19
The Passage
I vomit as I wake. A second st strikes my full stomach. Then a
third. I’m empty and gasping for air. Drowning in my sick.
Coughing. Hacking. I try to scramble away. A man’s hand grabs me
by the hair and throws me into the wall. God, he’s bloody strong.
And he’s got extra ngers. I reach for my knifeRing, but they’ve
already dragged me into the hall. I’ve never been so manhandled;
even my new body can’t recover from their strikes. There’s four of
them in black—Crows, the killers. They’ve discovered me. They
know what I am. It’s over. All over. Their faces are expressionless
skulls. Masks. I pull the knife I took from dinner from my waist and
am about to stab one of them in the groin. Then I see the ash of
gold on their wrists and they hit me till I drop the knife. It’s a test.
Their strikes against a higher Color are sanctioned by the issuer of
the bracelets. They haven’t found me out at all. A test. That is what
this is. It is a test.
They could have used stunners. There’s a purpose to the beating.
It’s something most Golds have never experienced. So I wait. I curl
up and let them beat me. When I don’t resist, they think they’ve
done their job. They sort of do; I’m raggedshit by the time they’re
satised.
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I’m dragged through the hallway by men nearly three meters tall.
A bag is shoved over my head. They’re staying away from
technology to scare me. I wonder how many of these kids have felt
physical force like this? How many have been so dehumanized? The
bag smells like death and piss as they drag me along. I start
laughing. It’s like my bloodydamn frysuit. Then a st hits my chest
and I crumple, gasping.
The hood also has a sound device installed. I’m not breathing
hard, but my breaths come back louder than they should. There are
over a thousand students. Dozens at a time must suer this same
fate, yet I hear nothing. They don’t want me to hear the others. I’m
supposed to think I’m alone, that my Color means nothing.
Surprisingly, I nd myself oended that they dare strike me. Don’t
they know I’m a bloodydamn Gold? Then I snort back a laugh.
Eective tricks.
I’m lifted up and thrown hard onto a oor. I feel a vibration, the
smell of exhaust. Soon we’re in the air. Something in the bag
covering my head disorients me. I can’t tell which direction we’re
ying, how high we’ve risen. The sound of my own raspy breath has
become terrible. I think the bag also lters out the oxygen, because
I’m hyperventilating. Still, it’s not worse than a frysuit.
Later. An hour? Two? We land. They drag me by my heels. Head
bumps on stone, jarring me. It’s not till much later that they take the
bag o of my head in a barren stone room lit by a single light.
Another person is already here. The Crows strip away my clothing,
rip away the precious Pegasus pendant. They leave.
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“Cold in here, Julian?” I chuckle as I stand, the red headband still
around my forehead. My voice echoes. We’re both naked. I fake a
limp with my right leg. I know what this is.
“Darrow, is that you?” Julian asks. “Are you well?”
“I’m prime. They busted up my right leg, though,” I lie.
He stands too, pushing himself up with his left hand. That’s his
dominant one. He looks tall and feeble in the light. Like bent hay. I
caught more kicks and punches than him, though, loads more. My
ribs might be cracked.
“What do you think this is?” he asks. He’s covering his privates.
“The Passage, obviously.”
“But they lied. They said it would be tomorrow.”
The thick wooden door squeals on rusted hinges and Proctor
Fitchner saunters in popping a gumbubble.
“Proctor! Sir, you lied to us,” Julian protests. He brushes his
pretty hair back out of his eyes.
Fitchner’s movement is sluggish but his eyes are like a cat’s.
“Lying takes too much eort,” he grunts idly.
“Well … how dare you treat us like this!” Julian snaps. “You must
know who my father is. And my mother is a Legate! I can have you
up on charges for assault in a moment’s notice. And you hurt
Darrow’s leg!”
“It’s one A.M., dipstick. It’s tomorrow.” Fitchner pops another
gumbubble. “There are also two of you. Alas, only one spot is
available in your class.” He tosses a golden ring emblazoned with
the wolf of Mars and a star shield of the Institute onto the dirty
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stone ground. “I could make it ambiguous, but you look like
rustyheaded lads. Only one comes out alive.”
