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BORN A COMMON SETTLER, Wil shouldn’t be able to sift, but he can. He sees emotions in bursts of color and hears thoughts as if they were whispered into his ear. This gift has transformed his life, lifting him from the squalor of a Settler’s camp to the Guardian Academy – an elite school where young Sifters train to use their power. But Wil soon realizes he will never be accepted by his High Founder classmates. No matter what his accomplishments, they’ll always see him as an outsider. A ‘Camp Rat’ with inferior blood, not worthy of the Guardian name.
UNLESS HE CAN PROVE THEM WRONG. Now sixteen and on the verge of graduation, Wil finally has that chance. Somewhere in the frozen settlement of Washton, a dangerous mind is on the run. If he can track them down before his classmates do, he’ll win more than bragging rights. He might finally earn some respect, maybe even a grudging nod from Astrid Blake – the beautiful but frosty daughter of the most powerful man in Neoden.
THE ‘FOX HUNT’ IS ON. As Wil chases his quarry through the ruins of Washton, he still believes what he’s been taught: that a Guardian’s sacred duty is to keep the citizens of Neoden free from deviant and destructive thoughts. But when he and his classmates are targeted in a deadly terrorist attack, those beliefs start to crumble. Why would the Settlers he’s been sent to protect try to kill him? When a voice from the past reaches out to him with an answer, he’s forced to face a terrible possibility. Maybe powerful evil still exists in the Founders’ perfect world. And maybe he’s being groomed to serve it.
FOUNDERS, the first book of the dystopian YA Sifter series, is inspired by George Orwell’s 1984 and takes the concept of “thought police” to a telepathic extreme.
PART I
You will hold these Three Pillars to be all that was, is, and ever shall be true:
Strength through one shared heart.
Wisdom through one shared mind.
Freedom through one shared purpose.
Sacred Vision, Chapter 3, Verse 3
“The Three Pillars”
1.
Seeds
The image shimmers across the screen, like a reflection on moving water. Hazy sunlight. Ocean waves lapping at a child’s feet. Then a muffled cry, high-pitched and desperate.
“Come on, Liv! Stop hiding! I know you’re here!”
From her place on the observation deck, a young woman watches as the boy’s memory streams before her. He’s running now. Spinning to search the horizon. A whimper as the image blurs through tears.
“Liv! Where are you?”
The woman turns to a technician, who sits facing his glowing console. “Is this the same fragment?”
“Yes, Miss. Same one every time.”
“How many cycles?”
“Ten, and it’s still not fading.”
“Impossible.”
“See for yourself.” The tech mumbles his answer, avoiding eye contact. He’s learned to quiet his mind around Guardians, but this one’s impossible to ignore. Dark hair framing darker eyes. Rose petal lips. Flawless, caramel skin. If she’s reading him though, she shows no outward sign. He may as well be invisible. Now she’s leaning over him to study the control panel, her petite frame brushing against his shoulder as she reaches for the monitor.
She points to a flat green tracing on the monitor, lips curving into what could be either a smile or a frown. “There’s no synaptic fade.”
“Correct. The frag’s as strong as it was on the first cycle.”
“Have you seen this before?”
The tech shakes his head. He’s never seen this kind of resistance, not even in a Sifter. After a stretch of silence, the woman walks to the glass partition to inspect the boy. He lies prone and motionless, secured in the usual fashion with imaging coils looped around his head. In the pale blue light, he looks like a small animal being devoured by a metallic snake. His body twitches as the image of a girl flashes onto the screen above him. Green eyes blinking through a swirl of copper hair. Then a bubble of laughter.
“You’re watching a memory within a memory,” the tech explains. “He’s waiting for this girl to show but she never does.”
“Who is she?”
“Another Camp Rat. She just failed a screening and our kid over here…” The tech jabs a thumb toward the unconscious boy. “He’s about to find out. Watch closely. It’s about to get interesting.”
The screen darkens, then pulses yellow.
“He’s closing his eyes to find her aura. First color Sifter I’ve ever processed. They’re the rarest type.” He lets out a nervous laugh. “But I don’t need to tell you that. What –?”
He turns to the Guardian, wanting to ask what sense she uses to read emotions, but thinks better of it when he sees her expression. No need for mind reading powers to catch the warning there.
“Um.” He swallows. “As you know, most Sifters pick up auras within a hundred feet or so, but you need to be much closer to sift thoughts, right?”
When she ignores him, he tugs at his collar. “Well, this kid is different. Strongest Sifter I’ve ever seen. The girl’s half a mile away and he’s still sensing her fear clearly. And you won’t believe what he’s about to do. Here…” – He reaches for the console – “I’ll turn up the audio.”
*
The Guardian closes her eyes and focuses on the jumble of sounds, ignoring the tech’s babble. Good, she thinks. He’s filtering just like I taught him to do, starting with the loudest notes. The wailing of gulls overhead. The rhythmic ssssh of waves lapping sand. The whir of wind turbine blades, then the bee-hive buzz of the Camp’s generators. He’s peeling back the layers of noise, isolating and filtering until all that remains is silence.
Now, she thinks, let the softest sounds back in, one note at a time.
Silence, and then… a choked off sob. A girl’s voice, pleading through the darkness: “Don’t let them take me!”
“Take you where?” the boy’s mind cries out in response. “Liv! Where are you?”
Now there’s a new sound, the distant cough and rumble of old combustion engines.
The boy’s limbic feed jumps on the monitor – a red spike of panic marking the exact moment when he realizes…
“The screening! They’re taking her away!”
The monitor flares white as his eyes snap open, body already in motion and sprinting toward the sound. The image jerks past sand dunes. Through a scrub pine forest, then around a fence crowned with rusted blister wire. His bare feet strike shards of gravel, then sun-baked asphalt, but the pain barely registers because now he sees where the buses have assembled.
They’re lined up outside the girls’ dorm: a convoy, ready to deploy.
He surges forward, willing his legs to fly, but it’s too late. The buses still look like toys as the last one pulls away from the curb.
When the screen has faded to darkness, the Guardian turns back to the tech. “And this is the only long-term fragment he’s retained?”
“Yes,” he answers. “Everything else wiped cleanly. But tell me, have you ever seen anything like that? I mean, he sifted through her thoughts, then reached her telepathically! From half a mile away!”
“Then you erased everything,” the Guardian demands, ignoring the question. “What about short-term memories?”
“Well, um, he still has those. Short-term frags are stored separately, in the hippocampus and temporal lobe. We only record and wash them right at the end of processing.”
“I’m aware of that.” She pins him to his chair with one look. “But you’re not going to record them this time. You’re going to play them for me. Right now.”
“Um, that’s…” The tech tugs at his collar. “That’s not standard protocol, Miss. That would be a –”
Before he can say “violation,” the Guardian plucks the word from his mind. She sees her image reflected through his eyes. Watches as her pupils widen to draw him in, like two expanding black holes. Impossible to escape.
Play them for me, she orders without moving her lips. Start with the strongest synaptic pathway.
