by Tarah Benner
That all ends tomorrow. He’ll start his job as a penetration tester — an ethical hacker, as he calls it — or risk not getting paid.
Before we go in, I double-check to make sure Sawyer’s right behind me and almost laugh at her appearance: blue Oxford shirt, neat black bob, thick nerd glasses. My tall boots and fake leather jacket are a little edgier, but anyone with eyes will be able to tell we don’t belong here.
As I pull the door open, the wave of music and body odor almost knocks me over.
Bodies — bodies everywhere. That’s always what shocks me about Neverland.
There are so many people crammed together down below that it’s a miracle anything ever gets done in the upper tunnels. More overwhelming than the sheer number of people is the conspicuous lack of clothing. Most of the men are shirtless, and women are draped over their laps and shoulders wearing nothing but underwear, microskirts, or — as I’ve seen once or twice — body paint.
It isn’t just burnouts who hang out down here, though. Celdon swears he once saw the Secretary of Security, but you can never really be sure with Celdon. He was probably burned out of his mind at the time.
I let my long dark hair form a curtain over my face so I can avoid the gaze of a few sleazy guys leaning against the wall. Pushing my way through the crowd, I cringe as I brush up against strange, sweaty bodies.
My chest tightens at the thought of being so far underground packed together with all these people. I don’t know how the tunnels haven’t collapsed, but I don’t want to be down here when the train comes rattling through the new tunnels.
Every few seconds, a flash of silvery light punctuates the disorienting darkness, and I fight the urge to throw up. The crowd is too dense to see if Celdon is among the mass of gyrating bodies, but I know where he likes to hang out.
I trip down the empty train tunnel, eyes raking the shadows for a flash of blond hair. The pounding of the bass echoing off the concrete is already giving me a splitting headache.
We need to find him now.
Broken plastic and stray pills crunch underfoot — cheap uppers, by the looks of it. As we walk deeper into the tunnel, I switch on my interface again, and Sawyer does the same. The lights from the main dance floor don’t reach this far, and it’s nearly pitch black. A few people slumped against the walls have had the same idea, but most of them are paired off in the shadows, making out and passing pills.
Sawyer moves her head, and the light from her interface catches a flash of gold down under the platform.
“Celdon!” I yell, relief pouring through me.
“Hey!” slurs a guy several yards down the tunnel. “I’ll be Celdon, sweetheart!”
“Fuck off!”
I jump down from the platform and feel my boot squash real flesh and bone.
“Oaff!”
I’ve landed on some random guy passed out in the gravel.
“Sorry,” I mutter, nudging the stranger out of the way with my boot. “Celdon!”
The beam of my interface hits the blond guy’s face, and I realize it is him, though he doesn’t look good. His messy hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his heavily lidded eyes are half-closed.
“Harper . . .” He flashes the shadow of a grin, and his pale chest heaves through his orange mesh shirt.
“Celdon. Come on,” I groan, trying to pull him into a seated position.
I turn to Sawyer, but she’s already crouched on his other side, his wrist in her hands. She’s taking his pulse.
“He’s messed up, but he’ll live.”
“Huh-hey, Sawyer,” Celdon chortles, his eyes rolling over to her. “You’re looking super Asian today.”
“You’re looking like a super fucking waste of space today,” she says, punctuating her last words with a good-natured kick to his leg.
“Come on,” I choke, my back aching as I pull him up from under his shoulders. He’s all skin and bones with an enviable washboard stomach, but he towers over me by several inches. Even with Sawyer supporting his weight on the other side, he’s heavy.
I half prop him against the concrete platform and drag him up the rest of the way.
“I’m comin’ back for you, sex-ay,” he slurs to the guy I accidentally landed on.
“Ugh,” Sawyer groans. “Seriously? You could do so much better.”
With Celdon draped between us, we drag him down the tunnel back toward the main dance floor, moving like a couple of drunks.
