Chapter Text
August 3rd, 2147, 19:21:08
Batalla Hall Ballroom
10 Years Old, Rising High School Sophomore
Nobody is happy to see me. I’m avoided like a lion in one of those rich-trot exhibits, or a Nima kid walking through the Gems. Not quite feral; not quite tame. Although this party is technically in my honor, contempt hangs heavy through every speech, toast, and dance. It’s an open secret, one on the forefront of any silent conversation: Daniel Altan Wing is not supposed to be here.
I was first, though, and that's what saved me.
When I got that perfect 1500 on the Trial, the Republic had no way of knowing that there would be another prodigy, so thousands and thousands of notes were passed around before my score became public. Along with etiquette lessons, I was grilled on hundreds of interview questions, learned everything there is to be known about public speaking, got more clothes than anyone should ever own, and took speech classes to burn the Lake Sector out of me. (Which didn’t work, yeah?)
Also, I completed the Trial three more times. “Ok,” my test proctor said when I got my fourth perfect score. “Ok, fine.” Daniel Wing was first and last, so Daniel Wing had to do.
Now, as the crowds of people at this party start to thin, I see John wave his goodbye from across the room. Mom went home hours ago, my little brother already passed out in her arms, but John agreed to stay with me until his next shift. Even though the Republic’s offered my brother better hours, John still works at night, choosing to spend the daytime studying with his new tutor. Can’t have a poorly educated Wing, now can we? I wave back at him, and he grins before disappearing.
“Mr. Wing?” Ethan Betir, a stick-thin man in his late 40’s, and one of my many keepers, grabs my arm. It takes every single one of those expensive behavior courses not to wrench it away from him. Instead, I just nod. “Will you follow me, please?” He doesn’t give me much choice, attached to my arm as he is, so we start pushing our way across the crowded room.
“Where are we going, Sir?”
“You and Miss. Iparis are going to do a final photo shoot together before the reporters leave. Is that alright?” Another rhetorical question, and the reporters leaving won’t be the problem. Since my birthday, there’s not a goddy day that's gone by where I don’t have my photo taken by those creeps. But I just shrug. “Fine.”
“Have you talked to Miss. Iparis since this morning’s interviews?” Betir asks a few seconds later, awkwardly trying to make conversation. “I myself had the pleasure of chatting with her; she seems really quite canny. Which she’d have to be, of course, to be in this position; I’m not trying to insinuate—“
“No. I haven’t seen her.”
June Iparis interests me. Gem-sector bred and from a military family, she couldn’t be a better golden child if the Republic had let her cheat at the Trial—and they hadn’t, though I thought so at first. But why would the country introduce me to its citizens, celebrate me as a genius, if they’d planned all along to slip her through? It would’ve been so easy to change my score—or, better yet, to simply disappear me. But no, now there’s two of us, which makes it all the more messy, and which means June Iparis was a miscalculation, too. (Though I was an error on the Republic’s calculator, and she was like finding the last digits of Pi.) A quick hack into Harion Gold Elementary School’s database confirms her status—J. Iparis, top of her class since preschool.
So this celebration is for two prodigies, and one is toasted to with stiff smiles and stiffer drinks. That’s fine by me. With a new government-provided stipend, my family’s moved into an apartment in Opal sector—not Ruby by any stretch, but still a gem, and still goddy fancy. Mom and John have new, well-paying jobs, as a manager and assistant, respectively, instead of as factory workers. Eden’s started his first ever year at school—the first private school a Wing has ever set foot in. Except me, of course, now that I’m set to attend a high-brow high school at the end of this month. In two years, if I can keep up my grades, I’ll have my pick of the elite colleges: Stanford, Brenan, or Drake. Even six months ago I would have been kicked off of campus on sight, and now I’ve gotten acceptance letters without applying. Crazy, yeah?
I’ll sit through any number of these wooden conversations if it means Eden and John and Mom can have full bellies, good jobs, and around-the-clock electricity. I’ll even do photo shoots like this one.