He keys in the necessary command and the screen blinks back to life. Another memory, this one flashing by in vivid swaths of blue and green. Sky and forest, trees evenly spaced and studded with red fruit. The image pans to the right, coming to rest on a young woman’s face. Dark hair. Darker eyes. Gentle smile.
“But that’s—” The tech jerks his head to the Guardian, eyebrows peaked in confusion. “That’s… you.”
No, she answers with her thoughts. This child has no memories.
“This child… has no memories,” the tech echoes.
You’ve stripped them all. She waits for him to repeat her words.
And found no anomalies.
“No anomalies.”
Nothing to report.
“Nothing to report.”
He’s fully processed and ready to go.
Once the tech has nodded his assent, she wills him to sleep and guides his limp body to rest on the console.
“You won’t remember me,” she whispers into his ear. “Because I don’t exist.”
The tech will awaken in ten minutes. Plenty of time to erase all record of the boy’s memories. Officially, he’ll be a blank slate, safely processed and ready for training. Ready to start his new life.
Only he won’t be completely empty.
She walks around the glass partition to the unconscious child and takes his hand, squeezing all her hope into him.
I’m leaving you with the seeds and when the time comes…
When the time comes, I know you’ll have the strength to let them grow.
***
2.
Destination Unknown
Wil
Some nights, I still dream of her. The girl they took away.
That’s dangerous, I know, but how am I supposed to control my subconscious thoughts? It’s not like I want to obsess or anything. To be honest, I don’t even remember her face all that well. She was pretty. Long hair the color of a wheat field at sunset. Eyes that sparkled like cut emeralds. Always smiling. I guess if I had to pick one word to describe her, it would be “sunny.” But her image has gone fuzzy, like a half-forgotten dream.
Okay. So there is this one memory that’s still crystal clear. Sometimes, late at night, it plays in my mind like an unwanted vid. We’re lying next to each other, warm sand against our backs, holding hands and staring up at an impossibly blue sky. Ocean sounds wash over us as we watch huge white clouds float by.
“There goes an ice cat,” she says into my ear. “And look! It’s chasing a buck.”
I tell her they’re just clouds, but when she points I can see them: two perfectly formed animals, predator and prey, locked in a life-and-death struggle as they drift through the air above us.
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“You know, the way you…” I grope for words. “The way you can just see things.”
“I don’t know.” She squeezes my hand, her head nudging playfully against mine, but her voice has turned sad. “I just do.”
“Well, then you’re lucky.”
“Am I?”
“Yo, Wil!” A shoulder punch pulls me out of my thoughts and back to the moment. It’s Vin – my best, and only, friend at the Guardian Academy, or GA for short. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Daydreaming. Not exactly the best time for that, don’t you think?”
As if to prove his point, the mag drives hum to life, sending low, jostling vibrations through our seats. Launch time, right on schedule. This is my first flight on a Silver Wing and I’m already feeling queasy. Built to carry up to 150 passengers, the air-trans has two massive wings with mag strips along its belly and a dorsal stabilizer, making it look like a giant aluminum-plated manta ray. The monster is supposed to fly long distances using minimal fuel, but I’m not sure how.
I glance out the window slit, past the airstrip to a dense wall of evergreens. Two snow-capped mountains rise beyond the forest, separated by a mile-wide valley, and within that valley hides the GA campus: three perfectly manicured circles of green lawn arranged in a triangle, each housing a glass-and-steel pyramid at its center. My home for the past eight years.
“He-llo. Anyone in there?” Vin leans over to give my skull a playful thump. “Better not be harboring any deviant thoughts in that restless brain of yours.”
“Why?” I push his hand away before reaching up to secure my harness. “It’s not like you can sift me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because,” I tease, “you’re just not that good.”
Vin nods thoughtfully, massaging the coarse stubble on his chin. He’s a big guy – brown-skinned, athletic and loaded with all kinds of impressive muscles. Sixteen years old like most of us in the senior class, but looking more like some of the younger instructors. “I might not be,” he finally says, glancing over his shoulder. “But she is.”
I follow his line of sight to the front of the cabin, trying not to stare, but it’s too late. Before I can look away, Astrid Blake’s eyes brush over mine. It’s not a friendly look. Two frosty seconds and then she turns away, chin pointing up sharply. Like she’s just been slapped.
“She always does that. What in flames did I do to her?”
Vin barks out a laugh, then pounds on my shoulder again. “Don’t take it so personal. Haven’t you gotten used to the attitude by now?”
“I’ll never get used to it,” I mutter. “What makes her so damn special?”
“I don’t know.” He scratches his shaved head. “Maybe it’s got something to do with being the Prime Founder’s daughter and all.”
He’s right. Astrid and her High Founder friends have been snubbing us for eight years now. That’s not going to change just because we’re so close to graduation. Thanks to our low blood, Vin and I will never get the respect we’ve earned.
“Don’t worry,” I say, burying my anger behind an easy-going smile. “Her opinion won’t count for much when we win.”
That earns a fist bump hard enough to bruise my knuckles. “You know it!”
Seconds later, the mag drives roar and we’re streaking down the runway, then airborne.
Destination unknown.
My name is Wil. No surname. None of us born in a Camp has one. If you want to get technical, my real ID – the one encoded into my chip – is WIL-DEC0119XIV. Wil because I’m from Camp Wilmington, the rest because I came into this world on the first day of December, on the 19th year of the hundred-year cycle, as the 14th delivery of the day.
It’s easier to introduce myself as just plain Wil.
I remember almost nothing from the Camp. From my life before the GA.
Like most Settlers, I never knew my parents. Whoever mom is, or was, she birthed me in her designated station, then moved on with her life. Maybe she shares my medium build, straight brown hair and blue eyes, or maybe those came from dad. Maybe one of them passed on my psionic “gift” – the one-in-a-billion set of genetic mutations that gave me the ability to sift and set me on my unlikely path to the GA. Or maybe those mutations came later, unique to the stem cells that would go on to form my otherwise pretty damn ordinary brain. I guess I’ll never know.
Vin (VIN-FEB1219DLIII) was also born in a Camp, his on a small island somewhere in the middle of Founder’s Bay, the most heavily populated part of Neoden. Camp Vineland sounds like a resort the way he describes it – all gardens and beaches – but that’s just Vin being Vin, always looking on the bright side. Where I see blister wire strung up along a fence, he sees a cool decorative touch.
Vin’s the only other Settler I know who can sift, but he’s a Sniffer, not a Rainbow like me. Basically, that means he smells auras while I sense them as flashes of color. We’ve pretty much grown up together over the past eight years, and he’s the closest thing I’ve got to family. Sure, all Guardians are supposed to call one another ‘brother’ or ‘sister,’ but that’s not how it really works. Everyone else in the GA has Founder blood, which means they have real names. Real parents. Needless to say, they view us as outsiders. We’re the uppity rats who stowed away on their cruise ship. Strays not worthy of the Guardian name.
Which is why this final test is so important. This will be our last, best chance to prove we belong. To silence our critics, once and for all. The Founders who run the GA are looking for any excuse to hold us back. To keep us from graduating, or to kick us out all together.
Judging from the determined look in Vin’s eyes, he’s thinking the same thing.
