Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
I am no one in a sea of bowed, cloaked heads as the pulsing wail echoes through the cramped corridor.
Sconces flash in sequence with the alarm, creating a bizarre sense of warped time.
It’s no different from years past, yet this time the flashing feels personal—like the ticking of a timer about to expire.
“Mama,” a child whispers at my back. “Does the Hunt start tonight?”
“No, my lovey. Tonight, they’ll select this year’s Huntresses,” the woman trills, like the title is some glamorous honor, “but they won’t be sent above until the dawn after tomorrow.”
“Awww,” the little one groans. “The selection is boring. Why can’t they send them up tonight?”
The mother chuckles, amused by her child’s impatience to witness televised deaths. “The Huntresses need time to prepare for their task.”
A scoff escapes me. I lift my billowing black sleeve to my face, rushing to disguise it with a cough.
Thirty hours. That’s how long these women will have to prepare for their mission of eliminating Sols, who are superior to us in nearly every way, with one exception: their intrinsic dependence on the sun.
A shoulder presses firmly into mine, and I know it’s Taurance’s way of offering both reassurance and a warning.
My lips press together as I return to picturesque obedience, sandals shuffling dutifully forward on the polished granite floor.
When we near the fork in the corridor, a guard ahead drones in a nasally monotone voice, “Two single-file lines. All Tier Threes who are eligible for selection, to the right. Exempts, the left. Exemptions include females who are legally wed or have filed an official intent of marriage co-signed by their male partner, females who have at least one living child or have been declared an expectant mother by the Department of Midwifery, females not yet of marital age, and all males of any marital status, parental status, or age. Have your proof of exemption at the ready.”
A bit of animation livens the guard’s tone as he clasps his arms behind his back and strolls up to the fourth female in the line forming on the left, whose trembling increases the closer he gets.
“We will be verifying all those who claim exemption, so if you’re eligible and thinking about sneaking into the opposite line, don’t. ”
He says that last word directly into the woman’s ear, and she whimpers.
The guard’s thin, chapped lips pull back, revealing a set of too few buttery-yellow teeth.
The child behind me speaks up again. “I wanna be like him when I grow up.”
Bile coats my tongue, but I keep silent and brush my arm against Taurance’s one last time before making my way to the right side of the corridor.
Gem does the same, then slides into place behind me. My fingers itch to reach for her hand, if only to calm her practiced breathing and remind her it’ll all be fine. At least, for her, it will be.
In two hours’ time, she and Taur will be back to bickering about whose turn it is to take our sand clock to the horologist to be adjusted for the shifting seasons.
And now that Taurance is pregnant, maybe Gem will stop pulling out pitiful excuses—like the time she’d feigned a sprained ankle, though we all knew damn well she’d been walking fine enough three minutes prior.
And yet, we’d both caved. Taurance had fetched her sister a cool rag from the washroom and lent Gem a pillow to elevate her foot while I set off with the sand clock in hand.
A snap of fingers an inch in front of my nose jars me out of the memory.
“Oy, full name and date of birth,” grunts the guard who’d turned nearly gleeful at the prospect of catching would-be deserters.
I can’t help but marvel that this is who that child aspires to be—this man whose breath reeks of sour ale, whose life is so devoid of true pleasure that he’s left to find it in the discomfort of others.
“You deaf or something?” He spits on my face, and my teeth grind with the effort of not scowling in disgust. “Full name. Date of birth.”
“Orelle Bren. The twentieth of June in the two-hundred-forty-ninth year of shadows.”
The guard’s face distorts into a mockery of a smile as he beams and grabs my left hand, rubbing a grimy thumb across the scarred remnants of my marriage brand. I stiffen, knowing there’s nothing I can say or do as he nudges his companion.
“See this? Found myself Bren’s throwaway runnin’ with the rats.” He steps further into my space until his chest presses into my own, then leans down to whisper, “You know, if you aren’t selected tonight, I might be willing to get down on one knee, but only if you get on yours first.”
He reaches a hand beneath the hood of my cloak and tugs on my bottom lip.
I’m yanked backward as Gem feigns a stumble. The guard’s cheeks redden.