The man and I wait beside a stage as the reporters finish with June. Apparently, they only want solo-shots of her at this location. Fine. Eventually, I’m steered by Betir—whose never let go of my arm—and led to stand beside the girl. No more than 20 words have passed between us in total, but over the course of today we’ve gotten very good at standing together—shoulder to shoulder, backs straight, smiles wide. (Show teeth! Somebody fix the boy’s hair!) She’s an inch shorter than me, if that, and is wearing a purple dress, cut low in the back, with her dark hair pulled up. Some might say she looks mighty beautiful.
Five excruciatingly boring minutes later, I’m released back into the surprisingly strong grip of Betir once again. “Ok, Mr. Wing, I’ll show you to the exit and call up a car for you. You have a grammar class at 8—"
“8:45, yeah.” He nods, reaching up to touch the wire frames of his glasses, a tick he does once or twice every five minutes.
As we reach the far side of the decorated ballroom, we pass by tall columns and beautiful carvings. The country sure pulled out all the stops for this party: flower displays twice my height; gilded tablecloths, cutlery, and moldings; trays of pastry, now picked apart. (I’m sure my kid brother’s quick crash had nothing to do with those sweets.)
We reach the double-doored exit of Batalla ballroom, stepping out into a cool summer night. Betir shifts his weight and says, “Well, Mr. Wing, I’ll leave you here.” He touches those glasses again. (It really is like clockwork.) “A car will be waiting for you on Corp. Street.”
“Thank you, Sir.” After a moment of hesitation, the tall man walks back into the ballroom, presumably to help clean up. I start to walk the length of Batalla towards my awaiting ride.
Batalla Hall is a military/political complex in downtown LA, built in a horseshoe shape around a huge courtyard. The end of the courtyard opens onto Corp. Street, where I’ll soon be ushered into a black Jeep and driven to my next class. The Republic likes to keep me busy at all hours of the day, preferring me to be in their view, with the teachers that they hired, instead of with my mom and brothers. Fine. At least this garden’s pretty, with roses climbing up trellises and tulips blooming in their beds. Mom loves all of this; there was never room for flowers back in Lake.
A few minutes later, the door I left from suddenly swings open, illuminating the dark stretch of courtyard. On instinct, I slip behind one of the above-ground flower beds, which I realize too late makes me look suspicious. Better hope whoever it is just doesn’t notice me.
A man’s voice carries all the way down the sidewalk, along with the pattern of slow-moving footfalls. “—a single word, the whole patrol scattered like mice.”
Another man’s voice, deeper than the first, answers after a brief chuckle. “I wouldn’t say all that.”
“Sir, you’re too modest.”
A younger female voice—which, with a jolt, I recognize belongs to June Iparis—joins the conversation. “Thomas is right. Everyone says that you’re the best Lieutenant in your patrol. I bet you’ll get promoted to Captain soon.”
“It’d be an honor,” responds the second man, who must be her brother. The military officer I spotted hovering around her today looked too young to be her dad. “We’ll see if it happens.”
“It will.”
“You’re so sure?”
“She does tend to be right, Sir.”
Another, louder laugh. Lieutenant Iparis has a nice laugh, rich and kind. “She does, doesn’t she? That’s why we’re here tonight. I’m so, so proud of you, Junebug.” Junebug, that’s sweet. June hums, and the group walks slowly in the silence, boot heels clicking on the ground. “Is something wrong, June?” the older Iparis asks after a long pause. “You have that look in your eye.” They, now very close to me, slow to a stop as the men wait for her reply.
“No, not really,” she answers eventually. “I’m just . . . thinking.” A stone, presumably one that she kicked, clatters near my hiding place.
“About?“
“About that boy, Daniel Wing.” My breath stutters to a stop. It’s surprising to think that I might be on her mind just as much as she's on mine. Surprising and—and kind of nice, in a weird, gross sort of way.