We need to win.
*
We’re too high up to see land, but my throbbing ears tell me we’ve started our descent. Everyone who’s awake is staring out the frosted windows, trying to do what I’m doing: gain some early advantage by figuring out what sort of terrain we’ll be facing. Judging from the towering thunderheads and dense cloud cover below, the weather’s going to be nasty.
The Silver Wing dips and pitches wildly as soon as we touch the cloud tops, like a raft hitting the rapids. Vin opens one eye and murmurs “Excellent” before nodding off again. Everyone else is wide awake now, faces broadcasting a range of emotions. Anxiety. Restlessness. Determination. But mostly, excitement. The past eight years of our lives have been building up to this one critical moment.
First, though, we need to make it to the ground alive.
The chop’s getting intense now – rough enough to test the structural integrity of a well-built air-trans, which this clunky aluminum flying fish definitely isn’t. As I’m inspecting the airframe above us, a panel tears loose, spilling coils of electrical wiring into the aisle.
“Damn!” Vin shouts, brown eyes snapping open. “Good thing we’re all wearing chutes!”
One of our classmates, a weasel-faced guy named Garrick, swats frantically at his backpack before realizing it’s just a joke.
“Come on, Vin!” he whines. “That’s not funny!”
“Relax, Garrick. Just tryin’ to lighten the mood.”
“Well you’re not!”
Vin raises his hands in mock surrender, then rolls his eyes in my direction. At this point in the game, neither one of us is looking to make new friends.
I scan the cabin, noting the instructors don’t seem fazed by the alarm now blaring from the cockpit. Then my eyes drift back to Astrid. She’s looking out the window, head backlit by the sun so the effect is like gazing into an eclipse: flaming corona of blond hair outlining a dark silhouette.
Which is pretty much the perfect metaphor for Prime Founder Augustin Blake’s daughter. Otherworldly beauty. Kind of scary. And, despite the danger, impossible not to stare at.
As always, she’s sitting next to Brenne Florin, a slender, pale-skinned girl with shockingly red hair who’d turn more heads if she didn’t spend so much time hanging around her best friend. Then there’s Ferro: Astrid’s boyfriend and the only person in the Academy who seems to hate me more than she does. He’s the one who catches me before I can turn away. He squares his jaw and mouths the word “loser,” silver hair spiking with either static or animosity.
“Looks like Team Astrid’s giving you the evil eye, kid,” Vin says, reacting to the sneer on Ferro’s lips. “What did you do now?”
“Don’t know. Guess I made the mistake of looking in their direction.”
“Oh yeah? Well, whatever you did sure got Fahrenheit over there all agitated.”
“I can see that,” I say, grinning at Vin’s nickname for the hotheaded Ferro. He’s got a good one for just about everyone at the GA.
“Lemme see if I can smooth things over for you.” Before I can stop him, he leans over to blow Ferro a kiss, which has the desired effect of turning the guy rabid.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“Just giving pretty boy over there a message.”
“Well, don’t. This isn’t the time to be picking a fight.”
“Oops.” He chuckles. “Too late.”
I don’t even need to look up to know he’s right. I can feel three pairs of hostile eyes burning into me like lasers.
*
The turbulence dies down as soon as we drop below the cloud cover. All eyes return to the windows, taking in the barren landscape now visible below: jagged outcroppings of rock to the north; ice-encrusted shoreline to the east.
“The Northern Territory,” Garrick murmurs, sounding like he’s reporting a tragedy.
Vin agrees, adding that we must be headed to Washton Port.
They’re probably right. The GA is in the heart of the Southern Territory. Eight hours of air time, mostly flying north and east, would put us well past Founder’s Bay and in the general vicinity of Washton. For some reason, I’d assumed the drill would take place in one of Neoden’s population centers, either along the temperate coastline of Founder’s Bay or somewhere in the cool grasslands of the Western Territory.
Wishful thinking. Unfortunately, Washton – a sprawling industrial port that channels the mineral resources of the ice flats southward – makes perfect sense. It’ll be a level playing field, since none of us has ever set foot within a thousand miles of the Northern Territory.
The airframe shudders as our wings retract and lift, followed by a rumbling noise coming from the Silver Wing’s belly.
“We’re coming in for a hard landing.” Vin grins like he’s actually looking forward to it. “Wheels instead of mag strips. Sick!”
“But that’s not possible,” Garrick whines as we drop into our final approach. “Wheels are for back-up only, right? You know, for crash landings.” He spins around to his neighbors, looking for support, but everyone just shrugs.
Vin presses his nose to the window. “Don’t think they’ve got mag strips where we’re headed. Check it out. Is that an air strip or a road down there?”
My heart jumps when I look down to see the ground, racing up at us like a fly swatter to a fly.
Mag-assisted landings feel smooth, like gliding to a stop on ice. This is nothing like that. The nose of the Silver Wing jerks upward, then slams into the tarmac with a bone-rattling thunk. Reverse thrusters roar to life, throwing me forward into my harness, and we roar down the landing strip with all the grace of a belly-flopping whale. I only let out the breath I’ve been holding when we start to decelerate, and I’m not alone. A collective sigh of relief washes through the cabin as we rattle down the runway.
Risking whiplash, I crane my neck to check out the bleak landscape. Drab gray and white, stretching to the horizon. If there’s civilization here, it’s really well hidden.
We taxi toward a concrete air terminal, past the ghostly contour of a spire poking through the mist. Vin leans forward to whisper in my ear.
“Is that one of the ruins?”
“Yeah,” I say, shivering from the sight. It’s like staring at the skeletal arm of a long dead civilization, reaching up from the grave. “I think it’s called the Obelisk. Must be thousands of years old. Hard to believe it’s still standing.”
Vin scratches at his shaved head and whistles in awe. “Gotta give the Ancients credit. They sure knew how to build things.”
“Maybe,” I correct quickly, “but they were much better at tearing things down.”
It’s unlikely anyone’s listening to our conversation. There’s too much revving engine noise for that, and Guardians can’t sift one another; that’s our one blind spot. Still, saying something positive about the Ancients in public is never a good idea. A simple slip like that could get us disqualified from the training sim, or worse.
Judging from Vin’s sheepish expression, he’s just realized his mistake. “Isn’t that the truth,” he says a bit too loudly. “It takes a place like this to remind you just how lucky we are.”
Then, for good measure, we end our conversation with the most commonly spoken words in Neoden: “Thank the Founders.”
***
3.
Serpents in The Garden
“Good morning, young brothers and sisters!”
Chief Guardian Orwin Locke struts in front of us, chest puffed out beneath the peacock blue uniform of the High Founders, salt-and-pepper hair flapping in the wind. High above him flies our flag, emblazoned with the twin symbols of Neoden: the Crystal and the Flame. Now that the other Silver Wing has arrived, there are two hundred of us – the complete senior class – assembled on the tarmac and standing at attention. Knowing Locke, we’ll be stuck in this position for a while.
The Chief’s baritone voice echoes into the hangar behind us. “Welcome to Washton Port. The Ancients built their capital city on the banks of the river right behind us. Some of their ruins are still standing, but I don’t need to remind you that we’re not here as tourists.”
