The Lying Planet

by Carol Riggs

  Yawning, I fall into bed. The sleep aid part of my pill starts working. I look forward to conking out for a good long stretch of hours.

  Tomorrow is an important day in the zones, and I need plenty of rest.

  Chapter Three

  I spend the next day working on the perimeter fence, keeping away from the gap where two guards march back and forth in the empty space. I don’t want a repeat performance of my vermal attack. After that, I play holo-checkers with Rachel and Tammi. There are no education sessions on Saturdays, but I join a biology study group at Aubrie’s unit with her and three other friends. By the time evening rolls around and dinner is over, the transports begin to arrive, shuttling people to the stadium and kids under six to their activities at the preschool.

  Mass migration. The night of the ceremony—the last one before my own.

  Aubrie and I wait with our families at a transport stop. Like me, she belongs to a family with two younger siblings who are six years apart, while some of my other friends have more siblings, closer in age. Only her hand linked with mine keeps me from pacing up and down the permawalk. The capsule-shaped bus hovers up and sinks to a stop. As we board, Dad flashes me a nervous grin, probably anticipating my ceremony like I am.

  Aubrie’s brothers cram into one seat with Rachel and Tammi, sticking out their tongues and making googly-eyes at my sisters. It’s a great distraction, and I latch onto it. Aubrie is a pale flower next to the deep brown skin tones of her brothers. Our families have great variety, better than the boring way Earth dwellers used to be blood related. Aubrie and Rachel are fair with blue eyes. Tammi has those cute black curls and an “olive” complexion, and I’m just plain old brown-haired and brown-eyed, light-skinned in the winter but already tanned from the early summer sun.

  When I was ten, our training tier visited the conception lab in Fort Hope. It was awesome. All those shiny test tubes with tiny embryo starters, and the artificial womb-pods that held the bigger fetuses. Commander Farrow and the lieutenants may prefer some backward Earth practices for their goal of a “more simple life,” but they don’t mess around when it comes to the lab.

  Tammi tips her head back to laugh at something, her teeth small and white. My little sister. An ache forms in my chest, joining my pre-ceremony jitters. In two weeks, I’ll leave and be replaced by a baby. My dwelling holds three dependents, and Commander Farrow’s wife keeps the units filled.

  I lean closer to Aubrie. “I don’t care that no one ever does it. No matter what, I’m coming back to visit after our mandatory trial year is up.”

  “You’ll have to sleep on the couch.”

  “I can handle that.” Sure, Sanctuary is primitive and as dull as dirt, but it’ll be a short visit, nothing permanent. I’ll want to see my family. Six years ago, when the first children raised from the conception lab reached eighteen and the ceremonies began, my older brother Chad promised he’d come back. He hasn’t made it yet. First, he wrote a letter saying he couldn’t afford the ride back on the airship, then he couldn’t get enough time off from his work in a ludmium orb factory. Now, he’s found himself a wife. Is it really that hard to return from Promise City, or are those just excuses?

  Whichever it is, I guess I won’t see him until I graduate and get there myself.

  The transport arrives at zone center. I walk with Aubrie across the plushgrass and into the stadium, where we climb the bleachers and sit behind Harrel and his family. I fist-bump him while Aubrie settles on my left, Rachel on my right. In the viewing area below, next to the silver octopus of the Machine, the graduates turning eighteen wait in portable chairs. They’re wearing sky-blue uniforms which symbolize their upcoming freedom. There are six of them this time, and they happen to be evenly split by gender. The females include a shy girl named Gale, a girl named Ritta who looks like she’s about to cry, and Shelly, the blond girl who talked to me after my vermal attack.

  For the guys, Nash Redmond is sprawled across a chair, while next to him a guy named Douglas chews his fingernails like a manic ground-rodent. The third guy—

  I sit up straighter. There’s Blake, eighteen as of today and sitting stone-faced at the end of the row. His Testing results I have to see. He could actually rack up a score as high as I hope to reach myself. Everyone knows he’s a hard worker around the community, despite his inflated ego and an eye for my girlfriend.

