Survival Aptitude Test: Sound (The Extinction Odyssey Book 1)

by Sheriff, Mike

  “Why do you want to see her scoring?” he asked.

  Lucien glared at Julinian. “She earns a score high enough to gain entry to the Cognos Populi? How were your prep-tests, prospect?”

  Julinian jumped to her feet, flushed face matching her tunic. “I’m not a prospect! I’m a denizen, and you’ll address me as such!”

  “You’re no more a denizen than this chamber is an aerostat. I’ve seen your miserable prep-tests, prospect. You failed every one of them!”

  The Unum launched out of his chair. “Who gave you access to her prep-tests? I’ll have them culled for violating the edicts!”

  Lucien directed a pleading glance to the opposite side of the desk. “You have to investigate, Pyros.”

  Pyros crossed his arms. He assumed a look of careful contemplation.

  The Unum masked his relief; Lucien might actually think the Primae Jiren was considering the request.

  Despite his Africoid lineage, Pyros had soared through the Jireni ranks. The Unum appointed him head of the security force four years ago, over the protests of senior members of the Cognos Populi. Xenophobia ran deeper than the Sea of Storms in the Assembly, but few could argue that Pyros, clad in the black-and-gold bianfu of Primae Jiren, cropped scalp battle-scarred and tinted the color of death, didn’t cut an imposing figure. He also had certain exploitable weaknesses.

  “I have no evidence to investigate,” Pyros said.

  “I can provide all the evidence you need,” Lucien said.

  The Unum raised his hands. The gesture was meant to be calming. “My dearest Lucien, I took this meeting because you are as much of a friend as a colleague. But Mako’s death is clouding your judgment. Nothing nefarious has—”

  Lucien stormed away. His booming voice reverberated as he exited the chamber. “This crime will not stand!”

  The Unum lowered his hands and plunked into his chair. So much for calming. “He can’t be reasoned with.”

  “Could you if it was your son?” Pyros asked.

  The Unum’s gaze found Narses atop the divan.

  The boy inhaled through his crescent-moon mouth. He fiddled with the grooll pouch clipped to his waist, investing more attention in its interwoven pattern than on the heavy events of the last few minutes.

  The behavior was typical—and infuriating—but Pyros had a point. “Leave us, Narses.”

  Narses stirred, his trance broken. “But, Papa, I want to stay.”

  “And take Julinian with you!”

  Narses pouted, lower lip thrust outward like a frustrated toddler. He and Julinian slinked out of the chamber.

  The Unum raked his hands over his scalp the instant they were gone. “How many denizens died on the steps of the Center after the January S.A.T.?”

  “Around five hundred,” Pyros said. “My men detained double that number.”

  “And at the most recent test?”

  “Another four hundred-fifty were culled after the February S.A.T. I’d need to verify the number of detainees, but it’s in the thousands.”

  “From which Chengs do these dissenters hail?”

  “Meiguo Cheng, Yindu Cheng, and Feizhou Cheng, mainly. A few hundred from Riben Cheng as well.”

  The Unum sighed for Pyros’ benefit; he’d known the answer before he asked the question. “Fifty Chengs make up Daqin Guojin. Why must the minority cause the most problems?”

  “Raising the S.A.T.’s passing score may work in the short term to alleviate grooll shortages, but in the longer term it breeds more dissent. I shudder to think what might happen if the frequency of testing is also increased.”

  “Perhaps we need to send a stronger warning. Can’t you round up the dissenters’ families and send them to the Rig?”

  “It’s already operating beyond capacity.”

  The Unum leaned back. His chair protested the shift in weight. The unrest at the Center in the wake of the tests presented no concern. He’d only broached the subject as a prelude to what mattered.

  What mattered was preventing exposure of the test-manipulation scheme. If Lucien had gained access to Julinian’s prep-tests, it changed every calculation. He could use them to build a convincing case. A case that would prove S.A.T. scores were being altered. A case that would trace back to the seat of power in Daqin Guojin.