Abruptly, he turns to the Head Instructor and motions for him to take center stage. “Guardian Slate: I’ll let you review the details of this training operation.”
“Right, sir.” Slate steps forward, clearing his throat. Tall, stiff and dressed in gray, he looks like he was carved from the rock that shares his name. “Cadets: this will be a Fox Hunt mission, conducted in the market district of Washton Port. You’ll be breaking up into teams of your choosing – two to four per team – and infiltrating in a staggered pattern. Any questions?”
Astrid, who’s standing up front, is the only one to raise her hand. “Won’t that give the first teams in an advantage?” she asks in a clear, confident voice.
Slate shakes his head. “There will be absolutely no tracking until the start signal is given. Our monitors will enforce this rule, and cheaters will be disqualified immediately. Is that clear, cadets?”
We answer with a chorus of “Yes, sir!”
“Once you’re all deployed in the target zone,” Slate continues, “you’ll be hunting for a Gamma-type deviant.”
That grabs everyone’s attention. Human beings have one of three dominant brain patterns: Alpha, Beta, or Gamma. All Founders and Guardians, including me, are Alphas. We think rationally, process the world through logic, and have a gift for seeing the big picture. Settlers, Enforcers and Warriors tend to be Betas – the work-horses of society. They favor linear thinking, live in the present, and crave structure and order. And as for the Gammas… the Founding Three called them the ‘serpents in the garden,’ and with good reason. Gammas carry inside them the evil seed that brought our species, our planet, to the brink of destruction. Sure, they can’t help being what they are, but that doesn’t make them any less dangerous.
As every Prime School kid in Neoden knows by heart:
Alphas dream up worlds.
Betas build worlds.
Gammas destroy worlds.
From the excited murmurs around me, I can tell everyone’s thinking the same thing: we’re about to hunt down the great white shark of all deviants.
Slate clears his throat to command silence. “To blend in with the population, you’ll need to dress per the local customs, which are simple enough. Northerners wear only one of two colors: black for men, brown for women. You’ll find the appropriate clothing in crates along the far wall of the hangar behind you, males to the right, females to the left.”
“Think they’ll let us change together?” Vin wise-cracks into my ear.
“An Enforcer unit is already in place at the perimeter of the Settlement. Once your team makes contact with the target, tag him or her and then wait for collection. If you tag incorrectly, you’ll be disqualified, so my advice to you is simple… tag wisely. The target may be male or female. He could be younger than you. She could be white-haired and toothless with one foot already in the grave. That’s for you to figure out.”
After some nervous laughter, we quiet down when Slate clears his throat.
“Now as some of you may know,” he says with mock gravity, “we instructors always place bets on who will win the Fox Hunt. For the past five years, that honor has gone to teams led by…” He pauses to invite a response.
“Sniffers!” Vin belts out with most of our classmates. Hardly a surprise, since three quarters of Sifters detect auras through their sense of smell.
“Instructors Bell, Ripley and Lee…” – He motions to the row of instructors beside him – “…all think this tradition will continue.”
That triggers more whoops and whistles. “Then there’s Instructor Marin...” – Slate elbows the stocky man to his right – “who has inexplicably bet that a Whisper will win it all this year.”
A smattering of cheers rises, only to be drowned out by jeers and laughter. Sound Sifters, like Rainbows, are in the minority. No Whisper has ever won the Fox Hunt, so Marin must be hoping for a big payoff if he miraculously beats the odds.
Slate taps his mouth-piece to settle us down. “Which leaves me. I’m riding a five-year winning streak, which is why I’m betting this year’s winning team will be led by…” – He pauses, waiting for a raucous “Sniffers!” chant to die down before announcing his prediction – “… a Rainbow.”
This shocker is met with silence, followed by a smattering of boos and catcalls.
“I know,” Slate concedes once the protests have died down. “Not a popular choice, especially since there are only two color Sifters in the entire senior class.” My heart jumps as his gaze sweeps past me. “But I stand by my prediction. Feel free to prove me wrong.”
His challenge sets off another lame “Sniffers!” chant, which Vin joins in on after giving me a shrug. The noise only dies down when Chief Guardian Locke steps forward to reclaim center stage.
“Guardians!” The Chief shouts as a cold rain starts to fall. “We live in challenging times. We are closer than ever to victory, but war still rages in the Eastern Territory. The Sinovossian Empire –”
We all hiss to drown out the name of the eternal enemy, carrying on like a pit of angry vipers until Locke raises his hands to silence us. “Yes, the enemy deserves your hatred. The Sinovoss are weak and diseased. Rotting from the core, but now, like a rabid dog that has been cornered, they are more dangerous than ever. They cannot win on the battlefield, so their new strategy is to infect our people from within!”
Gasps erupt throughout the crowd. Locke pauses to let his words sink in before continuing in a low, ominous voice. “I’m sorry to report that it’s true. Sinovoss spies have crossed the Great Sea to infiltrate our lands, spreading rumors of rebellion. These are lies, of course. Cancerous seeds spread by a small handful of foreign agitators and terrorists who think they can sow fear into our hearts. Will they succeed?”
Even though I’m pretty sure he’s asking a rhetorical question, we all boom out in unison: “No, sir!”
His hands shoot up to silence us again. “Of course, not! What the Sinovoss don’t realize is that they’ve done us a favor. For the first time in generations, the traitors among us are daring to step out of the shadows. These terrorists are no longer content to hide in their holes. No, some of them have even started organizing into cells. At this very moment, they’re out there, plotting their evil schemes. This, my young brothers and sisters, is a new and alarming threat. But it’s also an opportunity! You see, when rats hide, they’re that much harder to exterminate. It’s only when they become too bold, when they swarm out of the darkness, that we can deliver our lethal blow. And mark my words: deliver – it – we – will!”
Cheers and whoops fill the air, but Locke doesn’t stop to absorb the praise. He’s on fire now.
“For three thousand years, we Guardians have kept our paradise safe from all enemies, both foreign and within. We are the keepers of the Sacred Flame, the gift the Founding Three handed down to our ancestors on the day that humanity was reborn. Without you, darkness would flood in again, like waters rushing through a broken dam. Now more than ever, even a single crack could prove deadly. But we will never allow that to happen! We Guardians will never crack!”
Again, we erupt with thunderous applause, so loudly this time that Locke has no choice but to pause until we settle down. When we finally do, he tugs at his collar and clears his throat – a sign he’s closing in on his finale.
“My young brothers and sisters,” he says, starting to pace. “Now is not the time to question whether you’re worthy. Self doubt isn’t noble. It’s a weakness that must be crushed.”
Locke has a way of making eye contact with everyone in the room simultaneously – kind of like those trick vid images where the eyes always follow you no matter where you’re standing. Still, when he pauses to scan our faces, I swear he’s looking right at me.
“This is your chance to prove yourselves. All I can offer you now is the same advice my instructor once gave me, advice that’s been handed down through generations. Never forget what it means to be a Guardian. You are the heirs of the Founding Three. The defenders of their Sacred Vision. For three millennia, your ancestors have kept their flame burning. Will you be the first generation to let it die out?”
