Assimilation (Concordia Series Book 1)

by Lydia Chelsea

  “Have you?” I ask.

  Lyder’s eyes flicker. “Consider very carefully this apparent disappearance of your fellow candidates. Kate in particular. She hasn’t performed as well as you,” she says, rising. She stares down at me with her flinty, grey-blue eyes. “I was lenient with her, too.”

  She waits for her words to sink in before dismissing me.

  As I hurry toward the reaction center, my face is predictably blank, but my mind is racing. Assimilation candidates have scores and rankings called factors. At the end of Assimilation, our factors will be presented to the Tribunal by our facilitator. I never for a second considered that Lyder might not be the one to present mine.

  Given her coldness just now, I’m not sure what would be best…to remain on her team or to be optioned out. Her assurance that she’s been lenient hardly seems true. She doesn’t smile for anyone; she never compliments even the best performance. It’s always just flinty-eyed assessment and tight-lipped watchfulness. Very rarely have I gotten even a hint of an approving sort of vibe from her, when I have been particularly punishing in hand-to-hand combat or unusually clever in a reaction center simulation. Not often, that’s for sure.

  I join the others, allowed a sixty second screen view outside the meld so I can plan how best to assist with the current objective, which is to get all members of the team to the concrete pad without any “fatalities”. Fatalities are judged by the amount and location of red paint splashed over our uniforms.

  Though I have no desire to lead, I do have pride. I hate to lose or to rank in the bottom half of our team even for one exercise. I’m already furiously switching from camera to camera to locate my team in the center.

  Yaryk is stuck behind the first of many barriers, a splash of red over his left knee and his right side. Usually one of the best, I can only figure he urged the others to go first so he could follow behind to protect and assist them.

  Krill is behind the next barrier. As he pokes his head up to check for paintball fire, he gets pinged in the nose. The red gush down his face is fantastically gruesome. He crouches back down, facing toward me, looking irritated.

  June and Marco have already made it to the pad, each with a heavy dose of red paint, but their profile squares are ringed in green, which means their elapsed times are good enough to imply that if their injuries were real, they would have received medical care quickly enough to survive. So far, no one’s profile is red, which would mean a fatality.

  Julian’s not looking good. He’s only two barriers away from the pad, but he’s splotched all over his torso and limbs. The fact that he’s just sitting behind the barrier, making no move to reach the pad tells me he thinks he’s already a fatality. He’s given up. He does that a lot.

  Everyone else is marked with at least a little red. Maybe Kate could have gotten out unstained. My heart twinges in my chest as a long beep signals the last ten seconds of my strategy session.

  I’m plotting how to rescue them when Lyder’s words echo in my head. You’d better hope no one options you…

  The higher ranked facilitators will want high ranking candidates to improve their teams, and they’ll dump low ranking ones. I’m in the upper third of our ranks, but I’m not top dog. That’s Krill. Then Yaryk. Then me. With Kate gone, we really are split into thirds now: upper, middle, lower. Three of us in each category with no tenth team member to throw off the math.

  The reaction center meld opens, and I charge forward blindly, still without a solid plan. I duck and dodge a few paintballs. I have to do well, but not so well that I pass Yaryk. We’re close.

  Still, I grab him and force him to run at my side, shielding him from the heaviest paintball fire, which is coming from our left. I’m not quite fast enough to dodge a hit to the shoulder, and while I’m recovering from that, I get hit in the thigh.

  Yaryk, registering that I’ve taken two hits in ten seconds, switches positions with me. I don’t want to come out at the top or at the bottom. If I’m ranked too high, I’ll get optioned away. If I’m too low, Lyder might dump me on someone else.

  Yaryk gathers Krill, and when he takes another hit, we put him in the middle. We continue to gather and duck, gather and duck, until we reach Julian. There’s not enough room behind the angled barrier to shield us all, so I call to Yaryk and Krill to go.

  It’s a bad suggestion, but they take it, realizing there’s not enough barrier to protect us all. We’re sitting ducks. Losing them allows me the safety to catch my breath.

