Independent Study (The Testing 2)

A tracking device. That is what is contained inside this metal band. Since Ian freely shared this information, can I assume no one is recording or listening to our conversation?

“Hey, we should get inside so you don’t miss the entire party. Trust me when I say you won’t have a lot of time for parties when classes start in two days.” As Ian turns toward the residence with a grin, I do the same.

I eat. I laugh at jokes. All the while, I feel the weight of the bracelet and the tracking device it contains on my arm. The party lasts long into the night. It is only when the upper years seek their beds that I feel I can return to my room without arousing comment. It takes me a dozen tries before I can replicate Ian’s removal of the bracelet. I place it on the table and rub my wrist before examining the woven metal. I fish my pocketknife out of my bag, hold the bracelet to the light, and probe the back of the disc with the thinnest blade. The blade slides off the metal and nicks me twice before I find the almost imperceptible groove on the edge of the disc and pry off the back panel. Inside are a battery and an even smaller copper metal pulse radio transmitter.

Professor Holt spoke of the need for trust. Yet in front of me is the evidence to the contrary. I study the device. My father has never used homing devices, but Hamin and Zeen experimented with them as a method for tracking farm animals. The design of this one seems simple. A pulse signal is sent from this transmitter to a separate receiver, which communicates the location of the device. The size and simplistic design of the battery and transmitter suggest it is not that powerful and probably can only transfer data to the receiver if the receiver is somewhere close by. After several tries, my brothers were able to boost the power of their transmitter to reach a receiver up to a mile away. I doubt this one’s capabilities are much stronger, but I can’t be certain. I just have to assume the device is more powerful than I think and find a way to limit its ability to report my movements.

Since I have no idea how I’m going to do that, I climb into bed. Dreams of Tomas stabbing Zandri, or Dr. Barnes yanking me out of a hiding place and pushing me into the ravine, chase me from darkness until dawn. By the time I wake, I have still not come up with an idea how to limit the tracking of my movements without alerting Dr. Barnes that I am aware of the device. I could remove the transmitter and leave it in my room, but people might start to wonder why the transmitter never moved. The best idea I have is to enclose the transmitter with a thin layer of metal to block the signal and hope those who monitor our movement believe my device to be faulty. But that too might raise more questions than I want asked.

Putting the bracelet back together, I snap it on my wrist and head downstairs for breakfast. With no classes to study for yet, the first years are still in a celebratory mood. Although, as the day progresses, I see faces turn serious. For good reason. We have all been Inducted into the Government Studies program, but that acceptance is not a guarantee of our success. Only our performances in our classes can do that.

I still haven’t figured out a good way to counteract the transmitter in my bracelet by the next morning. But, today, if they monitor my movements, they will see what they expect to see. A University student going about her first day of classes. The pull of new ideas and learning is strong, but so is my fear that I might not measure up to the standards Professor Holt has set for me. As I finger the Government bracelet around my wrist, I can’t help but wonder how many other first-year students from the colonies have made it through their Inductions. Will Stacia be seated in one of my classes, or will she be remembered by future Medical students for the lesson she provided?

Breakfast conversation in the dining hall is subdued, and I notice I am not the only one who barely eats the food on the tables in front of us. Ian catches my eye as I push back my chair and hoist my bag onto my shoulder. He nods. I nod back, grateful for the support if uncertain as to the motive. It is time for my first class. Global History.

Fourteen of us are seated in the classroom when Professor Lee arrives carrying an armload of papers. He drops them on a large black table in the front that is already stacked with worn books. The only students I recognize in the room are Enzo and a broad-shouldered boy named Brick, who is a colony student like me. The rest are Tosu City students I know nothing about. Enzo does not look at any of them as they talk among themselves. He looks up only when Professor Lee finishes organizing his materials and addresses the class.

“Welcome to Global History. To make sure we don’t repeat the mistakes that led to the Seven Stages of War, we must understand past mistakes. In this class, we will learn what the landscape of the world looked like before the wars and study the countries and governments that dominated that landscape. Each week, we will focus on a different time period. You will be required to learn the names of the leaders, identify countries based on maps, and explain the pros and cons of the government structures of the most influential countries during that time. I will then select the most advanced students in the class for a special study of what is known about the current global structure and what it means for our future.”

The prospect of learning how the world is recovering beyond the United Commonwealth borders has me sitting up straighter. And I’m not the only one. The room crackles with excitement and something more. Under the exhilaration is an underlying tension. Only the select few chosen by Professor Lee will be allowed to participate in that portion of the class. Another competition. Another test.

He gives us a big smile and pushes a button on the wall. “So, let’s get to work, shall we?”

A large screen descends, and depicted on it is a world from the past. The next hour is filled with names of countries and people long dead. Governments destroyed by war or corruption. New regimes that rose to take their places. My pencil races across the page in front of me as I try to capture every word, knowing that any detail missed might be the difference between success and failure. Almost two hours later, my hand aches as I scribble down the homework instructions before heading to the next class. Enzo walks with me across the campus to Science Building Four.

Advanced Calculus.