“No!”
“Will you forget your sacred duty?”
“Never!”
Locke raises his hands to calm us, saying he has absolute faith we won’t let him down. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard this sort of pep talk, but my spine still tingles when he reaches the familiar climax: a call to recite the Guardian’s Oath together.
Taking our cue, we chant in perfect unison:
“We pledge ourselves to the Founding Three!”
“To the Crystal and the Flame!”
“With our gift, we will defend their truth!”
“With our lives, we will guard their Sacred Vision!”
Vin turns to me as the last words of the Oath leave our lips, his hungry grin saying it all.
Sure, we sound like we’re all in this together right now, but in a few minutes, that will change. Out there, it will be team against team.
Us against them.
Just the way we like it.
***
You will hold these Three Pillars to be all that was, is, and ever shall be true:
Strength through one shared heart.
Wisdom through one shared mind.
Freedom through one shared purpose.
Sacred Vision, Chapter 3, Verse 3
“The Three Pillars”
1.
Seeds
The image shimmers across the screen, like a reflection on moving water. Hazy sunlight. Ocean waves lapping at a child’s feet. Then a muffled cry, high-pitched and desperate.
“Come on, Liv! Stop hiding! I know you’re here!”
From her place on the observation deck, a young woman watches as the boy’s memory streams before her. He’s running now. Spinning to search the horizon. A whimper as the image blurs through tears.
“Liv! Where are you?”
The woman turns to a technician, who sits facing his glowing console. “Is this the same fragment?”
“Yes, Miss. Same one every time.”
“How many cycles?”
“Ten, and it’s still not fading.”
“Impossible.”
“See for yourself.” The tech mumbles his answer, avoiding eye contact. He’s learned to quiet his mind around Guardians, but this one’s impossible to ignore. Dark hair framing darker eyes. Rose petal lips. Flawless, caramel skin. If she’s reading him though, she shows no outward sign. He may as well be invisible. Now she’s leaning over him to study the control panel, her petite frame brushing against his shoulder as she reaches for the monitor.
She points to a flat green tracing on the monitor, lips curving into what could be either a smile or a frown. “There’s no synaptic fade.”
“Correct. The frag’s as strong as it was on the first cycle.”
“Have you seen this before?”
The tech shakes his head. He’s never seen this kind of resistance, not even in a Sifter. After a stretch of silence, the woman walks to the glass partition to inspect the boy. He lies prone and motionless, secured in the usual fashion with imaging coils looped around his head. In the pale blue light, he looks like a small animal being devoured by a metallic snake. His body twitches as the image of a girl flashes onto the screen above him. Green eyes blinking through a swirl of copper hair. Then a bubble of laughter.
“You’re watching a memory within a memory,” the tech explains. “He’s waiting for this girl to show but she never does.”
“Who is she?”
“Another Camp Rat. She just failed a screening and our kid over here…” The tech jabs a thumb toward the unconscious boy. “He’s about to find out. Watch closely. It’s about to get interesting.”
The screen darkens, then pulses yellow.
“He’s closing his eyes to find her aura. First color Sifter I’ve ever processed. They’re the rarest type.” He lets out a nervous laugh. “But I don’t need to tell you that. What –?”
He turns to the Guardian, wanting to ask what sense she uses to read emotions, but thinks better of it when he sees her expression. No need for mind reading powers to catch the warning there.
“Um.” He swallows. “As you know, most Sifters pick up auras within a hundred feet or so, but you need to be much closer to sift thoughts, right?”
When she ignores him, he tugs at his collar. “Well, this kid is different. Strongest Sifter I’ve ever seen. The girl’s half a mile away and he’s still sensing her fear clearly. And you won’t believe what he’s about to do. Here…” – He reaches for the console – “I’ll turn up the audio.”
*
The Guardian closes her eyes and focuses on the jumble of sounds, ignoring the tech’s babble. Good, she thinks. He’s filtering just like I taught him to do, starting with the loudest notes. The wailing of gulls overhead. The rhythmic ssssh of waves lapping sand. The whir of wind turbine blades, then the bee-hive buzz of the Camp’s generators. He’s peeling back the layers of noise, isolating and filtering until all that remains is silence.
Now, she thinks, let the softest sounds back in, one note at a time.
Silence, and then… a choked off sob. A girl’s voice, pleading through the darkness: “Don’t let them take me!”
“Take you where?” the boy’s mind cries out in response. “Liv! Where are you?”
Now there’s a new sound, the distant cough and rumble of old combustion engines.
The boy’s limbic feed jumps on the monitor – a red spike of panic marking the exact moment when he realizes…
“The screening! They’re taking her away!”
The monitor flares white as his eyes snap open, body already in motion and sprinting toward the sound. The image jerks past sand dunes. Through a scrub pine forest, then around a fence crowned with rusted blister wire. His bare feet strike shards of gravel, then sun-baked asphalt, but the pain barely registers because now he sees where the buses have assembled.
They’re lined up outside the girls’ dorm: a convoy, ready to deploy.
He surges forward, willing his legs to fly, but it’s too late. The buses still look like toys as the last one pulls away from the curb.
When the screen has faded to darkness, the Guardian turns back to the tech. “And this is the only long-term fragment he’s retained?”
“Yes,” he answers. “Everything else wiped cleanly. But tell me, have you ever seen anything like that? I mean, he sifted through her thoughts, then reached her telepathically! From half a mile away!”
“Then you erased everything,” the Guardian demands, ignoring the question. “What about short-term memories?”
“Well, um, he still has those. Short-term frags are stored separately, in the hippocampus and temporal lobe. We only record and wash them right at the end of processing.”
“I’m aware of that.” She pins him to his chair with one look. “But you’re not going to record them this time. You’re going to play them for me. Right now.”
“Um, that’s…” The tech tugs at his collar. “That’s not standard protocol, Miss. That would be a –”
Before he can say “violation,” the Guardian plucks the word from his mind. She sees her image reflected through his eyes. Watches as her pupils widen to draw him in, like two expanding black holes. Impossible to escape.
Play them for me, she orders without moving her lips. Start with the strongest synaptic pathway.
He keys in the necessary command and the screen blinks back to life. Another memory, this one flashing by in vivid swaths of blue and green. Sky and forest, trees evenly spaced and studded with red fruit. The image pans to the right, coming to rest on a young woman’s face. Dark hair. Darker eyes. Gentle smile.
“But that’s—” The tech jerks his head to the Guardian, eyebrows peaked in confusion. “That’s… you.”
No, she answers with her thoughts. This child has no memories.
“This child… has no memories,” the tech echoes.
You’ve stripped them all. She waits for him to repeat her words.
And found no anomalies.
“No anomalies.”
Nothing to report.
“Nothing to report.”
He’s fully processed and ready to go.
Once the tech has nodded his assent, she wills him to sleep and guides his limp body to rest on the console.
“You won’t remember me,” she whispers into his ear. “Because I don’t exist.”
