Compliance (7 page)

“Short ones up front.” He drags me forward, dumps me into a chair, and whispers, “You’ll flame out after this.”

I straighten and cross my arms over my chest.

“Excited?” Ansel, the recruit beside me, asks. The smallest boy in our class, Ansel’s been trying to make friends with me, but being my friend is dangerous. I don’t want to make him a Larsson target too.

“Do you know what’s going on?” I ask.

An eager grin spreads on his face and he straightens his glasses. “Someone’s getting exed. We get to see it live.”

TV screens hang on each side of the big curtain. “Live? Don’t we always see expungings live on the screens in the Hub?”

“Live and up close,” Ansel says. “My dad took me to one of these viewing rooms last year to try to talk me out of applying for COT.” He taps his heel so quickly it vibrates against the floor.

I want to press down on his knee to make him stop. “What work placement did your Dad hope you’d get?”

He shrugs and looks up to the side as if realizing he’s already said more than he meant to.

“Management Training?” I whisper.

He nods, then leans in close. “Don’t tell the others, okay?”

Some of the other recruits pick on Ansel, and if certain
boys—especially Thor—found out that Ansel’s father is in Management, his life would get even worse.

I mime zipping my lips.

“Your parents are Management too, right?” Ansel asks. “That’s how you got accepted into COT?”

I shake my head. “My parents had factory work placements.”

His brow furrows. “But Larsson was forced to take you, like me.”

I hold up a hand to cut him off. “We’d better be quiet.”

I get why Ansel wants to bond over something he assumes we have in common, but although I was forced into COT, it’s not the same—not at all.

His heel continues to tap a rapid rhythm on the floor, and the curtain pulls back to reveal a floor-to-ceiling glass window. The recruits gasp as they view Outside just twenty feet ahead.

Larsson knocks on the window. “This reinforced glass is one of five layers between us and Outside, so don’t think you’re risking your life by sitting here, like the Officers you’ll see Outside. You are nowhere near prepared for that.”

Glass is a rare commodity inside Haven, and I’ve never seen a single sheet so large, never mind five. The closest window has a mesh of metal running over or through it, dulling our view, and the glow from the sun isn’t nearly as bright or as golden as I remember.

The pale blue sky barely permeates the blowing dust that’s carried on a strong wind and swirls over chunks of debris and ruins. Our field of vision is much larger than we
normally see on the TV screens, but between the gusting dust that drifts up the glass and the ruined buildings in the distance, it’s impossible to make out the wall I know surrounds Haven about a mile out from the dome.

“It’s like we’re out there,” Ansel says, wonder in his voice.

“Is that the real sky?” someone asks from the back.

“Silence.” Larsson plants himself at one side, legs spread wide. “Observe. Pay attention to the details. There will be a quiz.”

I don’t want to watch the gruesome scene on the other side of the window. It’s too horrible, too familiar, and it brings back too many memories, too many fears of what might yet happen.

I flick my eyes away, but Larsson stares at me and shakes his head with a knowing smile. I look back through the window. He clearly thinks I can’t take the gore, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction of being right.

The boy exed today looks about fifteen, and sharp spikes stick out from his forearms and the backs of his hands. I assume his spikes only appear when he’s in danger, but it’s not like I’ve seen the kid any other way.

A Shredder circles. Its eyes are bloodshot, nearly red, and bulging from a head that’s more like a skull covered by brown and red scabs than a face. I realize in disgust that the Shredder has small bones and teeth woven into its matted hair.

The Shredder lunges. The boy swings, slashing his spiked arm across the monster’s chest. The dry flesh on the Shredder’s torso tears and it roars, revealing stubs of brown teeth between nearly black lips. We can’t hear the sound of
the roar live, only what comes through the TV screen speakers, but I swear the glass vibrates. Shredders’ voices are both loud and grating, like metal scraping on metal.

I swallow my urge to shout a warning the boy couldn’t hear anyway; then another Shredder kicks the Deviant from behind, knocking him down. Dust rises up around the boy’s body in a cloud.

The recruits cheer. If anyone in this room is a Deviant sympathizer, he’s hiding it well.