He leaves the way he came. The door squeals and then slams shut.
Julian inches at the sound. I do not. We both stare at the ring and I
have a sick feeling in my gut that I’m the only one in the room who
knows what just happened.
“What do they think they are doing?” Julian asks me. “Do they
expect us to …”
“Kill each other?” I nish. “Yes. That’s what they expect.” Despite
the knot in my throat. I ball my sts, Eo’s wedding band tight on my
nger. “I intend to wear that ring, Julian. Will you let me have it?”
I am bigger than he. Not quite as tall. But that doesn’t matter. He
doesn’t stand a chance.
“I have to have it, Darrow,” he murmurs. He looks up. “I am of the
Family Bellona. I can’t go home without it. Do you know who we
are? You can go home without shame. I can’t. I need it more than
you!”
“We’re not going home, Julian. One person comes out alive. You
heard him.”
“They wouldn’t do that.…” he tries.
“No?”
“Please. Please, Darrow. Just go home. You don’t need it like I do.
You don’t. Cassius … he would be so ashamed if I didn’t make it. I
wouldn’t be able to look at him. Every member of my family is
Scarred. My father is an Imperator. An Imperator! If his son did not
even make it through the Passage … what would his soldiers think?”
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“He would still love you. Mine would.”
Julian shakes his head. He takes a breath and stands tall.
“I am Julian au Bellona of the Family Bellona, my goodman.”
I don’t want to do this. I can’t explain how badly I don’t want to
hurt Julian. But when has what I wanted ever mattered? My people
need this. Eo sacriced happiness and her life. I can sacrice my
wants. I can sacrice this slender princeling. I can even sacrice my
soul.
I make the rst move toward Julian.
“Darrow …,” he murmurs.
Darrow was kind in Lykos.
I am not. I hate myself for it. I think I’m crying, because my vision
is unclear.
The rules and manners and morals of society are pulled away. All
it takes is a stone room and two people needing the same scarce
thing. Yet the shift isn’t instantaneous. Even when I punch Julian in
the face and his blood smears my knuckles, it doesn’t seem a ght.
The room is quiet. Awkward. I feel rude punching him. Like I’m
acting. The stone is cold on my feet. My skin prickles. Breath
echoes.
They want me to kill him because he didn’t do well on their tests.
This is a mismatch. I am Darwin’s scythe. Nature scrapping away
the cha. I don’t know how to kill. I’ve never killed a man. I have
no blade, no thumper, no scorcher. It seems impossible that I could
make this boy of meat and muscle bleed dry just with my hands. I
want to laugh and Julian does. I am a naked child slapping at
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another naked child in a cold room. His hesitancy is obvious. His
feet move like he’s trying to remember a dance. But when his
elbows come to eye level, I panic. I don’t know how he is ghting.
He strikes halfheartedly at me in a foreign, artistic way. He’s
tentative, slow, but his timid st gets my nose.
Rage overtakes me.
My face goes numb. My heart thunders. It’s in my throat. My
veins prickle.
I break his nose with a straight. God, my hands are strong.
He wails and ducks into me, grappling my arm into an odd angle.
It pops. I use my forehead. It takes him just at the bridge of his nose.
I grab the back of his neck and hit him again with my forehead. He
can’t break away. I do it again. Something cracks. Blood and spit
lather my hair. His teeth cut my scalp. I drop back like I’m dancing,
reverse o my left foot, weave forward and hit him with all my
weight behind my right st in his chest. My Helldiver knuckles
shatter his reinforced sternum.
There’s a great wheezing gasp. And a crackling noise like
snapping twigs.
He tips backward onto the ground. I’m dazed from striking him
with my forehead. Seeing red. Seeing double. I stumble toward him.
Tears stream down my cheeks. He’s twitching. When I grab his
golden hair, I nd him already limp. Like a wet golden feather.
Blood pulses from his nose. He is quiet. He no longer moves. No
longer smiles.
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I mutter my wife’s name as I fall to cradle his head. His face has
become like a blood blossom.
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