  Blake’s father, Lieutenant Zemik, strolls past the crowd to keep children from drifting into the viewing area, a gleam of proud excitement in his eye. The zone tower gongs out a stirring ceremonial tune. It reverberates through the open double doors, into my chest, and under my feet. Commander Farrow, dressed in a trim black uniform with a gold belt and buttons, steps into the center of the viewing area. The crowd settles into a hush as he sweeps his gaze across the bleachers. Four rows down, Peyton snaps her arm down to her side, caught in an exuberant wave to Nash. Her ebony hair is braided into a short curved tail by her neck.

  It’s a jarring thought while I’m seated next to Aubrie, but I can’t help thinking how she looks great. Full of a really interesting kind of energy. Beautiful. Leonard settles next to her, the front of his hair combed straight up for the occasion.

  Commander Farrow lets the silence stretch out for a few unnerving seconds. “Welcome, Sanctuary residents,” he says at last in a loud voice. “Tonight we are honoring the hard work, diligent studies, obedience, and kindness of these six first-of-June teens. A very happy birthday to them all. Lieutenant Zemik, if you would say a few words for us.”

  Lieutenant Zemik strides over to stand next to the commander. Unsmiling, he begins what I dubbed “the Rambling Mantra” a few years ago. Every two weeks he spouts the same hard facts and rallying words.

  “Citizens of Sanctuary,” Lieutenant Zemik says in his reedy voice. “Twenty-five years ago, because of greed, disputes, and the hunger for power in the colonies, the Genomide War devastated our planet in a few brief weeks. It appears we learned nothing from the destructive warfare of Earth that led us to leave those quarrelsome people behind, travel to another galaxy, and colonize this planet. Colonies on our newly terraformed planet bombed each other with genomide dust, chemically burning its people. Smaller outposts escaped direct hits. Only eight hundred and fourteen adults survived to settle in Sanctuary, creating one of the safe zones.”

  Rachel fidgets next to me. Yeah, boring old Zemik. I pat Rachel’s knee. On the other side of her, Tammi sits on Mom’s lap, her big eyes watchful.

  Lieutenant Zemik casts a smile over the crowd. “We branched out into three zones, enjoying the simple pleasures of Liberty’s western valley. Ludmium orbs are plentiful in nearby canyons for power, and the nightly ground-swells rise from the underground water tables and irrigate our gardens for food. We raise cows, pigs, chickens, and native fowls like the worrels. Our scavenger team braves the hazards of exposure to salvage items from contaminated colonies, and the Machine scores the hard work of our teens. Most importantly, we’ve overcome childbearing risks by building a conception lab in Fort Hope. Our graduates generously donate starter cells before they move on to Promise City.”

  He pauses for the dramatic finale, which I manage to resist mouthing along with him. “We’re now a self-contained community of roughly three thousand men, women, and children. With selfless work and dedication by every one of us, we will continue to thrive in this zone.” He gives a brisk bow and steps back.

  On cue, people in the bleachers break into hearty applause, while the six graduates shift and ready themselves for their part of the ceremony.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Zemik,” Commander Farrow says as the clapping dies down. “Guards, prepare the Machine for the Testing.”

  Two armed guards unlock and slide back the sections of the clear dome enclosure. Now exposed, the towering apparatus gleams under the overhead lights, its bulk polished to a brilliant shine. Its spiny arms spread outward in a pose that looks almost hungry. One guard, wrenching a lever by the base of the seat, brings the device
to life.

  The Machine winds into a vibrating hum. It fluctuates into a slow-then-fast, slow-then-fast rhythm that reminds me of hoarse, uneven breathing. The sound fills the stadium. I find myself holding my own breath. Dad says the circuitry in its cap reads our brains like it’s scanning a data file of our lives—sequenced to read the quality of our memories, synapses, feelings, and attitudes.

  It knows.

  The commander gestures to a nearby heating receptacle that holds the branding iron. “The banishment rod is ready for scores of twenty-five or below, but we trust its use won’t be necessary. Tonight’s Testing will begin with the boys, as usual. In alphabetical order by last name, I call Nash Redmond to the weighing platform.”

  The crowd’s attention fastens on Nash as he walks with confidence to the Machine. He settles onto the seat and faces Commander Farrow with a steady gaze. A guard fits a silver metal cap onto his head, its wires connected and glinting in readiness.

  I lean forward on the bleacher seat. Aubrie leans forward with me.

  For Nash’s sake, I hope he passes.