Beside me, Ansel slides to the edge of his chair and his leg vibrations accelerate. The teen Outside tries to rise, but the Shredder who kicked him leaps and lands on his back, forcing his chest down to the dust. Another Shredder, with sharp horns protruding from his head like an extinct forest animal, takes a huge spike and drives it through the boy’s hand, pinning him down. The boy swings his other arm, trying to dig his spikes into anything he can strike.

For a moment, I wonder why the Shredders haven’t used ropes or chains to neutralize this Deviant’s weaponized arms, but that wouldn’t make an exciting show.

And this show has a purpose.

Fear of Shredders and dust keeps everyone trapped inside Haven and working for Management’s benefit. But at the same time, Management wants to fuel our hatred of Deviants. They don’t want these fights to end quickly or generate sympathy for those Expunged. The Comps probably took the Shredders’ chains.

The smallest Shredder, limping on a leg that’s bent at an unnatural angle, takes a long knife from a sheath on his
back. My stomach contracts as the knife slices long gashes down the prone Deviant’s back. The boy writhes in pain as blood soaks his shirt.

I want to yell, to tell him to breathe in more dust, that it will help him to heal, but believing what we’ve all been taught, he’s actively keeping his nose and mouth from the ground. The Shredders take turns slicing into him with knives, slamming clubs into his back and tearing off slices of his skin to keep as trophies.

A loud noise booms through the TV’s speakers. The ground rumbles.

I jump up off my chair. “What was that?”

Even Larsson looks surprised. We stare out the window and what looks like a huge wall of dust rolls toward Haven from far away. A regiment of Comps, all in full armor, march in the distance toward the dust cloud.

The TV screens turn to static. Clearly, the broadcast inside the Hub has been cut off, but it’s not clear whether this was intentional to censor the action or whether the explosion cut off the feed. The noise can’t have been an earthquake. We would have felt it more strongly inside.

In the distance, a group of six Comps peels off from the larger formation and heads toward us. Not toward
us
, exactly, but toward the battle between the Shredders and the boy, who’s still fighting with everything he has. Most of our group is on their feet. A hand lands on my shoulder and, startled, I look up. It’s Cal.

“Did you come forward for a better view?” I ask, distaste in my voice.

“Down in front,” someone shouts.

I sit and he crouches beside me. “I came up to make sure you were okay.”

Cal gasps, and I turn back to the window. The six Comps who peeled off have opened fire with huge guns—Auts that shoot three bullets a second. Even though Larsson assured us that there are layers of bulletproof glass in front of us, the gunfire’s loud, like slabs of concrete dropping off a building.

A few of the Shredders charge the Comps, but it’s no use. Bullets tear into their dry flesh, smashing bones until the Shredders drop to the dust. Our recruit class falls silent. I’m not sure if anyone’s breathing.

The exed boy’s still lying face-down, one hand pinned by the spike. Is he dead? The Comps turn to leave, and I pray that he’s faking his death, that he’ll get that spike out of his hand and escape once the Comps leave. Maybe he’ll even be found by an FA Soldier. They monitor the broadcasts, and if they don’t already know that this kid was expunged, they will soon.

A few yards away, two of the Comps stop, turn back, and stride toward the prone boy. My throat closes. The Deviant remains still even as the Comps stand directly above him.

They ready their guns, and the boy grabs one of their legs by the calf, pulling the Comp off his feet. But this last-ditch effort is futile. The other Comp opens fire and the dust around the boy darkens with blood.

E
XHAUSTED,
I
STARE
at a System screen in the study room. My muscles are so tired that I feel like I was the one expunged this afternoon instead of that poor kid, but my mind’s still running at full sprint. As much as I know I need sleep, I’m not sure I could drift off even if I had time to lie down.

I don’t have time.

Later tonight, I’ll go to meet Clay. He’s supposed to be in our designated meeting place every night at 1:00
AM
, and I’m supposed to go at least weekly or whenever I have something to report. I’ve been going nearly every night these past three months, but with the bombing and my meeting with Mr. Belando, I haven’t seen Clay since we saved Arabella three nights ago.

Even though I haven’t found Adele Parry yet, I’m going
tonight to convince Clay to give me more names. COT recruits only get access to the most basic HR records, but I’m determined to find new clues. Finding Adele would convince Clay that Rolph was wrong to slow me down.