When we reach the crowd, I try to hold my breath as my senses are overwhelmed by the mix of cheap perfume, sweat, urine, and booze. The bodies press closer to us, and I almost lose Celdon as he stiffens and tries to pull out of my grip. He’s still burned, and he wants to party.
“Nope!” Sawyer snaps, pushing against his side with an impressive amount of force. Celdon staggers back into me, and I make a mental note to slam his head into a door when we reach the upper tunnels.
We finally get him to the stairwell, and I toss him onto the filthy steps to give my back a break. He falls over onto his elbows, grinning stupidly. Now I can see just how burned he is.
“Come on, Harper,” he slurs. “You really gotta loosen up. It’s your last hoorah before Bid Day. Pretty soon, you’ll be like me.”
He holds out his wrists, locked in imaginary handcuffs, and I do a quick scan for track marks. “A fucking slave to Systems.”
“Lucky you,” I mutter.
If he keeps talking, I’m going to kick him. Celdon is effortlessly smart and obscenely talented, and he wastes it. I would kill to be in Systems. Hell, everyone wants to get a tier-one bid, and no one who does wastes their gap year partying.
Most Systems recruits are too busy trying to get up to speed, Health and Rehab recruits have to intern in the medical ward, and the Information kids usually get started on their first research project. But playing by the rules just isn’t Celdon’s style.
“They bought me,” he mumbles. “They own me.”
“Yeah . . . a year ago. Most people have been working since then.”
At first I think he’s going into one of his drug-induced fits of rage, but then his serious mask slips, and he smiles.
At the sight of his stupid lopsided grin, all my anger fizzles out. He’s an idiot for wasting away his gap year, but he is my oldest friend.
We grew up in the Institute together because we were both wards of the compound. Celdon gets me better than anyone because only he knows what it’s like to try to claw your way out of that place and make something of yourself. Unfortunately, his self-worth is sometimes overrun by his childhood demons.
Somehow, we manage to yank him up three flights of stairs and get him onto the megalift without running into a controller.
When the lift opens onto Celdon’s level, it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the bright, clean aesthetic of Systems. The upper tunnels are a labyrinth of pristine white walls and frosted glass, and my heart beats a little faster as I take it all in.
In a few hours, this could be my home.
A handful of early risers throw us wary looks as we shove Celdon down the tunnel toward his compartment. I’m sure they’re used to him stumbling up here at all hours in various stages of undress, but the mesh shirt still attracts a lot of attention.
Celdon’s studio is twice the size of the dorm room I share with Sawyer, with a window looking out on the Fringe. It came pre-furnished and painstakingly decorated in a minimalist style, but you’d never be able to tell. Empty Energelz tubes lie everywhere, scattered among the empty canteen takeout containers and wads of dirty clothing.
I fish out a fairly unwrinkled white shirt from Celdon’s closet and grab his favorite pair of pants. I drape the clean clothes over the bathroom door and shove him fully clothed into the shower.
Celdon swears loudly as the cold water pelts him clean in fifteen seconds flat, and I throw a towel straight at his face and slam the door shut.
He emerges a few minutes later, clearly exhausted. But at least now he�
��s clean, dressed, and body glitter–free.
“What’s with the attitude, Riles?” he slurs, toweling his hair dry and grinning lethargically.
I square my shoulders, unwilling to be worn down by his pet names and bullshit. “Do you know what day it is?”
He rolls his eyes. “Yes. Call the media. It’s Bid Day!” he says with a burst of fake enthusiasm. He holds out an imaginary microphone. “Har-per Ri-ley — you just got a bid from Systems. What are you gonna do next?”
I bite back a laugh. “It’s not funny. This is a big day for you, too. You have to be there.”
He lets out a heavy whole-body sigh. “Yes, I know. I’m being sworn in. Logic . . . service . . . strength . . . all that jazz. Not all of us are so excited to sign our lives away.”
“Screw you.”
I glare at Celdon, but an unexpected pang of nostalgia hits me in the gut. This could be the last time the three of us are together.