The tech will awaken in ten minutes. Plenty of time to erase all record of the boy’s memories. Officially, he’ll be a blank slate, safely processed and ready for training. Ready to start his new life.
Only he won’t be completely empty.
She walks around the glass partition to the unconscious child and takes his hand, squeezing all her hope into him.
I’m leaving you with the seeds and when the time comes…
When the time comes, I know you’ll have the strength to let them grow.
***
2.
Destination Unknown
Wil
Some nights, I still dream of her. The girl they took away.
That’s dangerous, I know, but how am I supposed to control my subconscious thoughts? It’s not like I want to obsess or anything. To be honest, I don’t even remember her face all that well. She was pretty. Long hair the color of a wheat field at sunset. Eyes that sparkled like cut emeralds. Always smiling. I guess if I had to pick one word to describe her, it would be “sunny.” But her image has gone fuzzy, like a half-forgotten dream.
Okay. So there is this one memory that’s still crystal clear. Sometimes, late at night, it plays in my mind like an unwanted vid. We’re lying next to each other, warm sand against our backs, holding hands and staring up at an impossibly blue sky. Ocean sounds wash over us as we watch huge white clouds float by.
“There goes an ice cat,” she says into my ear. “And look! It’s chasing a buck.”
I tell her they’re just clouds, but when she points I can see them: two perfectly formed animals, predator and prey, locked in a life-and-death struggle as they drift through the air above us.
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“You know, the way you…” I grope for words. “The way you can just see things.”
“I don’t know.” She squeezes my hand, her head nudging playfully against mine, but her voice has turned sad. “I just do.”
“Well, then you’re lucky.”
“Am I?”
“Yo, Wil!” A shoulder punch pulls me out of my thoughts and back to the moment. It’s Vin – my best, and only, friend at the Guardian Academy, or GA for short. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Daydreaming. Not exactly the best time for that, don’t you think?”
As if to prove his point, the mag drives hum to life, sending low, jostling vibrations through our seats. Launch time, right on schedule. This is my first flight on a Silver Wing and I’m already feeling queasy. Built to carry up to 150 passengers, the air-trans has two massive wings with mag strips along its belly and a dorsal stabilizer, making it look like a giant aluminum-plated manta ray. The monster is supposed to fly long distances using minimal fuel, but I’m not sure how.
I glance out the window slit, past the airstrip to a dense wall of evergreens. Two snow-capped mountains rise beyond the forest, separated by a mile-wide valley, and within that valley hides the GA campus: three perfectly manicured circles of green lawn arranged in a triangle, each housing a glass-and-steel pyramid at its center. My home for the past eight years.
“He-llo. Anyone in there?” Vin leans over to give my skull a playful thump. “Better not be harboring any deviant thoughts in that restless brain of yours.”
“Why?” I push his hand away before reaching up to secure my harness. “It’s not like you can sift me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because,” I tease, “you’re just not that good.”
Vin nods thoughtfully, massaging the coarse stubble on his chin. He’s a big guy – brown-skinned, athletic and loaded with all kinds of impressive muscles. Sixteen years old like most of us in the senior class, but looking more like some of the younger instructors. “I might not be,” he finally says, glancing over his shoulder. “But she is.”
I follow his line of sight to the front of the cabin, trying not to stare, but it’s too late. Before I can look away, Astrid Blake’s eyes brush over mine. It’s not a friendly look. Two frosty seconds and then she turns away, chin pointing up sharply. Like she’s just been slapped.
“She always does that. What in flames did I do to her?”
Vin barks out a laugh, then pounds on my shoulder again. “Don’t take it so personal. Haven’t you gotten used to the attitude by now?”
“I’ll never get used to it,” I mutter. “What makes her so damn special?”
“I don’t know.” He scratches his shaved head. “Maybe it’s got something to do with being the Prime Founder’s daughter and all.”
He’s right. Astrid and her High Founder friends have been snubbing us for eight years now. That’s not going to change just because we’re so close to graduation. Thanks to our low blood, Vin and I will never get the respect we’ve earned.
“Don’t worry,” I say, burying my anger behind an easy-going smile. “Her opinion won’t count for much when we win.”
That earns a fist bump hard enough to bruise my knuckles. “You know it!”
Seconds later, the mag drives roar and we’re streaking down the runway, then airborne.
Destination unknown.
My name is Wil. No surname. None of us born in a Camp has one. If you want to get technical, my real ID – the one encoded into my chip – is WIL-DEC0119XIV. Wil because I’m from Camp Wilmington, the rest because I came into this world on the first day of December, on the 19th year of the hundred-year cycle, as the 14th delivery of the day.
It’s easier to introduce myself as just plain Wil.
I remember almost nothing from the Camp. From my life before the GA.
Like most Settlers, I never knew my parents. Whoever mom is, or was, she birthed me in her designated station, then moved on with her life. Maybe she shares my medium build, straight brown hair and blue eyes, or maybe those came from dad. Maybe one of them passed on my psionic “gift” – the one-in-a-billion set of genetic mutations that gave me the ability to sift and set me on my unlikely path to the GA. Or maybe those mutations came later, unique to the stem cells that would go on to form my otherwise pretty damn ordinary brain. I guess I’ll never know.
Vin (VIN-FEB1219DLIII) was also born in a Camp, his on a small island somewhere in the middle of Founder’s Bay, the most heavily populated part of Neoden. Camp Vineland sounds like a resort the way he describes it – all gardens and beaches – but that’s just Vin being Vin, always looking on the bright side. Where I see blister wire strung up along a fence, he sees a cool decorative touch.
Vin’s the only other Settler I know who can sift, but he’s a Sniffer, not a Rainbow like me. Basically, that means he smells auras while I sense them as flashes of color. We’ve pretty much grown up together over the past eight years, and he’s the closest thing I’ve got to family. Sure, all Guardians are supposed to call one another ‘brother’ or ‘sister,’ but that’s not how it really works. Everyone else in the GA has Founder blood, which means they have real names. Real parents. Needless to say, they view us as outsiders. We’re the uppity rats who stowed away on their cruise ship. Strays not worthy of the Guardian name.
Which is why this final test is so important. This will be our last, best chance to prove we belong. To silence our critics, once and for all. The Founders who run the GA are looking for any excuse to hold us back. To keep us from graduating, or to kick us out all together.
Judging from the determined look in Vin’s eyes, he’s thinking the same thing.
We need to win.
*
We’re too high up to see land, but my throbbing ears tell me we’ve started our descent. Everyone who’s awake is staring out the frosted windows, trying to do what I’m doing: gain some early advantage by figuring out what sort of terrain we’ll be facing. Judging from the towering thunderheads and dense cloud cover below, the weather’s going to be nasty.
The Silver Wing dips and pitches wildly as soon as we touch the cloud tops, like a raft hitting the rapids. Vin opens one eye and murmurs “Excellent” before nodding off again. Everyone else is wide awake now, faces broadcasting a range of emotions. Anxiety. Restlessness. Determination. But mostly, excitement. The past eight years of our lives have been building up to this one critical moment.
First, though, we need to make it to the ground alive.