I’ve clicked through search menus for what feels like hours, but I can’t get to the parts of the System I need. I’m also keeping my eyes open for Mr. Belando’s mole, but I’m more focused on my main purpose—saving Deviants, finding Adele.

“What are you doing in here all alone?” Cal’s voice comes from the hall.

He’s standing in the doorway, his body silhouetted by the light behind him.

“Studying.” I shut down my screen.

He crosses the room and rubs my shoulders. “Everyone’s in the rec room playing on the SIM. There’s a tournament. You should come.”

I shake my head. “Too tired. I think I’ll turn in.”

“You won’t make friends if you don’t make an effort to get involved.”

“You and Scout and Jayma are enough friends for me.”

Disappointment mixes with the concern in his eyes. He’s right. I should try harder to get along with our classmates. This very small thing for Cal is the least I can do. Plus, I’m supposed to be spying on my classmates for Belando. If there’s even a chance I can play a part in stopping a bombing on the President’s Birthday, that’s a valid cause too.

I push back my chair to stand. Cal stays close and his hands glide over my torso as I turn to face him. It feels as if
the air between our bodies is pulling me forward, but I resist the urge to bridge the short distance. Something holds me back. My work for the FA? My betrayal of Cal? Burn?

“Cal!” A voice comes from down the hall. “Your turn.”

He doesn’t react, so I slide from the space between him and the table. “You’re being paged.”

“Are you coming with me?”

I nod. “You’re right. I should spend more time with the others.”

He grins. “I’ll bet once you make some friends, Larsson will stop picking on you. The others won’t let him get away with it.”

As we walk down the hall to the rec room, our hands brush close to each other but never quite touch, and I can’t tell whether I’m disappointed or relieved. The noise gets louder as we approach, and when we enter the room, it’s deafening.

“Cal. Finally,” someone I can’t see shouts. Cal offers me a reassuring smile before moving to the center of the room to face a section of bare wall. Within moments, the display for the SIM fills the blank space, projecting from a small laser projector latched onto the ceiling.

The rest of the boys and Stacy are crowded around Cal and his opponent, whom I now recognize as Quentin. Those at the back are standing on chairs and benches, and Ansel gestures for me to join him on top of a crate.

Watching the others, I find it hard to believe that one of them might be a mole for the terrorists. I wish I could turn back time and watch everyone’s reactions on the roof when
that bomb went off. At the time everyone seemed horrified. Then again, if the mole’s in our group, he’d be good at deception.

Regardless, I’m happy on the sidelines, with no pressure to interact, yet not alone. Cal was right. I’m glad I came.

“Will you have a go?” Ansel asks.

“Not a chance.”

“You should. It’s fun.” Ansel shifts to improve his view.

Cal takes a SIM controller, nods to Quentin, and the boys take their ready positions. As they press the thumb buttons on their controllers, two images appear on the wall.

I gasp. Cal’s avatar is human, huge, and wearing a long, flared coat.
It looks like Burn.

The Burn-like avatar sports chin-length dark hair, heavy eyebrows, and strong features. The game designer obviously based this game character on Burn’s image that was posted all over Haven after my alleged kidnapping. Only his eyes are different—a mixture of bright red and orange like they’re about to shoot fire. Maybe they will.

Quentin sees his avatar—a Shredder—and laughs, then slams his fist against his chest. Mirroring Quentin’s actions, the avatar’s fist hits its chest on the screen, and bits of skin and flesh fly off its torso. My nose curls up in response. Through the game speakers, Quentin’s laugh transforms into a roar that’s not nearly as gruesome as Shredders sound for real, but it reverberates through the room and hurts my ears.

Facing them, Stacy steps between the two boys. “Good luck.” She winks at Cal.

He smiles back and my skin crawls.

“And begin!” Stacy steps out of the way and the two boys turn to the screen to start their bout.

The spectators cheer, but instead of watching the projected fake gore and the action on-screen, I keep my eyes on Cal. My life is strange and complicated enough. I can’t watch Cal control an image that looks like Burn.

Cal ducks, legs flexing, then leaps and kicks. Based on the cheers and the way Quentin steps back, I assume that Cal’s avatar landed a hard blow somewhere on Quentin’s torso.