless for all I care. Okay?”

  I wait for Will or Damone to object. Neither does.

  “Good.” I push hair off my forehead and take a deep breath. “Now, maybe we can get back to solving this task.”

  “Well, according to Will, we’re not smart enough to figure it out on our own,” Damone sneers.

  “That’s not what I said.”

  This time Enzo steps in to keep the peace, and I let him because Will and Damone have given me an idea. The clue did not say we had to find the scales on our own. While Damone’s father isn’t here for us to ask, there are dozens if not hundreds of government officials who work in this building every day. Some of them must know where the symbol of the scales of justice is. We just have to ask.

  I approach a lady sitting in nearby a room with a glass window. When she sees me looking in her direction, her lips curve into a sympathetic smile. Taking that as a positive sign, I leave the boys behind and walk over.

  The woman slides open a panel of glass. “Can I be of assistance?” Her eyes shift behind me; she no doubt wonders if the help I need is with my unkempt, ill-mannered companions.

  “I’m hoping you know where I can find a picture or sign or statue with balanced scales depicted on it. There’s supposed to be one somewhere inside this building.”

  With a nod, she says, “If you go through those doors there, I believe you will find a small rendering of that symbol on the back of the moderating justice’s chair.”

  She points to the double doors situated between the two maps. The doors that lead into the Debate Chamber. Next to the door is a sign that lists the discussion and voting schedule for the day. I look down at the watch strapped to my bag. The Debate Chamber session is almost over. Once it ends, the chamber doors will be locked until the debate floor opens again—at nine o’clock in the morning. Unless we can convince someone to unlock the doors for us, we will have to wait to search the chamber during one of the session breaks tomorrow.

  Or will we? I think back to the second line of the clue. Look for the symbol of the house you now live in and find what you seek upon its perch. If an image of balanced scales is on a chair, then what we seek isn’t going to be waiting for us when the chamber is empty. It’s what is at this very moment seated on that chair.

  The moderating justice—President Anneline L. Collindar.

  Chapter 9

  I THANK THE woman for her help and walk toward the double doors. In my head, I try to picture what I saw the time I was here. Up front is a raised platform. A podium and chair in the center for the moderating justice, who leads the discourse. A desk and another chair for the assistant moderator, who records the proceedings. Seats and desks on the main floor for representatives of the ten departments of the government. More seats in the balcony for those who want to observe or, in some cases, add their opinions to the discussion. When we were here with our orientation instructor, most of the seats in the balcony were empty. Citizens were too busy with their jobs, homes, and children to care what change to the law was being made.

  When I pull back the heavy doors and step inside, I hear murmuring somewhere overhead that tells me today at least some of the seats in the balcony are occupied. So is the debate floor. All ten department leaders are required to send two delegates to represent their interests on the debate floor. When I was last here, the requisite twenty were in attendance. Today there are at least twice as many listening to a speaker explain the need for more textile production.

  My teammates join me in the open doorway.

  “What are you doing?” Damone growls. “You’re not allowed on the Debate Chamber floor when the council is in session.”

  “The next clue is in here,” I whisper.

  “Where?” Will asks.

  Taking a deep breath, I point to where the leader of our country sits with an unreadable expression on her face. “There.”

  “Are you crazy?” Damone asks. “You can’t go up there. You’ll get us thrown out of the University and detained, or worse.”

  He’s right. Our orientation instructor reminded us that detainment is the penalty for stepping uninvited onto the Debate Chamber floor. Doing so is construed as a threat against the president and the Commonwealth Government. The penalty was instituted during the early days when the fatigue and frustration of nongovernment citizens boiled over and resulted in injuries and, on one occasion, death.

  Enzo nods. “If the next task is up there, we’ll find it when the session is over. We just have to wait.”

  The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that waiting will do us no good. Thus far, each of the tasks set for us by the final years has tested specific skills. Mathematics. History. Mechanical knowledge. But in addition to classroom-learned knowledge, the tests have measured something more. They have judged our ability to work under pressure. To trust one another. To listen to instructions and critically think through problems. Successful government officials do all these things, but the best of them do more. They follow their instincts and figure out a way to do what needs to be done.