Vic smiles at me from a corner desk. A boy named Xander nods from his seat in the front. Then class begins. Ordinary differential equations. Partial differential equations. Bessel and Legendre functions. Several pages of homework are assigned. A test will be given on Wednesday to assess our understanding of the material.

When class is over, I hurry out to avoid the familiar faces in the room. While I am grateful to see them, I am not sure I’m prepared to hear what they have to say. Will they tell me S

tacia, whom I have yet to see, or other members of our Testing candidate class have failed their Inductions? That they have been Redirected? Instead, I find a spot outside that is mostly hidden from view to eat the apple and roll I slipped into my bag this morning. I have an hour to start on my homework before the next class begins.

United Commonwealth History and Law are followed by World Languages. Then my last class of the day: Chemistry. States of matter, properties of solutions, kinetics and atomic and molecular structure are discussed. A project assigned. And finally, classes are done, but my day is far from over. There are chemical equations to balance, a paper on the Commonwealth Government’s founding debates to write, and maps to memorize. All must be complete by Wednesday, with more to be assigned by my other professors tomorrow. I know Dr. Barnes will be watching to see which students fall behind. I will not be one of them.

The dining hall is filled with laughter and conversation. Students compare notes on their homework and teachers, and buzz about the news that internships will not be assigned for at least another week. I say nothing as I fill a plate with greens, some kind of spicy pork, and sliced potatoes cooked with onions and walnuts. Part of me is relieved to have one less thing to worry about for the next seven days. The other part is anxious to learn whether or not I will be assigned an internship that will allow me to collect information for Michal and the rebels. Pushing thoughts of the internship aside, I ignore Ian’s and Will’s beckoning waves and head upstairs to study while I eat. When I finally sleep that night, Malachi and Zandri join me in my dreams. They quiz me on the names of country capitals, help balance chemistry equations, and insist the ending to my paper could be stronger.

They’re right. When I wake, I rewrite the final page before getting dressed for the second day of class.

More professors. More assignments.

Electrical and Magnetic Physics. The Rise and Fall of Technology. Art, Music, and Literature. Bioengineering.

Here and there, I see familiar faces. Brick and Kit in Physics. Will, a girl named Jul, and a Boulder kid named Quincy in Art and Music. And finally I see Stacia—along with Vic and a girl from Grand Forks named Naomy—in Technology. All are here. All wear bracelets that report their movements back to Dr. Barnes and his officials.

News of Rawson’s death has spread. In the minutes before and after class, we band together and talk about the loss of our classmate. I had almost forgotten Naomy and Rawson were from the same colony, but Naomy’s puffy red eyes speak loudly of her sorrow and the love she has felt for him since she was ten years old. While I have never been close friends with Naomy, I find myself feeling sorry for her. During class, I notice some of the Tosu City students passing scraps of paper. Notes. With paper so precious, our Five Lakes instructors punished this practice with extra work. Here, where paper seems to be less of a concern, the instructors don’t seem to mind. Biting my lip, I tear a small corner off the page in front of me, write a couple of words asking to meet after dinner and work on homework, and pass the note to Naomy. The smile she gives me when she reads it makes me feel happier than I have in days. When Stacia shoots me a questioning look, I tear off another corner and pass her a note too. When she grins, I feel better, more in control, knowing I will spend part of tonight with friends.

All through the day, I find myself looking for signs of Tomas. When I finally see his familiar gray eyes watching me from the back of the Bioengineering classroom, I realize I am unprepared to deal with the emotions storming inside me. Love. Guilt. Need. Uncertainty.

My heart pounds loudly in my chest as I slide into the seat next to him. I can’t help but notice the pallor of his skin and the smudges of fatigue under the eyes that meet mine. Class begins. The teacher drones on about viscoelasticity, and though my pencil is clutched tight in my hand, my writing is barely legible as I try to ignore the ache in my heart. The same ache I know is in his at the possibility that we will never be able to look at each other without death and guilt between us.

The two of us stay seated when class ends. We say nothing as we watch everyone shove papers into their bags and head for the door. A few glance in our direction as they file out, but none linger. I wait for Tomas to speak. The quiet grows more uncomfortable with each passing second. In his eyes, I see self-condemnation and a weariness that scares me. Now that Tomas has admitted his actions to me, he is drowning in guilt. And though I still feel the sting of his betrayal, the anger I have held since hearing his confession fades, and fear takes hold. Unless Tomas finds a way to forgive himself for Zandri’s death, the weight of guilt could drown him. I see a flash of my roommate Ryme swinging from a yellow rope. I want to convince Tomas that Zandri’s death was an accident. He, unlike so many, did not make the choice to kill. But I have known Tomas too long to think words will help. Until his confession, Tomas pushed aside the guilt in order to protect me. He had a purpose. Now he needs another.

Leaning forward, I ask, “Did you work with my brothers on the livestock accountability project?”

Curiosity crosses Tomas’s face. “My brother did most of the work, but I had some input. Why?”

I look around the room. Not sure if someone could be listening, I grab my bag and stand. “I should get going if I want to make it back for dinner. Do you want to walk with me?”