“What about him?” “He doesn’t make sense.” An answer I’m not prepared for. Another rock is kicked down the pathway. “How did he get a perfect score? He’s from a slum sector.” She says the words with contempt, like I’m a spider that just crawled into her view. Anger washes away my inherent interest. Maybe it’s not so nice that she’s been thinking about me. “It’s not like there are good schools in Lake, and—“
“June,” Metias scolds.
“But she’s right, Sir,” interjects the other soldier. “I went to elementary school in Winter. There’s simply not a curriculum that allows for his success.”
“But you did well on your Trial, Thomas. You still got into Drake.”
The other man sighs. “I did average, Metias. I got into a fine high school, and my dad was close to your’s. I wouldn’t have been accepted otherwise.”
“And yet, you’re the best cadet that Drake’s ever seen.”
Thomas coughs awkwardly. “Yes, well, I suppose I did alright there, but I was an exception. Besides, my family wasn’t originally poor. Most natural-born slum-sector kids just don’t have the IQ to care, much less to score high enough to attend a university like Drake. But you’ll do wonderfully there, June,” he adds quickly, “if you decide to go to Drake, of course.”
June scoffs. “Of course I’m going to go to Drake. Where else? Stanford? Brenan? No, thanks.” Thomas and Metias laugh as one. I feel injured again, considering the only school that I’ve ruled out of my college decision is Drake. Guess that’s gotta change, yeah? Never thought of joining the military before, but now I can’t go to goddy Brenan or Stanford. “Anyway, what you said about poor-sector kids makes sense,” June continues. “Naturally lower IQ’s. Why else would their families be where they are?”
“Exactly.”
My fingers clench from where they’ve settled into the dirt. Rich trots think that they know everything, yeah? They've never had to fight to put food on the table or plan their days around the electricity cut-off, but they're the superior beings, the ones who deserve all that they have.
Being poor has nothing to do with IQ and everything to do with the government.
“While that may be true,” Metias responds mildly, breaking into my thoughts, “clearly, Wing is also an exception.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” June mutters, cross, almost angry. “It still makes no sense to me.”
“What are you thinking?”
June sighs. “I don’t know, it’s just—it’s hard to believe that it was an honest Trial.”
“I’m inclined to agree, but the Republic has conducted a thorough investigation,” Thomas reminds her. A thorough investigation and four different tests, I almost spit out. My muscles tense, wanting to jump, wanting to lunge, but some higher sense tells me it's not the time. There will be plenty of chances to make Iparis regret underestimating you, it assures. Maybe it's all those goddy etiquette lessons getting to my head. “You must trust that they would have rooted out any foul play.”
“I know, but,” June trails off, groaning. “Never mind. I’m hungry. Metias, what are we having for dinner? I’ve barely eaten all day.” The group starts to walk again, coming into view. June is still wearing that purple dress. It looks sinister in the dark.
“Whatever you want, Junebug. It’s your day, after all.” June’s face lights up, and she turns to her older brother. I hold my breath, certain those calculating eyes will spot me quickly, but she must be too excited about damn edamame from Tanagashi to notice this poor slum-sector kid.
**
All throughout my lesson and back in my bed tonight, I can’t concentrate, still stung and angry about June Iparis’ words. ‘It’s hard to believe that it was an honest Trial.’ ‘Naturally lower IQ’s.’ Typical from a gem-sector girl, yeah? I bet she lives in Ruby, of all the goddy places.
I’m not sure why Iparis’ disdain bothers me so much; it’s not like I haven’t been looked down on by the rich all my life. But there’s something about her refusal that just gets to me. She’s the only other person in this country who can understand the weight of being a prodigy, possibly the only other person who’ll ever be able to empathize. For the rest of our lives, or childhood at least, we’ll be thrown together—in interviews, events, and as the youngest kids in Drake’s class of 2153. And yet, she flat-out doesn’t care, thinks I cheated.
And so I decide that I am no longer interested in June Iparis. I know who she is, and I think I might hate her for it.