The Proving (9 page)

Except on the rare occasion when it does.

And here, “except” was the key word. Because sometimes, humanity fixes its problems. Sometimes, humanity learns from its mistakes.

Sometimes.

Seamus watched the last members of the Coterie exit the elevator. The New Adult — Cleo — had to give her little brother — Reza — a push. The boy was hesitant. Afraid. Seamus couldn’t make a note of the boy’s fears because it was purely speculation, and Historians weren’t allowed to speculate. But he would have to mention that Cleo pushed him out of the elevator. It was his job to ensure the entire Proving was well documented.

And then the Historian leadership would determine what was important and what could be cut. The leadership would examine video feeds from each New Adult’s glasses, then consider the account provided by Seamus. In this way, there could be no modifications of history. No tampered video feeds. No crucial moments lost from the record.

No lies from the mouth of a Historian.

“No mistakes” is what Seamus’s father had told him. The Historians had a duty to the people: to accurately record the history of Earth, unbiased and uninvolved, impassive and indifferent. Historians were spread out into every shielded city, and before the Specters arrived the Historians had been spread out all over the planet. They documented events, and then the leadership crosschecked the documentation with any video or audio evidence (there was much, given the
legion
of video footage in every public and private space), and then ruled on what should be preserved and what should be discarded.

They divided time into eras, for the sake of communication with citizens. The worst modern era had been the era of the Clan Wars, when tensions between the clans hit a boiling point and conflict erupted. It began the way wars always do: dwindling resources, excessive greed, honor slighted. Only this time, humanity surprised itself. Rather than wait for the world to end, free citizens with no clan affiliations stood up and demanded a permanent peace treaty. In the face of this ultimatum, in the face of mass revolt, the three clans had no choice but to comply.

Society had determined all three clans were in the wrong.

Then came the era of Phenocyte. The rare element was discovered by a space probe on an asteroid that orbited the inner solar system. A ship was launched, its trajectory carefully calculated to meet the asteroid as it passed the planet with only 200,000 kilometers to spare. A chunk was broken off and towed to near-Earth orbit, where it was analyzed and tested and documented. It could be used as energy. It could be placed in a reactor and then . . . something happened. The science always eluded Seamus. Phenocyte reactors worked like fusion reactors, with carefully placed lasers firing at a circular granule of Phenocyte, starting a chain reaction that could only be controlled by the same lasers that started the chain reaction.

Energy. Nearly free energy with no pollution. Suddenly, there were no limits. It was a second Industrial Revolution. Innovation exploded. Medical advances. Technological advances. Clean air and clean water.

Then the Specters arrived.

Seamus cleared his throat. Everyone was looking at him, including the elder from Clan Sparta. General Mitchell. He was a tall man, with an imposing cold stare. Seamus could recount by memory all ninety-three acts of heroism General Mitchell’s Coterie had performed. He looked away, collecting his carefully memorized thoughts. “One hundred and thirty-three years ago, the Specters arrived. First, a ring of energy wrapped itself around Earth. Then, the Specters descended from the Ring. No weapons could stop them. There was nowhere to hide. Towns were wiped out. Cities were abandoned. In just two years, the population of the human race was halved.”

One of the children coughed. The boy from Clan Persia. It caught Seamus off-guard and he paused. His mind froze. He couldn’t help but glance at the Spartan elder; the old man was still staring with those same cold eyes. Seamus took another breath, searching the room. He found the Parliamentarian, the eighteen-year-old named Gabriel. Son of Carmen Martinez, one of Parliament’s most beloved Premiers. The young man was wearing a grim expression, but when their eyes met he gave a little nod.

“It was the alliance that saved humanity. All three clans, working together on a solution, while the United Parliament organized a protective retreat. Shields were established around the remaining cities. Technology was developed to destroy the Specters. Brave men and women gave their lives to ensure the safety of the human race.”