  Chapter Four

  Nash looks unafraid as Commander Farrow gives a curt nod, signaling to begin. A guard presses a button near a gauge marked with large numbers.

  The Machine lurches. Its eight arms lift and dip like giant scales determining a balance. It seems to think carefully about what it’s doing, totaling and weighing Nash’s deeds, work habits, and obedience while subtracting any lies, wrongdoings, and disgraceful actions. With its sensors, it sifts those things from Nash’s brain waves. The technology for it is brilliant and frightening.

  Mr. Redmond sits motionless on a bleacher with his wife, his burly arm around her shoulders. The stakes are high. To raise a child who becomes banished is a shame to the whole family, especially the parents. A glowing crimson column edges upward on the gauge. When it rises above the twenty-five mark, I let out my breath. Good, Nash didn’t flunk. Aubrie squeezes my hand, and Rachel sighs against my shoulder. The column climbs higher. Past thirty…past forty. After a few more seconds, it slows and comes to a stop. The glow fades to a rusty red.

  “Forty-three,” Commander Farrow says. The crowd responds with polite applause. Forty-three is way below average. Nash won’t earn any rewards with that score—fifty is the minimum to earn something—but at least he hasn’t flunked. My glance flicks down the bleachers to Peyton and Leonard, who are high-fiving each other. I hope when it’s their turn they’ll do at least that well.

  The commander directs Nash to join the Redmond family in the stands, although Nash’s parents are frowning at his score. The next graduate is called to the weighing platform.

  Douglas stops chewing his fingernails and shuffles to the seat. He flinches as the cap goes on and the Machine’s silver arms begin to sway around him. His eyes follow the motion. The crimson column rises above twenty-five in short order and continues on before coming to a gradual halt.

  “Eighty,” Commander Farrow calls out.

  Eighty is average, a decent score. Douglas gives a lopsided grin and scurries over to his family to the sound of cheerful clapping. In front of me, Harrel claps loud and long. He always claims anything over seventy-five is worth celebrating. It earns the fifty-mark wristcomm, plus a bigger reward like a laser knife or a choice of supply equipment. With Harrel’s high classroom rank and extra work at the dairy, next month his own score should easily soar above a hundred.

  “I call Blake Zemik to the weighing platform!” Commander Farrow says next, in obvious and biased anticipation. Murmurs run through the crowd. Down where he sits in the first row with his wife, Lieutenant Zemik beams as Blake makes his way to the Machine’s arms. I have to admit, it’ll be great when Blake leaves Sanctuary in a massive shower of glory to live in Promise City.

  Hopefully in a part of that colony far from where Aubrie and I will end up.

  Ten to one, Blake will score way over a hundred. Maybe even higher than one hundred and fifty and earn a UHV or a cloudskimmer. That is the ultimate score, the total I’m aiming for. In six years, I’ve seen only two graduates go above that mark. This could be a cosmic-level, historic moment.

  “Extreme scorer!” Harrel yells through cupped hands.

  He knows I’m not fond of the guy, and he’s not a fan either, but he tries to support everyone at the ceremonies. Plus, Harrel’s parents are sitting right next to him.

  The crowd settles as the weighing appendages swing into action. The Machine hums while Blake sits with his chin angled high. After thirty seconds, I frown. The gauge column isn’t moving very fast. In fact, it has barely cleared fifteen. The Machine ponders some more, humming and swaying for what seems like forever. The glowing red column dims.

  The gauge has reached its final reading.

  “Nineteen,” Commander Farrow says with a gasp.

  Standing at the edge of the viewing area, Lieutenant Zemik sways, his face leached of color. The crowd erupts into a storm of noise and confusion.

  “No!” Aubrie screams, shooting to her feet.

  I go lightheaded, like an invisible fist has punched the air clean out of me. This isn’t right—it can’t be. I stare at Blake, who has gone rigid but not as shocked as I would expect him to be. What’s up with his air of defiant acceptance? Is he too stunned to react? Below me, Harrel is frozen rock-solid. Rachel clutches my arm and buries her face in my sleeve.

  “It’s a mistake,” Leonard yells. “The Machine is broken!”

  Commander Farrow collects himself with an obvious effort, breathing through clenched teeth. “Everyone, be seated immediately,” he says in an iron voice. “The Machine is not broken, and it does not make mistakes. Ever.”