  They make it to the pad and are declared “green”, but that was the mistake. Julian should have gone in the first run. He’s just a few seconds past the hidden deadline, his profile going red to signal that he bled out. Disappointment claws at me as Wendy and Randy make it to the pad with plenty of time to spare. Emma, the slowest of us all, sets out alongside me. I quickly realize if I stay to protect her, I’ll be a fatality. I abandon her to chance, figuring I’ll already slip in the ranks for my bad call.

  In the end, Julian and Emma are fatalities. The other seven of us survive. When the ranking boards update, I have to fight to stay blank. A giddy smile threatens.

  I’m out of the top third now, my name first in the middle group. A good place to be. No facilitator will option me, but Lyder would be stupid to dump me. After the redistribution, I’ll work hard to get back into the top third.

  I move through the rest of Day 28 hoping I can repeat my performance tomorrow so I remain solidly in the middle. I’m too afraid of either of the other options to consider anything else.

  17

  WHEN I REACH the keeping that afternoon, it’s empty. Ritter, I know, is probably still functioning. He’s still staying late but generally makes it back before I hit the rift each night. If he doesn’t, he logs. Strega, on the other hand, is usually already there when I arrive.

  I am starting to worry about him when I hear footsteps.

  “Oh,” I say, blinking at Ritter as he sets his logger on the little shelf just inside the meldway. “I thought you’d be Strega.”

  Ritter grins. “You mean I beat him here?”

  I nod.

  Ritter heads into his unit to change out of his function wear and into lounge around clothes. “I’m sure he’ll be along any minute.”

  Three logs go unanswered as the evening wears on. I’ve submitted myself to the MedQuick in lieu of Strega’s caretaking, and my eyelids are growing heavy when he bursts into the room.

  “You’re right, Ritter,” Strega says, clearly rattled. “I didn’t think you could be, not about this, but you were. You are.”

  He’s pale. His hand trembles as he rubs it across his chin and up over his eyes. The bleakness in them is like ice water dumped over my head. I’m fully awake now, trying to reconcile this version of Strega with the stoic version I’ve come to know. “They aren’t suicides. They’re murders.”

  Ritter and I wait as Strega paces, shaking his head. I’ve never seen him so worked up. Finally Ritter steps in front of him, takes him by the shoulders, and asks, “What happened?”

  “A man named Carter Dillis was brought into holding today after he jumped from a fourth story window in the Tribunal building. He was loosening fast. He pressed these into my hand,” Strega says, fanning out five function plates in front of us. Business cards.

  “He gave me these plates and said, ‘Next to end’. When I tried to dose him so we could operate, he fought off the injector and started going on and on about Concordia violating the theft standard over and over again, taking whatever it wants from other parallels and giving nothing back. He said slivvers who come here go back memory wiped, their electronics fried by electromagnetic pulse to ensure Concordia and its allies remain technologically elite in the multiverse. Yet our slivvers return to Concordia with all sorts of valuable information from other parallels about new technology, medical advances…all the information we withhold from others by frying their electronics and stealing their memories. He said the Tribunal of All has grown weary of the bull
ies. Some of the other members are aiming to start a war against Concordia and its allies.”

  Something in Strega’s face as he reaches out toward me and then pulls away brings a lump to my throat. “Attero’s leading the charge,” he says, rubbing his hand over his face again.

  I could be looking at Ritter considering how animated Strega is. Panic rises in me as his jaw twitches.

  “But how can a closed world start a war at all?” I ask. “Wouldn’t that mean acknowledging the multiverse?”

  He tosses his head as if to rattle the words out. “Apparently Attero’s got a secret group of discoverers who’ve developed a stunning piece of technology called Supernova.” Strega huffs out a breath, pacing again. “The name isn’t really accurate,” Strega babbles, “because it isn’t about forcing a supernova as much as it’s about creating a massive solar storm, greater than any that’s ever been recorded.”