Nods from the parents. Mostly blank faces from the kids. A mixture of nervousness and wariness and
boredom
from the New Adults. The Spartan girl of course looked ready and willing. The Athenian boy looked a bit pale. The Persian girl seemed unaware of his speech at all, more interested in the ad playing on the vid-screen built into one of the nearby pillars. The ad featured a new piece of furniture: a medieval-looking wooden chair with carved armrests. The Persians were clearly blood siblings, though Reza’s skin was darker and his hair was blacker. The girl, Cleo, had buzzed hair along the sides of her head and wore the top in a ponytail. She had thin eyebrows and a more animated face than her brother. Her light brown eyes matched her skin almost perfectly, leading Seamus to speculate that her contact lenses were perhaps colored.

Text scrolled across the chair ad on the pillar: “Designed by the famed artist Antonio Skaarsgard! Press your thumb to the screen now to have the blueprints sent to your furniture unit! The chair will be designed and molded by the time you get home!”

General Mitchell reached out and punched the vid-screen with his bare hand, cracking it and leaving a few drops of blood on the glass. The screen shut off.

“The Proving is your opportunity to pay respect to the alliance,” Seamus continued with a shaky voice, reciting from memory. All of it memorized, all of it practiced alone in his room while everyone else was out on the previous night celebrating Carnivale. “The Proving is your opportunity to experience Earth outside of the protection of the Xenoshields. When you return successful, your names will be displayed proudly on the Public News Network and again during next year’s Carnivale.”

“Along with a hundred others going through the exact same thing today all over the planet,” the Persian girl muttered. Cleopatra Kashani. Eighteen years old. Failed the Proving when she was thirteen, though it had not been her fault. Last semester, she received three A’s in engineering and one C in Communications. Seamus had all of this memorized, though the low grade in Communications he could have guessed.

The elder Spartan glared at her but said nothing. The clans disciplined only their own — that was a rule.

Seamus cleared his throat. He was aware that he was clearing his throat too much but it was a habit he’d picked up from his father and being nervous only seemed to make it worse. “When your Proving is finished, the New Adults will transition to careers and will reconvene once every year. The Young Adults,” he nodded to the thirteen-year-olds, “will enter secondary school and begin studying a specialty. When they finish, they will go through their second Proving. Every Proving is unique. Every Coterie is unique.” He waved a hand to them to signify that they were now bonded as a group. “You will be expected to form a bond with your Coterie, and in the future when humanity needs your help, you will be expected to serve the people.”

“Yeah, like fixing an old malfunctioning power line,” said Cleo.

“Let’s get going,” said the elder Spartan, throwing daggers with his eyes in the direction of the Persian girl.

“As you wish.” Seamus waved his hand to the Tumbler waiting on the track. The armored transport vehicle had arrived shortly after the members of Clan Sparta; General Mitchell had seemed on edge, as if he might feel better inside it rather than on the platform. Seamus understood well enough: the Spartan didn’t like open, empty spaces. They were unnatural in a modern city.

“Who inspected the vehicle?” the elder Spartan asked the Athenian parents.

“One member of every clan —” Seamus began.

“I wasn’t asking you,” the elder Spartan barked. The others didn’t move. General Mitchell looked at them all, grating his teeth from side to side.

“The upkeep logs are on file,” said the Athenian father in a calm voice. “And of course you have access, General.”

Seamus felt a tingle of worry. It was a bold thing to say to General Mitchell. The man was known for his temper. It wasn’t stated explicitly in any
official
History, but the details of incidents — a tribunal here, a punishment there — led any close reader to the same conclusion.

General Mitchell’s face reddened. “So. Go ahead then.”

The Coterie filed in. Seamus took up the rear, watching the interactions and making note. It would most likely be struck from the official record — not important to the mission — but the interactions between clan parents and children were always so . . . interesting. Most clan couples who wanted kids were expected to choose in-vitro adoption. The adoptive mother would carry an embryo resulting from the union of sperm and egg from the Gamete Bank, a storehouse of genetic material that had been harvested from those who’d performed exemplary service to their clan. As such, there were few freeborn clan children. In this way, the clans could maximize their chances of successful — intelligent, creative, athletic, brave — offspring.

So it had been since the end of the Clan Wars, when Parliament set down laws forbidding genetic
enhancements
.