  He cursed Gustar for switching Mako’s score with his niece’s, mindful to hide his ire from Pyros, then cursed himself for exercising poor oversight of the Librarian. The scheme had operated flawlessly for five years. He’d let its success lull him into complacency. His complacency had granted Gustar too much control over the selections.

  Had he known beforehand, he would have vetoed Mako’s selection. Not because Lucien was a decent man, but because he was a man who didn’t let problems go. By not letting go, he could undermine years of meticulous planning and threaten billions of pounds of grooll.

  “What do you think Lucien will do?”

  “He’s a grieving father,” Pyros said. “A grieving father is capable of anything.”

  “He’ll press you to investigate.”

  “I serve at your command, Unum. If you want me to ignore his demands, I’ll obey. But he can take another course to bring his concern to light.”

  “Such as?”

  “He can raise it on the floor of the Assembly. Many members are still upset over your decision to raise the passing score without consultation or approval.”

  “I’ve always found a substantial infusion of grooll can soothe the most severe upsets.”

  “Not all members are open to such a remedy,” Pyros said. “If Lucien gains enough support, an inquiry will have to be undertaken.”

  “The Asianoid faction would love that. They’d waste no time in leaking the inquiry’s findings to the people.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  The Unum made a show of wringing his hands. “It’s one thing for the masses to suspect the S.A.T. can be manipulated for the benefit of the ruling caste. It’s another thing for a respected member of the ruling caste to add his voice.”

  “His allegations would provoke wider unrest.”

  “Unrest your Jireni could address, I’m sure.”

  Pyros’ eyelids tensed—the telltale sign of a pondering mind. “That depends. Our most recent reconnaissance indicates the mongrel colonies are facing a severe feeding crisis.”

  The Unum waved a dismissive hand at the ceiling’s bas-relief panels. “They face one every other generation.”

  “The last crisis prompted an incursion and two million deaths. A resource war and an internal revolt would be more than my Jireni can handle.”

  The Unum celebrated the statement, careful to hide his joy. He never imagined it would be so easy to lead Pyros to this point. “So you agree Lucien’s suspicion must be stilled.”

  Pyros frowned. “What are you suggesting?”

  The Unum rose and beckoned Pyros to follow. He led him to a chain of interlinked glass doors and out onto the adjoining balcony. The Unum reveled in its view.

  Three hundred feet below, armed Jireni marched in lockstep across a massive square, dappled in brilliant sunlight. Five centuries ago, artisans had laid row upon row of ceramic tiles to create a majestic mosaic.

  A red cupola with flared, golden eaves.

  The epic representation of the Imperial Regalia evoked the colors of blood and sun in a format larger than life itself. It had humbled many an underling into compliance.

  The Unum gripped the balcony railing. “I’m suggesting that with Mako’s death still so raw, no one would question Lucien’s decision to commit ritual suicide.”

  Pyros stuttered—a rarity for man not easily shocked. “Lucien al Braccus has faithfully served Daqin Guojin! I won’t take his life for—”

  “For the sake of Daqin Guojin’s greater good? Then how about for a reason that strikes closer to home?”

  Pyros’ gaze flicked back and forth, no doubt searching the Unum’s face for meaning.

  The Unum selected his wor
ds with care. Manipulation demanded deft strokes, not careless lashings. “Your youngest daughter sits the S.A.T. next year?”

  “You know she does.”

  “And how are her prep-tests?”

  Pyros’ glower provided the answer.

  “Narses’ prep-tests are no better,” the Unum said. “I’ll do whatever it takes to prevent my son from becoming grooll. I can give that same protection to your daughter. Will you spill a few drops of blood to save her from the grooll mill?”

  Pyros clutched the railing, gaze lowered to the square. He didn’t voice an answer. He didn’t have to. The answer was etched on his face.

  The Unum allowed himself a satisfied smirk. He was as much an artisan as the makers of the square below. They shaped ceramic tiles to achieve their breathculling designs; he shaped men’s wills to achieve his necessary ends.

  He let his expression harden to a more suitable solemnity. “Then for her sake, spill it.”

