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“Weereddy,” Lorna says.
Brooks turns to thepodand presses on it a few more times. Then she steps back as it makes a sharp, unnatural noise that sounds in time with a new red flashing. I tense, even though the females do not seem alarmed by this. The brightness of the flashing, the ear aching tone of the noise - it all itches at the instinctive part of my heartspace that wishes we could just leave this whole place far behind us. Gregar’s jaw clenches tight enough to crack teeth.
Then, as abruptly as it started, the noise stops. The red flashing turns to a gentler green colour. Brooks nods, satisfaction in the set of her shoulders. There is a long moment where nothing appears to be happening, then another hiss sounds and this time it is accompanied by some sort of smoke blowing into the air as the front of thepodbegins to open.
A chill unlike any I have ever felt before steals over my skin. Not an emotional chill - a physical one. The smoke billowing from the pod is bitingly cold, nipping at every piece of exposed flesh I have. Even the females rub at their arms, shivers going through them. Gregar looks ready to throw Liv over his shoulder and carry her away from thepodsbut, showing enormous restraint, he only clenches his fists and snarls.
Slowly, the smoke clears, and the sleeping female is revealed. Her perfect stillness sets a new sort of uneasiness in my heartspace. Her chest does not rise and fall, no breath entering her body. There is a shimmer to her skin, her colour like that of a very pale sky. Humans have a wider variety of skin tones than raskarrans, so what is natural is not so easy to assess, but nothing about this female looks natural at this moment.
We wait as thepodflashes and hisses and lets out more smoke. Light shines from inside it, pulsing and moving. Gradually, the shimmer fades from the female’s skin, and a more familiar tan colour emerges from underneath it. My heartspace thunders in my chest, louder and stronger with every passing moment. Looking at my brothers, they are caught in the same grim fascination as I am - horror written plain on their faces, even as they fail to tear their eyes away.
Only Brooks watches proceedings with a kind of indifference. I look to her manner for reassurance. She has seen this process before. Has lived through it herself. There is a tension in her shoulders, but it is the tension of performing a difficult task forthe first time. There is no panic, no fear in her eyes. If she is not concerned, then things must be progressing as they should.
Sure enough, she turns to my brother, giving him a beaming smile and the thumbs up gesture. Maldek nods, then retreats, coming to stand beside me. Shemza also moves back, though he stays closer, ready to step in should his healing skills be required.
I turn my attention back to the frozen female. Looking at her face is too much while she remains unmoving, so I look at her chest, willing it to start rising and falling. For breath to fill her lungs and life to fill the rest of her. It is hard to tell how long I watch. It feels like a whole season passes, but I realise I am holding my breath in anticipation, and so it cannot be more than a few moments.
Then, abruptly, almost violently, the female’s body jolts, thepodmaking some new loud noise. Her whole torso lifts, holds in place, then falls back down. Soft lips part, and, at long last, she takes a deep, gasping breath.
CHAPTER THREE
Angie
Ionly have dreams of Screening when things in my life are bad, so I know the sense of foreboding I feel is more than just a memory from my six-year-old self. My heart pounds as I wait in line, my mother’s hand clenched around mine, crushing my little fingers. She’s perfectly presented, hair and clothes immaculate, make-up somehow contouring her face into an entirely different shape while also looking natural enough to fool a man into thinking she’s not wearing much. The black eye is healed enough now that it doesn’t show through the concealer even a little.
The other mums in front of and behind us are equally immaculate, though I don’t see any that I think are as beautiful as my mother. They’re all soft featured, their eyes and smiles empty. My mother’s face is proud, though she tries to keep her eyes soft, her lips un-pursed. She’s not very good at it, has never been very good at it.
It’s a trait I’ve inherited.
Bored by all the standing around - preceded by a morning of being poked and prodded, combed and scrubbed into submission - I fidget with the hem of my dress. A checkered number with puffy sleeves and lots of ruffles. My hair has been spritzed and sprayed and baked into ringlets, the ends of them tickling at my neck and shoulders. I feel like a poodle and I hate it.
“Angelita,” Mother hisses through gritted teeth, keeping her voice low so it doesn’t carry.
I drop the dress, square my shoulders, try to slip back into the visage of the dutiful daughter. Even as the reality of it scratches at every part of me. Back then, I still wanted to play my part.
We creep forwards, inching closer to the front of the line, my sense of foreboding increasing with every step we take. I shudder, and it takes me a moment to realise it’s not entirely apprehension causing it. Gooseflesh breaks out on my arms and I resist the urge to wrap them round me.
I’m cold.
Really fucking cold.
I look round, meaning to see if the other little girls in line are equally chilly, but they’re gone, vanished. It’s just me and Mother, standing together before the entrance, fat flakes of snow drifting to the ground around us. They don’t seem to affect her, even as they touch gently down on her face, her arms, her neck.
“Next!” a voice booms from inside.
We step through the door. The snow stops, but I don’t warm up. My teeth are chattering and that pervasive sense that something is wrong just grows stronger. I’m dreaming, but I’m aware of it. Just not aware of it enough to wake up, or recall what has me so wound up.
The Assessor sitting behind the desk is large, tall and broad shouldered, with features to match. Swollen, bulbous nose, bushy moustache, heavy brow with eyebrows like exotic caterpillars. He smacks his lips and chews on the end of his stylus as he considers the tablet in front of him. There’s a food stain on his tie, a bit of coffee foam congealing on one side of his moustache.
“Take a seat.”
He gestures towards an armchair for Mother, guiding me to a high stool. Measuring instruments are laid out on his desk, along with a spotlight and camera. He picks up a smooth, oval object, pressing it to the spot near the crook of my elbow where my ID Chip sits beneath the skin. It’s cold, despite the chill that’s already set in my skin. His smile is even colder.
He stares at me for the full three seconds it takes to complete its reading.
It feels like an eternity.
“Angelita Ramirez,” he says, as my name and my vitals, my grade history and whatever other information is programmed on my chip, flashes up on his tablet.