The chop’s getting intense now – rough enough to test the structural integrity of a well-built air-trans, which this clunky aluminum flying fish definitely isn’t. As I’m inspecting the airframe above us, a panel tears loose, spilling coils of electrical wiring into the aisle.
“Damn!” Vin shouts, brown eyes snapping open. “Good thing we’re all wearing chutes!”
One of our classmates, a weasel-faced guy named Garrick, swats frantically at his backpack before realizing it’s just a joke.
“Come on, Vin!” he whines. “That’s not funny!”
“Relax, Garrick. Just tryin’ to lighten the mood.”
“Well you’re not!”
Vin raises his hands in mock surrender, then rolls his eyes in my direction. At this point in the game, neither one of us is looking to make new friends.
I scan the cabin, noting the instructors don’t seem fazed by the alarm now blaring from the cockpit. Then my eyes drift back to Astrid. She’s looking out the window, head backlit by the sun so the effect is like gazing into an eclipse: flaming corona of blond hair outlining a dark silhouette.
Which is pretty much the perfect metaphor for Prime Founder Augustin Blake’s daughter. Otherworldly beauty. Kind of scary. And, despite the danger, impossible not to stare at.
As always, she’s sitting next to Brenne Florin, a slender, pale-skinned girl with shockingly red hair who’d turn more heads if she didn’t spend so much time hanging around her best friend. Then there’s Ferro: Astrid’s boyfriend and the only person in the Academy who seems to hate me more than she does. He’s the one who catches me before I can turn away. He squares his jaw and mouths the word “loser,” silver hair spiking with either static or animosity.
“Looks like Team Astrid’s giving you the evil eye, kid,” Vin says, reacting to the sneer on Ferro’s lips. “What did you do now?”
“Don’t know. Guess I made the mistake of looking in their direction.”
“Oh yeah? Well, whatever you did sure got Fahrenheit over there all agitated.”
“I can see that,” I say, grinning at Vin’s nickname for the hotheaded Ferro. He’s got a good one for just about everyone at the GA.
“Lemme see if I can smooth things over for you.” Before I can stop him, he leans over to blow Ferro a kiss, which has the desired effect of turning the guy rabid.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“Just giving pretty boy over there a message.”
“Well, don’t. This isn’t the time to be picking a fight.”
“Oops.” He chuckles. “Too late.”
I don’t even need to look up to know he’s right. I can feel three pairs of hostile eyes burning into me like lasers.
*
The turbulence dies down as soon as we drop below the cloud cover. All eyes return to the windows, taking in the barren landscape now visible below: jagged outcroppings of rock to the north; ice-encrusted shoreline to the east.
“The Northern Territory,” Garrick murmurs, sounding like he’s reporting a tragedy.
Vin agrees, adding that we must be headed to Washton Port.
They’re probably right. The GA is in the heart of the Southern Territory. Eight hours of air time, mostly flying north and east, would put us well past Founder’s Bay and in the general vicinity of Washton. For some reason, I’d assumed the drill would take place in one of Neoden’s population centers, either along the temperate coastline of Founder’s Bay or somewhere in the cool grasslands of the Western Territory.
Wishful thinking. Unfortunately, Washton – a sprawling industrial port that channels the mineral resources of the ice flats southward – makes perfect sense. It’ll be a level playing field, since none of us has ever set foot within a thousand miles of the Northern Territory.
The airframe shudders as our wings retract and lift, followed by a rumbling noise coming from the Silver Wing’s belly.
“We’re coming in for a hard landing.” Vin grins like he’s actually looking forward to it. “Wheels instead of mag strips. Sick!”
“But that’s not possible,” Garrick whines as we drop into our final approach. “Wheels are for back-up only, right? You know, for crash landings.” He spins around to his neighbors, looking for support, but everyone just shrugs.
Vin presses his nose to the window. “Don’t think they’ve got mag strips where we’re headed. Check it out. Is that an air strip or a road down there?”
My heart jumps when I look down to see the ground, racing up at us like a fly swatter to a fly.
Mag-assisted landings feel smooth, like gliding to a stop on ice. This is nothing like that. The nose of the Silver Wing jerks upward, then slams into the tarmac with a bone-rattling thunk. Reverse thrusters roar to life, throwing me forward into my harness, and we roar down the landing strip with all the grace of a belly-flopping whale. I only let out the breath I’ve been holding when we start to decelerate, and I’m not alone. A collective sigh of relief washes through the cabin as we rattle down the runway.
Risking whiplash, I crane my neck to check out the bleak landscape. Drab gray and white, stretching to the horizon. If there’s civilization here, it’s really well hidden.
We taxi toward a concrete air terminal, past the ghostly contour of a spire poking through the mist. Vin leans forward to whisper in my ear.
“Is that one of the ruins?”
“Yeah,” I say, shivering from the sight. It’s like staring at the skeletal arm of a long dead civilization, reaching up from the grave. “I think it’s called the Obelisk. Must be thousands of years old. Hard to believe it’s still standing.”
Vin scratches at his shaved head and whistles in awe. “Gotta give the Ancients credit. They sure knew how to build things.”
“Maybe,” I correct quickly, “but they were much better at tearing things down.”
It’s unlikely anyone’s listening to our conversation. There’s too much revving engine noise for that, and Guardians can’t sift one another; that’s our one blind spot. Still, saying something positive about the Ancients in public is never a good idea. A simple slip like that could get us disqualified from the training sim, or worse.
Judging from Vin’s sheepish expression, he’s just realized his mistake. “Isn’t that the truth,” he says a bit too loudly. “It takes a place like this to remind you just how lucky we are.”
Then, for good measure, we end our conversation with the most commonly spoken words in Neoden: “Thank the Founders.”
***
3.
Serpents in The Garden
“Good morning, young brothers and sisters!”
Chief Guardian Orwin Locke struts in front of us, chest puffed out beneath the peacock blue uniform of the High Founders, salt-and-pepper hair flapping in the wind. High above him flies our flag, emblazoned with the twin symbols of Neoden: the Crystal and the Flame. Now that the other Silver Wing has arrived, there are two hundred of us – the complete senior class – assembled on the tarmac and standing at attention. Knowing Locke, we’ll be stuck in this position for a while.
The Chief’s baritone voice echoes into the hangar behind us. “Welcome to Washton Port. The Ancients built their capital city on the banks of the river right behind us. Some of their ruins are still standing, but I don’t need to remind you that we’re not here as tourists.”
Abruptly, he turns to the Head Instructor and motions for him to take center stage. “Guardian Slate: I’ll let you review the details of this training operation.”
“Right, sir.” Slate steps forward, clearing his throat. Tall, stiff and dressed in gray, he looks like he was carved from the rock that shares his name. “Cadets: this will be a Fox Hunt mission, conducted in the market district of Washton Port. You’ll be breaking up into teams of your choosing – two to four per team – and infiltrating in a staggered pattern. Any questions?”
Astrid, who’s standing up front, is the only one to raise her hand. “Won’t that give the first teams in an advantage?” she asks in a clear, confident voice.
Slate shakes his head. “There will be absolutely no tracking until the start signal is given. Our monitors will enforce this rule, and cheaters will be disqualified immediately. Is that clear, cadets?”