  7

  Sonic Charges

  DAOREN AND HEQET arrived at Zhongguo Cheng’s glass market thirty minutes after leaving the Hollows. It was the last place he’d expected to visit when she contacted him and asked to meet at the plinth.

  Coming to the market brought them in the opposite direction of Meiguo Cheng and his abode, but he couldn’t talk her out of the diversion. She wanted to find a gift for Cordelia and no amount of arguing would sway her. Some things never changed.

  Despite his five-year absence, the market hadn’t changed either. Mile upon mile of vendor stalls glittered amid the same thick columns supporting the same elevated transways. Shelves exhibited the same array of glass abodewares, ceramic jewelry, and crystalline sculptures. The only difference Daoren could sense was his companion.

  Heqet strolled at arm’s length, maintaining the uncomfortable silence that had marked their passage from the Hollows. Though he’d come close to crossing the conversational chasm, every topic that popped into his head seemed trivial. Every topic except for one, that is, but he couldn’t gather the nerve to voice it; Mako’s death was still too raw. Instead, he buried it and let the buzz of commerce fill the space between them.

  Of all the glass markets in Daqin Guojin, Zhongguo Cheng’s was the largest. On a good day it attracted thousands of buyers. Today looked to be a good day.

  Tubular levishuttles carrying buyers from throughout the district whisperglided to a stop on the market’s perimeter. Parents strolled with their children, pointing at wares and haggling with vendors. Plump denizens in splendid shenyi threaded stalls on personal levidecks, using hand controls and shifts in body position to steer the hovering transports. Red-faced vendors called out to them the loudest; those who could afford personal levidecks had plenty of grooll to exchange.

  On a good day tens of thousands of pounds of grooll would be exchanged. For buyers whose day-to-day lives held little vibrancy, the wares offered a colorful respite to an otherwise monochromatic existence. For vendors whose monthly rations left them calorie-deficient, the earnings meant survival. The ruling caste tolerated the market, but their acceptance came at a price. The Cognos Populi regularly dispatched Jireni squads to excise tithes, monitor gatherings, and confiscate items prohibited by the edicts.

  Ceramic abodewares filled the first cluster of stalls on the western boundary. Vendors held up glossy plates and iridescent water jugs, angling the items to catch the sun’s rays and the buyers’ eyes.

  “Do you know what you want to get her?”

  “Not abodewares,” Heqet said, scanning the stalls. “Something more personal.”

  He sighed. “I don’t want to wander the market the rest of the day.”

  She lowered her chin and leveled a chilly glare. “Neither do I—especially if you’re going to drag that attitude around with you.”

  He chambered a sharp reply. A crowded stall drew his attention before he could pull the trigger. “What’s happening over there?”

  “Let’s go see.”

  They worked their way over to the stall. Its shelves brimmed with sculpted busts. Their sizes ranged from that of a fist to three times that of a human head. Their colors spanned the visible spectrum; frosted violets and blues, flushed yellows and oranges, fiery reds. Temperate, mid-spectrum greens freckled each shelf—a bold choice given the discussion within the Assembly of banning the color’s display. For the sculptor, it was probably less a political statement than a sales ploy. The stall had attracted a sizable audience.

  Daoren inched closer and craned his neck to see past the couple standing in front of him.

  An Asianoid boy, all of six years old, sat before the stall. His thirtyish parents flanked him, clad in purple shenyi. The sculptor, a thin-set Africoid in his fifties, hunched opposite the boy. He guided a sonic chisel over a frosted-violet bust. The chisel’s warbling pulses pulverized its glass, etching exquisite detail into a pair of inquisitive eyes.

  The sculptor powered off the chisel and blew away a veneer of powdered silica. He held out the bust, comparing it to the flesh-and-blood template before him. He nodded and handed it to the boy. “Here’s a handsome bust for the most handsome boy in Daqin Guojin.”

  The boy rotated the bust, examining it from assorted angles. “More handsome than your own son?”

  “Alas, my S.A.T. score wasn’t high enough to permit reproduction. So study hard, prospect. Mind your tutors and your parents.” He chucklebucked and winked. “Maybe one day you’ll be the denizen who’s clever enough to locate the lost seed vault.”