  I count four men and two women dressed in black and standing near the stairs on either side of the raised platform. The wide white band on each of their right arms identifies them as Safety officials. The weapons at their sides and the respect our country’s citizens have for the work done here have ensured that no unauthorized person has set foot on the Debate Chamber floor for decades.

  Since I can’t walk onto the floor without risking detainment, I have to find another way.

  “Cia,” Will
hisses, “we have to wait outside until the session ends.”

  Damone, Enzo, and Will take a step backward, but I stay put. This session will last a half hour more. Then the room will be locked until morning. Damone might be able to convince one of his father’s friends to open the doors and let us search, but there is a chance that the president has to be seated on the platform for us to complete the task. Waiting will not help us. There has to be a second option. But what?

  Ignoring the stares from officials on the debate floor and the insistent whispers from my teammates, I glance around the room for a solution. My mother always told me the best way to solve a problem is to ask for help. But while that worked the first time, I doubt the woman in the lobby will be able to assist me in this next step even if she knows what it is. The officials on the debate floor might be able to provide an answer, but unless I want to yell across the massive room, I—

  Wait.

  I close my eyes and think back to my Five Lakes classroom. Sitting in my seat behind Tomas. Listening to our teacher as she discussed the creation of this room. The founding government officials chose this space to house the Debate Chamber because they wanted a room large enough to house not only the governing body but those citizens who wanted to voice their concerns. In the early years of the Commonwealth, the debate floor was filled with people who wanted a voice in the reconstruction of our country. During the last several decades, no ordinary citizen has stepped onto the Debate Chamber floor. They’ve been too busy with their own lives to take responsibility for the government and the country. But just because no one in recent years has chosen to use that privilege doesn’t mean it doesn’t still exist. At the end of that lesson, my teacher mentioned an antiquated law that said any citizen may request a hearing on the Debate Chamber floor. We were never tested on that law or the wording required to gain access to the Chamber. At the time I was relieved. Not anymore.

  It takes me several minutes to locate the thin, dark cord that hangs far to the left of the entryway in a dimly lit alcove. The cord is coated with dust, but when I tug, the gong of the hearing bell echoes through the room. One by one, the people on the floor shift their attention from the speaker to me. The man’s words falter. The Safety officials’ hands move to the weapons holstered at their sides, but they do not draw. Not yet. I can hear the surprise in the hushed whispers from the gallery above.

  Part of me wants to withdraw. To avoid such attention. But the law states any citizen who rings the bell and follows protocol will be invited onto the chamber floor. While I am young and unimportant to the working of the Commonwealth, I am a citizen. The law gives me this right.

  Only those who use the proper phrase are given leave to enter the chamber. One wrong word and the petitioner will be denied for her lack of respect for the process and those she seeks to address. I take three steps forward, swallow my nerves, and say the words my classmates and I were taught years ago. “As every citizen has not only the right but the responsibility to participate in the due course of this government, I respectfully ask permission to address the moderating justice and the official currently holding the Debate Chamber floor.”

  Everything is quiet. The entire chamber is holding its breath. Watching. Wondering if I have spoken correctly. If I will be granted permission to take the floor. Time stands still as the president rises from her seat and studies me from across the hall.

  “Permission is granted.” She nods. “You may approach.”

  Relief floods through me. I hold my head high and keep my eyes forward as I walk to the stairs of the raised platform. Four steps up, and I cross the stage and come to a halt four feet from the leader of the United Commonwealth.

  Several heartbeats pass as we look at each other. Me with my untidy hair and rumpled, dirt-stained clothes standing on the wooden platform. The president standing in front of a large, black wooden chair, with her short, perfectly styled ebony hair and a ceremonial red robe.

  Then she smiles. “What can the United Commonwealth Government do for you, citizen?”

  The president stands seven inches taller than I. Her face is long and angular. Not what most would call beautiful. But the almond-shaped brown eyes and strong jaw would draw attention anywhere. Almost all the United Commonwealth presidents have been female. It has been argued that women are less aggressive, more maternal, and thus more focused on the well-being of the country’s people. Less focused on politics or power. Perhaps this is true, but there is nothing maternal about President Collindar’s appearance or voice. Both carry a shimmer of absolute authority.