After the bidding ceremony, we’ll each go our separate ways. If I get into Systems, I’ll see Celdon every day, but Sawyer will be ushered into the medical community and have little time to hang out with us. Being separated from the rest of our classmates doesn’t bother me, but Sawyer has been by my side for the last three years.
Celdon can sense an onslaught of emotions coming on and clears his throat loudly.
“What?” snaps Sawyer, completely lost in thought. She’s been pacing by the door for the last several minutes. “We should go. If we hurry, we can hit the canteen before the ceremony.”
I grin. She’s even more nervous than I am. But then everything makes Sawyer nervous.
Celdon tosses the towel onto the floor and grabs the rumpled white blazer lying over the back of a chair. “Amen. Let’s roll.”
three
Harper
When we emerge from Celdon’s compartment, the tunnel is already crammed with people scurrying toward the canteen. We stand out in the sea of white pants and jackets, and I feel a swell of envy.
The Systems workers carry themselves with a quiet dignity, exuding confidence and intelligence. They have it all: a large stipend, better food, beautiful living quarters, respect.
When they walk, they nod politely at each other in greeting, but they aren’t boisterous or overly friendly. That suits me. I’m not known for my friendliness.
It’s a long wait for the megalift, and I spend that time scoping out the Systems people, wondering if my direct command is among them. One woman with her hair pulled back in a tight bun eyes Celdon ruefully, and her ID badge says she’s supposed to be his direct command in penetration testing. Celdon is oblivious as usual, but at least he looks sober.
When we reach the canteen, the line of white polyester is quickly engulfed by a mishmash of other colors: red and black, green and yellow, blue, orange, and gray. It’s a little less luxurious down here, and all the furnishings are designed to be functional rather than beautiful.
I stop in line in front of the scanner, waiting for the machine to read my ID. My name and picture flash up on the computer screen, and an Operations woman in light blue serves up my morning bowl of mush. It’s a basic higher-ed meal: rice, a protein cube, and half a bowl of green algae. All the calories we need — no more, no less.
“Hey,” says Celdon, flashing a smile at the burly bearded man behind the counter. “Didn’t see you last night.”
The man shifts uncomfortably, and I roll my eyes. Celdon always confronts people from Neverland up above when they clearly want to forget they were ever there in the first place.
He upends the ladle in Celdon’s bowl again, and I see the flash of blue-green algae I don’t recognize.
People move through the food line and split off to sit with their sections. Sawyer and I sit with the other higher-eds, and Celdon plops down next to us.
No one pays him any attention. Most recruits align themselves with their sections during gap year, but not him. And though Celdon rarely makes an appearance at mealtimes, everyone knows he’s in limbo.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing at the slimy bluish stuff in his bowl.
“It’s good for hangovers,” he says, shoveling it into his mouth. “Tastes like shit, though.”
I shake my head. People are always doing Celdon favors — myself included. There’s just something about him that makes you want to strangle him one second and take care of him the next.
I eat my food slowly and deliberately, fighting the nausea creeping up from nerves and a lack of sleep. The higher-ed table is buzzing with anxious chatter, and Sawyer is rattling off the names of other people pursuing Health and Rehab and Systems, weighing the odds that they scored higher than us under her breath.
I try to ignore her. When Sawyer goes into panic mode, she reverts to calculating her odds of failure and laying out all the possibilities, whereas I just want everybody to leave me alone.
I stab my fork into my protein cube, and Celdon’s elbow pokes me in the ribs. When I make eye contact, I can tell he’s been staring at me for several minutes. He’s wearing this look of pure understanding that so few people get to see.
“Hey, don’t worry,” he says quietly. “You’ll get a good bid. Systems would be idiotic not to snap you up.”
I drag in a deep breath, which is a mistake. I’m teetering on the verge of a total meltdown.
“You don’t know what my score was,” I remind him through clenched teeth.
He rolls his eyes and fixes me with that megawatt smile. “I know it was off the charts.”