  “The lost seed vault?” the boy asked, face scrunched like a flexglass napkin.

  The boy’s father thrust a hand into his grooll pouch. “We don’t fill his mind with ridiculous fables.”

  “That’s a pity,” the sculptor said. “It’s still one of my favorite tales.”

  The father transferred a handful of grooll onto a glass tray next to a row of sonic chisels. He uttered a sanctimonious scoff. “We prefer our children to live in reality.”

  The sculptor shrugged. He peered at the grooll on the tray with equal indifference.

  “Is that enough for the bust?”

  The sculptor deflected the question. “What do you think, my handsome boy?”

  The boy eyed the bust, clearly enthralled by its accuracy. He cast a less enthusiastic glance at the meager pile of grooll. “I think more, Papa.”

  Daoren grinned at the tactic. The sculptor may have dipped his S.A.T. score many years ago, but the man was no fid.

  The father sighed. He deposited another handful onto the tray.

  The sculptor stuffed the grooll into his own pouch, except for the piece he stuffed into his mouth. He worked his jaw from side to side. “Your kindness sustains me.”

  Daoren’s stomach spasmed. Bile welled up his throat and filled his mouth. He swallowed the rancid liquid, grimacing.

  “What’s wrong?” Heqet asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

  It irked him that he hadn’t better masked the nausea. It irked him more to have to explain it. “It’s been a month since Mako was harvested, and the sight of grooll still bothers me.”

  “Give it time.”

  The casual statement slapped his ears. Give it time? Time for what? To forget that his brother’s muscle, bone, and tendon had become part of the food chain? To forget that he’d been robbed of his future? To forget that Mako’s mortal remains could be mixed among the grooll in his pouch? How much time would it take to—

  “Excuse me, prospect.”

  Daoren pivoted to the phlegmy voice.

  A Caucasoid woman extended a bony hand. Its translucent skin matched her baggy tunic’s sepia hue. “Could you spare any grooll?”

  Daoren emptied his pouch. “Take it all.”

  Her smile exposed a scattering of rotted teeth. “May Sha’s sapience protect you, child.”

  The woman shuffled to the sculptor’s stall and nodded at a blue bust, the size of a fist. She held out th
e grooll with both hands. “Is this enough?”

  The sculptor answered by giving her the bust.

  “That grooll was for eating,” Daoren said, “not empty trinkets!”

  The woman held up the crystal bust. It depicted a young man, a prospect judging by the twisted mound of hair. “Forgive my weakness, but it reminds me of my son.” Her voice misted over. “He was harvested thirty years ago this month.”

  Daoren’s cheeks grew warm. Who was he to determine the woman’s choices? Who was he to define her grief? For some people, no amount of time could erase the pain of losing their kin. “My sorrow for your son.”

  He left the emaciated woman to commune with her dead son and wandered deeper into the market with Heqet. He ignored her persistent smirk as long as he could. “Did I do something to amuse you?”

  “That was a kind act.”

  “What was?”

  “Giving her your grooll,” Heqet said. “I had no idea you were so—”

  “It had nothing to do with kindness. I have no stomach for grooll.”

  “Regardless, it was a decent thing to do.”

  “I did it for me. Does that still make it decent?”

  Her smirk vanished. “You don’t take compliments well, do you?”

  “Save them for a more deserving recipient.”

  “Forgive me. I’m used to Mako’s companionship.”

  “I’m not Mako.”

  Heqet rolled her eyes. “Don’t state the obvious, Daoren. It insults your intelligence.”

  Daoren swallowed the bitter comment forming on his tongue. He didn’t have the energy to argue further.

  They neared a crowd gathered in the shade of an elevated transway. A dozen denizens surrounded a portly elder in a purple shenyi. A glass disk glowed under the elder’s sandals.

  The glowing disk betrayed the artifice of the otherwise flawless plasmonic projection. The unsubtle superiority of the elder’s stance, the grandiose movement of its arms, and the pompous timbre of its vocal algorithm mimicked the Cognos Populi’s bloated authority to perfection.