  When Ritter and I wait blankly, Strega explains, “During a solar storm, the sun releases plasma clouds. They’re called coronal mass ejections, or CMEs. It’s the CME that’s so devastating. The size of the storm that Supernova would create…” Strega shook his head, “If it didn’t outright destroy the parallel, the entire world’s power grid would go down for years, not just a few days or months. It would be chaos. Everything from our food supply system to our waste disposal systems would come to a screeching halt. We’d be returned to conditions that haven’t existed since before the Reformation.”

  Strega finally stops pacing, but given the look on his face, I’d rather he kept it up. “Carter started to say something more, but then he just…ended.”

  The silence in the keeping is almost louder than Strega’s frantic rush of words had been. We look helplessly at each other for a few long minutes before Ritter asks,

  “What about the five people he said were next to end? What does that have to do with going to war?”

  “After he ended, one by one, each of the five named on the function plates was brought into the morgue. The next to end, just like he said. He knew who was about to end because somehow, the Tribunal is killing them. That’s the only explanation,” Strega admits.

  “So, why? Why is the Tribunal killing low functioners?” I ask.

  Strega shakes his head. “I’m not sure, exactly. But I saved some of Carter’s genetic material. I’ll test for the mutations tomorrow.”

  I give him a look. “When it was me, you said it was out of the question.”

  “Because you’re alive,” Strega reminds me. “The Tribunal only requires reporting of DNA testing on deceased subjects if there’s any suggestion of foul play or at the request of the guardians. And you can bet they’re counting on the fact that no one thinks this is anything but a suicide.”

  “Which means they’re not expecting any DNA reporting for Carter Dillis,” I say, “or any other suicide victim.”

  “Carter was low functioning?” Ritter asks, changing the subject.

  “I don’t know. I was hoping you could ask around with some of your contacts and find out what his function level was before the pastkeepers make record of it. Assuming he’s got the mutations, I’ve got a theory about the murders.”

  “Which is?” I ask.

  Strega reaches out to finger a bruise over my right eyebrow, finally standing still. His eyes lock onto mine. “I think Concordia is using the Assimilation classes to expand on our existing guardian forces. Carter said Supernova is like a nuclear bomb, protected with multiple codes held by multiple people. And because the launches have all been closed and no one is coming in or going out, Supernova and whoever has those codes might already be here, on Concordia. I think the local Tribunal is testing a weapon, using some sort of agent to exploit the genes.”

  Understanding washes over Ritter’s face. “They’re flipping a switch,” he says, his jaw dropping. “If they can control the suicide genes that easily, they can cripple an enemy’s army and it will just look like a mass suicide.”

  Strega nods. “And they’re testing it on low functioners because they’re the most expendable while preserving more valuable, higher functioning members of society.”

  “Holy shit,” I say, my voice cracking.

  “Yes,” Strega agrees, studying my face. “Holy shit.”

  For lack of other worthwhile action to take, he drags me into the cleanse to get a better look at me under its bright lights.

  Still trying to wrap my brain around the gruesome possibilities of genetic exploitation, I don’t even notice Strega’s ministrations. I almost forget he’s there until he says,

  “All done.”

  Ritter, accustomed to Strega shooing him out of the cleanse, is pacing back and forth in front of the sofa. He continues the conversation as if we hadn’t left the room.

  “What now?” Ritter asks.

  Strega shakes his head. “Nothing. At least not now, while Davinney is still assimilating.”

  “And after?”

  I meet Ritter’s eyes. We both look to Strega.

  Strega shakes his head. “I’m not sure. I mean, how in the world are we going to prove that this is what the Tribunal is doing? And even if we can prove it, who do we take it to?”

  The fact that Strega is on board does little to quell Ritter’s nervous energy. He continues pacing, his movements less and less fluid. “The Tribunal of All?” he asks.

  Strega considers it. “That’d be a neat trick,” he mutters, pacing now, too. “The only way to access the Tribunal of All is from inside the Tribunal hall.”

  “Yeah,” I snort. “Not happening.”