“Ope! I’m so sorry.” Gem dips into a bow, then staggers back to standing, cloak falling to reveal the bandaged wrap. “Feeling a bit woozy.”
I’m pulled forward by his accomplice as the crude guard demands of Gem, “Name and date of birth.”
I proceed around the bend, slowing my steps as soon as the stiff hand releases my forearm. It’s not until I’ve reached the part of the path that slopes into a sharp decline that Gem emerges from the corner.
I wrap her in a hug, but release her before she can protest about the mushy affection. “Why’d you do that?”
Gem shrugs and stalks past me. “He was being gross.”
“That’s nothing new, though,” I say, matching her stride down the ramp. “And a guard is one of the last people you want to piss off right now.”
She winces. It’s only for a second, but I catch it.
“What did he say to you?” She says nothing, so I press, “Gem, what did he say? You were gone too long for the usual check-in.”
Gem wraps her arms tightly across her chest and exhales a shaky breath. “He wanted to know what happened to my head, and what my whereabouts were from sunrise to sundown.”
“What?”
This is worse than I feared. If the guard suspects that Gem was in the transport tunnel during the earthquake, then getting through selections is just the beginning of her concerns.
Sandals clack on the granite behind us, and we pick up the pace.
It’s not until the footfalls are nearly inaudible that I ask, “What did you say?”
“That I tripped over a crack in the main stairwell on my way home from my shift.”
I’ve got to hand it to her, it’s one of Gem’s finer excuses. Some of those cracks are almost as wide as my foot. If there’s a prime spot for a concussion waiting to happen, it’s that stairwell.
“Did he believe you?”
“He asked if anyone was there to verify my alibi. I told him we were walking home together, and you saw the whole thing.” Gem’s whisper grows quieter. “So, if anyone asks—”
“I’ve got you,” I promise.
More eligibles trickle in behind us as the sloped passageway spills out into a room large enough to hold at least two hundred women, as long as we stand shoulder to shoulder, like we’re no better than herded cattle. I scoff internally while someone’s elbow nudges into my spine.
It’s one of six identical receiving chambers interspersed around the arena’s perimeter.
The muffled rumble of thousands of restless spectators slips through the cracks in the steel double doors ahead, dividing us from them—the eligible versus the exempt.
None of us speak, yet the volume of our silence is greater than the booming chatter of those searching for a good seat among the countless rows throughout the stadium.
“Keep it moving!” a man calls from the back of the cramped chamber. “There’s more of yous coming. Make way.”
My gaze fixates on the sliver of bright light between the two doors as another nameless guard tugs me closer to the entrance.
The last time I was this close to the front of the line was my very first year of eligibility.
A week had passed since Chancellor Bren had signed an amendment to the constricting marriage laws, making it possible for a man to divorce his wife if she bears no heirs within the first twenty-four months of their union.
Before the ink on the amendment had dried, his son finalized our divorce.
Since we’d married the day I turned marital age, the Hunt was something I hadn’t needed to worry about.
And why would it be? We were childhood sweethearts.
Even after the divorce, I thought surely he’d petition his father for my exemption.
My naivety shattered the night one of Chancellor Bren’s henchmen burst into my cabin and escorted me to this very spot.
I’d insisted they were mistaken, pleaded to be released, until my words gave way to incoherent sobs the moment those double doors split open.
That was the first time I’d had to face the cruelty of the position that sun-damned constitution forces too many of us into—the first time I had to face the callousness of what happens in this room. Where’s the honor in drafting unwed, childless women into battle with no chance of survival?
Unlike then, no tears race down my cheeks when the doors swing wide. A fresh wave of cheers carries down the stands.
We wait at the threshold. Though the doors to all six receiving chambers are now open, it is not yet our cue to enter. How long we stand here, on display for all of Caligo’s superior tiers to gawk at, depends entirely on the whim of the chancellor.
Two men in the row above our entrance lean over the concrete ledge. They point at us, taking bets on which of us are more likely to be selected. Most of their words are stifled beneath the ruckus, but I hear mentions of withered hands and jowls.