  Taking a deep breath, I shift a few steps to the side so I can clearly see the back of the chair. And I smile. Dangling from a wire on the back of the chair is a picture of the balanced scales of justice. I swallow my nerves, smooth my sweaty palms on my pants, and say, “I apologize for the interruption, President Collindar, but I believe you have a message for me.”

  The president’s eyes shift to the balcony and then back to me.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” The smile spreads as she reaches into the pocket of her robe and pulls out a familiar-looking gray envelope. “I wish you luck in the rest of your studies, Ms . . . ?”

  “Vale. Malencia Vale.”

  “Where are you from, Ms. Vale?”

  “Five Lakes Colony, Madam President.”

  Surprise lights her eyes, but President Collindar’s pleasant smile doesn’t change as she holds out the envelope. “I’m certain we’ll meet again, Malencia. Have a safe journey back to school.”

  I take the envelope and she sits back down in her chair. I’ve been dismissed. I turn and glance up at the balcony as I make my way to the stairs. A dozen people are scattered in the gallery seats. Among them are two familiar faces. A tightlipped Professor Holt, watching my every move, and Dr. Barnes, whose gaze is affixed on the only person behind me—President Collindar. I can’t help but wonder if Professor Holt and Dr. Barnes will judge my actions to be the correct ones. While the envelope in my hand was the goal, I know from The Testing that the right answer doesn’t always ensure a passing grade. Coming in first during this Induction doesn’t mean we will be assigned the most important internships. It’s the skills and leadership we demonstrate during these tasks that will make that determination.

  Hoping that I have shown whatever qualities Dr. Barnes and Professor Holt are looking for in their top government interns, I walk up the aisle to where my team stands holding open the double doors. Their expressions range from celebratory to sullen as I walk past them into the antechamber. I see the blonde seated behind the glass window smile at the envelope in my hand. I smile back and, when the double doors close with a soft thunk, I let out a relieved sigh.

  “I can’t believe you got the words to that petition right.” Will laughs and shakes his head. “I would have blown it.”

  “Then the administrators made a mistake letting you into the University,” says Damone. “Anyone who truly belongs in Government Studies can recite that request. It’s not like she did anything special.”

  Will gives Damone a tense smile. “I dare you to walk into the Debate Chamber and request your own audience. I bet anything you’ll prove you don’t belong.”

  Before the two can start shoving again, I say, “Instead of arguing about the last task, how about we concentrate on the next one? It’s getting late. I’d rather not have to finish this Induction in the dark.”

  When no one objects, I open the envelope given to me by President Collindar and read:

  The end is near. You’ll soon be done. Now it’s time to have some fun. Return to the place where you embarked on this quest. Induction awaits for those who complete one last test.

  The place where we embarked on this quest? There are two possibilities. The zoo, with its booby-trapped monkey cages, or the University, where we boarded the skimmers that took us to the initial location. Since the clue implies our Induction adventure will be complete after we finish the final task, and since none of us wants to return
to the zoo to face any other deadly inhabitants, we climb into the skimmer and head northeast to the University.

  Damone knows this area best, so we let him navigate while Will steers through the well-tended busy streets of downtown Tosu. Being in charge seems to put Damone in a more cheerful mood, which is a relief. With one Induction task remaining, we need his cooperation.

  Personal skimmers and a few old-fashioned cars cruise down the smoothly paved roads next to us. Kids play games on small patches of grass. Citizens with bags on their shoulders travel the walkways. I plug the coordinates I saved into the Transit Communicator and monitor our progress in case Damone is steering us wrong. We have just over four and a half miles to travel before we are back at the Government Studies residence.

  The buildings lining the streets grow smaller. Some of the streets we pass are cracked. The roofs on the houses sag. The children playing outside wear frayed coats and shoes. Their cheeks are hollow. Their eyes resigned. I can see Enzo’s jaw tighten as we travel through those areas, which soon give way to larger houses in perfect repair.