  Ritter stops short, which startles Strega into stopping, too. “We could launch to another parallel and approach them through that parallel’s local Tribunal.” He casts me an apologetic look. “Attero makes the most sense.”

  “How would you get access to the local Tribunal on Attero when Attero doesn’t even admit Concordia or any other parallel exists?” Strega chides Ritter. When Strega turns to pace in the other direction, Ritter rolls his eyes at Strega’s back. But his face colors a little.

  Unrealistic or not, I feel like Ritter just stabbed me right through the heart. I can’t sliv, so I know it would have to be Ritter and Strega while I wait here on Concordia. But of all the parallels, Attero makes the most sense because they are, as Strega put it, leading the charge.

  I sit beside them as they finally settle onto the sofa, listening to them working out possible solutions I can’t be part of, which is really just Ritter suggesting ways they could gain access to Attero’s Tribunal and Strega shooting them down.

  Even though I desperately want to, I can’t go with them. Every person’s Idix is coded uniquely, with a personal identifier, Challenge results, housing and luxury allotments, medical history…every single piece of data that someone on Attero would scour the internet databases or even paper records for is all encoded in the Idix. And mine says I’m not allowed to sliv anywhere except the Disposal.

  “What if they don’t reopen the launches by the time I’ve assimilated?” I ask the obvious question.

  Strega and Ritter meet my eyes only reluctantly, and theirs are so grim my breath catches in my throat.

  “Erasure,” they chorus.

  Is it wrong to hope the launches stay closed so that I can join them in being erased? If I were erased, the stubborn pieces of code that keep me from slivving back home would be gone.

  Much later, in the early morning hours, when Strega wearily stumbles out of the keeping, Ritter and I both find the MedQuick dispensing sleepbringer and moodleveler and I think,

  “We’re back to this?”

  I’m not awake for my own answer.

  18

  DAY 30 BRINGS a hushed silence as we sit in the large auditorium at the proving grounds. I’ve never followed the NFL or any other sports draft on Attero, but I wonder if this is how it works, whether the athletes feel their breakfasts as the same lead weight. I wonder if their palms sweat and their hearts flutter and they eye the leaders
of the other organizations with suspicion and distrust.

  Maybe not. Probably not. Their lives aren’t in danger over such decisions, after all.

  I hope landing solidly in the middle third of Lyder’s team is enough to keep me safe.

  I watch as the viewers spring to life with the names of the facilitators. Out of 30 facilitators, Lyder is ranked fourth. I blink in surprise. Based on her speech the other day, I’d assumed she was worried about her function level. But fourth place out of thirty is pretty good.

  Belgrade Minor is third. That breakfast of mine goes from lead weight to feather light. Light enough to rise to the back of my throat. I swallow hard and blink quickly, desperate to maintain my blank façade. Every interaction we’ve had with Belgrade’s team has been brutal. Even Krill and Yaryk limp out of the reaction center. Something about Belgrade scares the crap out of me, though it’s hard to say what. I’ve never seen him yell at or strike anyone, and he’s never spoken to me directly. But something. Something about him makes my insides lurch.

  The leader ranked first promptly dumps his two worst candidates on the second ranked leader and options her two best. The rest of us watch as the discarded join their new teams with pale faces, and the optioned grin and do the same. The second ranked leader, in turn, does exactly the same thing to Belgrade. I almost sigh in relief. When Belgrade’s face fills the screen, I expect he’ll dump his worst two and take Krill and Yaryk.

  Glancing blandly at Lyder’s ranking board, which is also displayed behind his head where those of us in the audience can see it, he says, “I discard Erik Bander and Jeshua Riley, and I option Krill Minekamp and Yaryk Svorda. And to fill the vacancy left by Farthing Stanton, I option Davinney Keith.”

  A whisper ripples through Lyder’s team. I blink as their heads whip around. I feel their eyes on me, and I struggle to hold the blank expression they’re so envious of. And then I stand up and take my place with Belgrade’s team.