  The crowd quiets, uncertain and frowning but obedient. Aubrie sinks next to me on the bleachers with a thump.

  “Guards, escort this boy to the branding station.” The commander squares his shoulders and scans the stadium. “Citizens of Sanctuary, remember that this wonderful device’s judgment is based on a total calculation of positives and negatives. For Blake, it seems his negatives far outweigh his positives. Each day we’ve only witnessed his outward goodness. Apparently, staggering acts of disobedience have been carried out in secret—actions against the very rules that keep us safe and make our community strong.”

  At this point, Lieutenant Zemik makes a strangled noise and stomps across the viewing area. Seeing his father coming with clenched fists, Blake braces himself.

  Commander Farrow steps in front of the lieutenant and halts him with an abrupt arm to his chest. “The standard penalty for your son is banishment. That’s sufficient for his punishment. Let’s proceed with the branding.”

  After a taut moment of hesitation, Lieutenant Zemik storms off. One guard cuffs Blake’s wrists behind his back and forces him to his knees next to the branding receptacle. As the other guard pulls a pistol from his utility belt, Rachel cries out.

  “Shhh,” I say to her. “That’s just a tranquilizer if Blake tries to fight or run. They had one for Mick Garinger, remember?”

  Her face crumples, and I know it was the wrong thing to say.

  “Is Blake going to die all bloody and burnt, like Mick?” she whispers.

  “Not unless he runs into a lot of genomide dust in the outer zones. Mick was unlucky,” I say. Mom hushes me, and I fall silent.

  A third, hefty guard wields the branding iron and marches up to Blake. It’s this man’s job to carry out the brandings, and he always does it with a smug half smile on his face. The red-hot tip smolders. I grind my teeth so hard my jaw muscles ache.

  Blake squeezes his eyes closed as the guard behind him steadies his head and the hefty guard thrusts the iron forward.

  “Don’t move, or this will hurt a lot worse,” the guard behind Blake warns.

  The B of the iron meets Blake’s skin. He yells, his balled fists shaking. Children around the stadium burst out crying. I cringe as the hefty guard replaces the iron into the heating receptacle, stepping away from the puckered,
angry-looking red mark on Blake’s forehead. An acrid smell of singed flesh rises into the stands as the hefty guard nods to Commander Farrow. Blake’s head droops as though it’s too heavy for his neck. A moaning sigh escapes his lips.

  “Blake Zemik, you are hereby banished from the safe zone of Sanctuary.” The commander’s voice is harsh. “We can’t ask Promise City to accept such a worthless person into its community—you’re only suitable for living in the outer zones. You’ll be imprisoned tonight and expelled in the morning. Let’s continue with the girls’ Testing.”

  Aubrie cries in soft hiccups, her tears dripping onto my knuckles. I don’t know what to do besides hold her hand. Blinking, trying to clear my fuzzy head, I watch Gale teeter to the Testing seat. She clasps her hands as the cap goes on her head. The Machine’s arms hum into motion, and in a few minutes, the red column surges and stops.

  “One hundred twelve,” Commander Farrow announces.

  That’s above average. So the Machine must not be broken, as the commander insisted. But even though Blake gets on my nerves, his low total doesn’t make sense.

  Gale flees to her parents amidst a weak burst of applause. Harrel claps in a ghostly version of his normal reaction, while a headache forms behind my eyes. It’s an excellent score, since anything over a hundred earns a great prize, like a ludmium-charged music player or a hybrid-power hoverbike that kicks in when your legs get tired, but I want this to be over. Now. To go home and not think about it anymore.

  Ritta scrunches up her mouth on her way to the Machine, still trying not to cry. My gaze keeps darting to Blake, who sits slumped next to a guard on a side bleacher.

  What did he do to deserve banishment?

  The column inches upward. I hope Ritta makes it to fifty, like I think she will. Her session grades aren’t great, even though she’s sweet and works hard tending worrels and chickens. The column halts.

  “Fifty-seven,” Commander Farrow says. The girl collapses into tears of relief, and her legs are so wobbly the guards have to help her up from the seat. The crowd applauds. I move my hands in automatic mode, barely aware I’m clapping.