We answer with a chorus of “Yes, sir!”
“Once you’re all deployed in the target zone,” Slate continues, “you’ll be hunting for a Gamma-type deviant.”
That grabs everyone’s attention. Human beings have one of three dominant brain patterns: Alpha, Beta, or Gamma. All Founders and Guardians, including me, are Alphas. We think rationally, process the world through logic, and have a gift for seeing the big picture. Settlers, Enforcers and Warriors tend to be Betas – the work-horses of society. They favor linear thinking, live in the present, and crave structure and order. And as for the Gammas… the Founding Three called them the ‘serpents in the garden,’ and with good reason. Gammas carry inside them the evil seed that brought our species, our planet, to the brink of destruction. Sure, they can’t help being what they are, but that doesn’t make them any less dangerous.
As every Prime School kid in Neoden knows by heart:
Alphas dream up worlds.
Betas build worlds.
Gammas destroy worlds.
From the excited murmurs around me, I can tell everyone’s thinking the same thing: we’re about to hunt down the great white shark of all deviants.
Slate clears his throat to command silence. “To blend in with the population, you’ll need to dress per the local customs, which are simple enough. Northerners wear only one of two colors: black for men, brown for women. You’ll find the appropriate clothing in crates along the far wall of the hangar behind you, males to the right, females to the left.”
“Think they’ll let us change together?” Vin wise-cracks into my ear.
“An Enforcer unit is already in place at the perimeter of the Settlement. Once your team makes contact with the target, tag him or her and then wait for collection. If you tag incorrectly, you’ll be disqualified, so my advice to you is simple… tag wisely. The target may be male or female. He could be younger than you. She could be white-haired and toothless with one foot already in the grave. That’s for you to figure out.”
After some nervous laughter, we quiet down when Slate clears his throat.
“Now as some of you may know,” he says with mock gravity, “we instructors always place bets on who will win the Fox Hunt. For the past five years, that honor has gone to teams led by…” He pauses to invite a response.
“Sniffers!” Vin belts out with most of our classmates. Hardly a surprise, since three quarters of Sifters detect auras through their sense of smell.
“Instructors Bell, Ripley and Lee…” – He motions to the row of instructors beside him – “…all think this tradition will continue.”
That triggers more whoops and whistles. “Then there’s Instructor Marin...” – Slate elbows the stocky man to his right – “who has inexplicably bet that a Whisper will win it all this year.”
A smattering of cheers rises, only to be drowned out by jeers and laughter. Sound Sifters, like Rainbows, are in the minority. No Whisper has ever won the Fox Hunt, so Marin must be hoping for a big payoff if he miraculously beats the odds.
Slate taps his mouth-piece to settle us down. “Which leaves me. I’m riding a five-year winning streak, which is why I’m betting this year’s winning team will be led by…” – He pauses, waiting for a raucous “Sniffers!” chant to die down before announcing his prediction – “… a Rainbow.”
This shocker is met with silence, followed by a smattering of boos and catcalls.
“I know,” Slate concedes once the protests have died down. “Not a popular choice, especially since there are only two color Sifters in the entire senior class.” My heart jumps as his gaze sweeps past me. “But I stand by my prediction. Feel free to prove me wrong.”
His challenge sets off another lame “Sniffers!” chant, which Vin joins in on after giving me a shrug. The noise only dies down when Chief Guardian Locke steps forward to reclaim center stage.
“Guardians!” The Chief shouts as a cold rain starts to fall. “We live in challenging times. We are closer than ever to victory, but war still rages in the Eastern Territory. The Sinovossian Empire –”
We all hiss to drown out the name of the eternal enemy, carrying on like a pit of angry vipers until Locke raises his hands to silence us. “Yes, the enemy deserves your hatred. The Sinovoss are weak and diseased. Rotting from the core, but now, like a rabid dog that has been cornered, they are more dangerous than ever. They cannot win on the battlefield, so their new strategy is to infect our people from within!”
Gasps erupt throughout the crowd. Locke pauses to let his words sink in before continuing in a low, ominous voice. “I’m sorry to report that it’s true. Sinovoss spies have crossed the Great Sea to infiltrate our lands, spreading rumors of rebellion. These are lies, of course. Cancerous seeds spread by a small handful of foreign agitators and terrorists who think they can sow fear into our hearts. Will they succeed?”
Even though I’m pretty sure he’s asking a rhetorical question, we all boom out in unison: “No, sir!”
His hands shoot up to silence us again. “Of course, not! What the Sinovoss don’t realize is that they’ve done us a favor. For the first time in generations, the traitors among us are daring to step out of the shadows. These terrorists are no longer content to hide in their holes. No, some of them have even started organizing into cells. At this very moment, they’re out there, plotting their evil schemes. This, my young brothers and sisters, is a new and alarming threat. But it’s also an opportunity! You see, when rats hide, they’re that much harder to exterminate. It’s only when they become too bold, when they swarm out of the darkness, that we can deliver our lethal blow. And mark my words: deliver – it – we – will!”
Cheers and whoops fill the air, but Locke doesn’t stop to absorb the praise. He’s on fire now.
“For three thousand years, we Guardians have kept our paradise safe from all enemies, both foreign and within. We are the keepers of the Sacred Flame, the gift the Founding Three handed down to our ancestors on the day that humanity was reborn. Without you, darkness would flood in again, like waters rushing through a broken dam. Now more than ever, even a single crack could prove deadly. But we will never allow that to happen! We Guardians will never crack!”
Again, we erupt with thunderous applause, so loudly this time that Locke has no choice but to pause until we settle down. When we finally do, he tugs at his collar and clears his throat – a sign he’s closing in on his finale.
“My young brothers and sisters,” he says, starting to pace. “Now is not the time to question whether you’re worthy. Self doubt isn’t noble. It’s a weakness that must be crushed.”
Locke has a way of making eye contact with everyone in the room simultaneously – kind of like those trick vid images where the eyes always follow you no matter where you’re standing. Still, when he pauses to scan our faces, I swear he’s looking right at me.
“This is your chance to prove yourselves. All I can offer you now is the same advice my instructor once gave me, advice that’s been handed down through generations. Never forget what it means to be a Guardian. You are the heirs of the Founding Three. The defenders of their Sacred Vision. For three millennia, your ancestors have kept their flame burning. Will you be the first generation to let it die out?”
“No!”
“Will you forget your sacred duty?”
“Never!”
Locke raises his hands to calm us, saying he has absolute faith we won’t let him down. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard this sort of pep talk, but my spine still tingles when he reaches the familiar climax: a call to recite the Guardian’s Oath together.
Taking our cue, we chant in perfect unison:
“We pledge ourselves to the Founding Three!”
“To the Crystal and the Flame!”
“With our gift, we will defend their truth!”
“With our lives, we will guard their Sacred Vision!”
Vin turns to me as the last words of the Oath leave our lips, his hungry grin saying it all.
Sure, we sound like we’re all in this together right now, but in a few minutes, that will change. Out there, it will be team against team.
Us against them.
Just the way we like it.
***