“No, you don’t.”
Celdon smacks a hand to his chest violently enough to make a few antsy higher-eds look over at us. “Of course I do.” He looks genuinely offended. “I taught you everything you know, didn’t I?”
I let out a choked laugh and shove him away — hard — trying to rein in my reluctant smile. He catches himself gracefully and spins around to harass Sawyer about her calculations so I can finish my breakfast in peace.
Once he’s got her worked up to the point that she’s about to start pulling her hair out, we join the crowd jostling toward the main hall.
The Entertainment and Commerce people are practically bouncing off the walls in their colorful clothing — all high fives and bright smiles that look out of place next to a swarm of grungy tier-three workers shuffling along in front of us.
Tier three encompasses the worst sections in the compound: Waste Management, Reconnaissance, and Exterior Maintenance and Construction. Even though today is considered a compound holiday, Bid Day isn’t a celebration to them. They don’t view recruitment as an opportunity the way tier-one workers do. To them, it’s a life sentence.
Excited voices bounce off the frosted glass ceiling in the entryway, and bodies push together as though we’re down in Neverland.
Beads of sweat spring up all over my forehead, and I can feel the heat rising up my chest. I tug my hair into a ponytail and concentrate on holding down the breakfast that’s threatening to make an appearance.
We push our way into the hall, and I’m immediately blinded by the natural light spilling in through the full-length windows. We’re surrounded by a panoramic view of the rugged, burnt-orange terrain of the Fringe — frightening in its severe beauty and vast open spaces.
Celdon gives me a two-finger salute as he sidles off to sit with Systems. Sawyer and I take our seats in the front rows among the other higher-eds, not saying a word.
By oh-nine hundred, the hall is standing-room only. A few thousand people are packed into the stadium-style benches — proud parents, friends, last year’s recruits, and old people who have nothing better to do. The board members are seated behind the raised platform, dressed in their crisp taupe suits, and the ten senior leaders are in the very middle of the room with white paddles resting on their laps.
They’re not talking — just staring straight ahead at the stage. A few consult their interfaces to review the recruits their section wants to bid on. Interface communication will not be allowed onc
e the ceremony starts.
President Ferguson is the first of the compound leaders to speak — a long-winded rant about tradition and duty and the values of the compound.
He’s pandering to the tier-two sections, yammering on about all the value Entertainment and Commerce businesses provide the compound, the goods Manufacturing produces, how Control works tirelessly to keep us safe, and the importance of Operations’ work within the compound.
What a load of bull. He’ll spend the year leading up to election courting the tier-one sections, but no board member is stupid enough to neglect tier two. Their votes are weighted less than tier one, but they’re overwhelming in their numbers. Tier three can’t even make a dent in the polls with their votes. I can’t say it’s completely fair, but it makes sense. Tier one and tier two have always had the most influence because they’re the smartest.
After a few minutes, I start tuning out the president’s voice. I just want to hear my bids and get on with my life.
Systems has to bid on me. I’m one of the few who’ve taken all the classes. I’m better than anyone in our year.
Shooting for Systems is the riskiest choice, but at worst, I should receive a good bid from Control. A lot of the classes on emergency protocol and intracompound law overlap.
Sure, Control is a tier-two section and controllers are terrible people, but it’s a good stepping stone to a position on the board, if I wanted.
By the end of Ferguson’s speech, my nerves are stretched so far they’re threatening to snap.
Even if I bombed the test, Entertainment and Commerce wouldn’t be terrible. At least I wouldn’t get stuck ladling slop in the canteen as an Operations lackey.
Now Sullivan Taylor, Undersecretary of Vocational Placement, is delivering his speech about the solemn duty entrusted to each section. He’s a pale, slight man with a thin mustache and surprisingly kind eyes. He’s the only board member who doesn’t look like a khaki-clad robot, even if he still sounds like one.
I zone out again after the bit about the complexity of data, information technology, and network security. I don’t care much about the rest of the sections.