The Persians went in first. The Athenians went in next, giving each of their parents a hug. The young Spartan boy saw the interaction and seemed ready to go in for a hug with his own father, but his father simply reached out and gave him a push toward the Tumbler. The general stopped his daughter, putting a hand on her shoulder, making a point of not touching her curly red hair. She looked up at him. Her left eye was slightly crossed, Seamus noted. A sign of weakness for a Spartan — no, no, that was speculation. Strike it.

“Do not fail again,” Mitchell said in a low voice.

The words stunned Seamus. The Spartans trained as warriors and the parents were generally stoic, but the traditional farewell was “Bring us honor.” It was a coded “good luck” that went back to the Specter invasion and evolved from a more traditional “be safe” that certain militaries had adopted, back when geographical lines were drawn on maps to denote different countries.

Double interesting: General Worthington Mitchell was a decorated soldier. He was married to Luanne Martin, another decorated soldier. Both had completed missions beyond the shield and served Parliament with aplomb. They could have had a freeborn child. They chose in-vitro fertilization instead.

Perhaps it was easier to distance oneself from a child if the child wasn’t of the same bloodline. Perhaps General Mitchell was afraid. Yes, afraid. Afraid that if they were his own children — of his blood and DNA — then he might not be so willing to let them risk their lives. He might, perhaps, react in the same way that the Athenian parents reacted.

Or perhaps General Mitchell simply resented the clan mandate that all couples produce offspring. Speculation. Strike it.

Athenian parents often formed a stronger bond with their offspring. It was as close to a fact as a general observation could be. Seamus had seen it before, during his training. Athenian parents could look beyond the DNA, perhaps because they spent so much time better understanding the role of nature vs. nurture.

Conjecture. Strike it.

Seamus stood beside the Tumbler, unable to fight the urge to glance over the concrete platform. The armored vehicle’s wheels were tucked underneath the undercarriage. It was floating, engaging the mag-rail system just like a train. The military-grade vehicle was made of black blast-proof panels and looked a bit to Seamus like a Sphinx with its arms forward and a head that had been carved away by centuries of heavy wind, replaced by a violently angular windshield.

The vehicle had been developed with input from all the clans. Clan Sparta, of course, was in charge of the weapons system. Clan Athens designed the interior — including a small built-in med bay. Clan Persia was responsible for the technology. Parliament — led by free citizens — approved and funded it. Tumblers could travel along any of the fourteen mag-rails that led out of the city. They were often used to travel to remote automated farming outposts. They could also be deployed for emergency rescue missions when someone was foolish enough to leave the safety of the city’s shields.

Or fixing old downed power lines, as the Persian girl so callously mentioned. She was right, to some extent — the shields protecting Earth’s cities had held for over a hundred years without incident. Provings were mostly a ritual now, and a Coterie might be expected to come together once — years later — to perform some routine upkeep mission in service to Parliament.

But today’s Proving was not quite so random as one might think. While Seamus could not share it with the Coterie, this mission had been chosen specifically for the Parliamentarian’s son, Gabriel. The boy came from an important family, and expectations were high. It had been General Mitchell who had recommended his daughter’s Coterie, and the Athenian parents of Benjamin had agreed. The parents of Cleo . . . well, they hadn’t said no. So it had been arranged in secret to avoid any hint of a scandal. Premier Martinez could rest assured that her son and daughter would be protected by a competent Coterie, on a mission that carried minimal risk.

It was Seamus’s opinion that while this wasn’t very fair, it was entirely reasonable. The premier’s son was special, after all.

And the poor free citizen who’d been with Skye, Cleo and Ben on that fateful Proving five years ago? Transferred. Shipped to another city, thus giving the premier an excuse to arrange for her son to join this new Coterie.

“Go along, Historian.”

The voice of the elder Spartan caused Seamus to flinch. He decided it would be best to not turn and look at the man again — that would only unnerve Seamus further. Already his mind was cycling through different Provings that he had researched. Incidents. Clashes. Failures. Coteries lost outside the city Xenoshield limits. Coteries happening upon Specters. Provings were not
always
safe . . . and that was the point. The world was not safe; no matter how many shields protected cities.