The light flashes green. Olin pushes me out of the way and takes my place at the scanner. Both he and Zorrah clear before I’m able to take a full breath. The miracle had been real. My braid is as real as ever and one hundred percent Calli. 

Olin nudges me. “The braid bands.”

I snap out of my trance. “Stick together so we have continuous numbers. You and Zorrah first.”

The stream of people once again splits as district seven branches down a separate subterranean hallway from district eight. We pass more security, standing motionless against the wall with their hands behind their back. One ometeotl has his eyes closed. Another grills random faces as if reading their thoughts. I struggle to calm my runaway paranoia.

We group even tighter together as we reach the banding machine. The air is thick with the smell of burnt hair. I’ve heard rumors that banding is painful, but a pinch of physical pain is the least of my worries today. Zorrah goes first. She flinches, and squeezes her eyes tight the moment the jaws clamp onto the base of her braid. A second later it’s Olin’s braid in the teeth of the machine, and then my own.

The pain is less than that inflicted by Huatiani. And this time I’m being given an identity rather than having one taken away. Or at least I’m trading one that is about to expire for another.

Unable to directly see our own bands, we exchange inspections of each others’ as we continue along the constantly moving river of humanity.

“They’re almost fluid.” Olin remarks.

“They’re clear.” I state the obvious.

“They don’t take on a color until after the tests, when we’re assigned a barracks.” Zorrah explains.

“Of course.” I nod, feeling more and more guilty for being unprepared. Then it strikes me I can be strong without being perfect. As a matter of fact, I have to be. “Where’s our number?”

Zorrah squishes herself in between Olin and I, not looking at all disappointed in my lack of knowledge. “It’s under the surface.” She stands on tiptoe to inspect my band up close. “You’re 777.”

“That many people have been banded already?”

Olin stoops to read Zorrah’s number, placing his hand lightly on her braid. “You’re 775.” He turns to offer his own braid.

“And you’re 776,” Zorrah says.

 I focus forward. We’re shuffling slowly along a dim concrete tunnel, the walls smooth and flat with embedded lights every dozen meters. The overall chatter reduces to a constant rumbling. Having asked a neighbor their number, most of the registrants shut off from the external world. I’m glad I have Olin and Zorrah to think of, to keep me from curling inside myself.

In the distance the stream of registrants parts again, shifting to both sides of the tunnel. “So what’s next?” I ask. “Medical tests?”

“Mostly pokes and prods,” Zorrah responds. “No physical exam. They get everything they need to know from a blood test.” Suddenly she flushes and stares at the ground. “But I’m not sure how that part works. The banding is what interests me.”

“Oh?” Olin nudges her with his elbow.

“Wait a minute. You sure there’s nothing interesting about the blood tests?” It’s obvious to me Zorrah is hiding something.

She shakes her head without looking up.

“Alright then, if you’re sure.” I decide not to push the matter.

Olin glares at me with a raised brow. Finally he prompts Zorrah. “You were saying about the braid banding?”

As Zorrah raises her head, she endeavors to conceal a sly grin. “I did some…research when I was programming One and Two.”

Olin leans in close, and the three of us form a huddle as we creep forward.

“The banding machine works as a scanner too. Our numbers are permanently linked to our identities now. It’s integrated with the Central Identification Processor—the smartest bit of programming in New Teo, other than One and Two of course.” She blushes. “I mean, not that I’m—”

I put my hand on her shoulder. “After what I’ve seen, I believe you. Go on.”

“Well, the moment we were banded, the CIP, I mean the Central Identification Processor, started compiling everything in the system about us.”

Olin interrupts. “How much information could there be?”

“You’d be surprised. Every time you’re scanned or imaged the CIP records it. They’ve even started linking to cable lifts.”

“So what would all that tell them?” I furrow my brows.

Zorrah’s eyes get big. “Habits, patterns, behavior. The picture might be sketchy to begin, but eventually the CIP stitches together a digital projection for each of us.”

Olin nods. “To predict behavior.”

“Exactly.” Zorrah wrings her hands and hunches her shoulders as if invisible government agents are preparing to seize her.

Olin continues. “Now that we’re growing in telekinetic abilities, they want to know what we’re going to do before we do it.”

Zorrah shudders. “Not only that, the CIP functions as the brains of the academy.”

“Heads up.” I break the huddle, pulling Zorrah and Olin to one side of the tunnel. “Sorry to interrupt, but it’s time for the needles.” A series of mechanical arm-locks protrude from both walls of the corridor like ribs. A clump of masazin attendants block the center of the tunnel, ensuring everyone takes a turn getting poked.

“Looks simple enough.” I approach the nearest belt of disposable hypodermics as it feeds through an internal channel in the mechanical arm-lock. “Let’s get this over with so we can hear the rest of your story.”

I watch Zorrah as our turn rapidly approaches. There’s a look of concern about her—something more than a fear of needles. While her computer talk is interesting, I’m dying to know what she’s hiding about the blood tests.

At the last minute I whisper into her ear. “I need to know what you’re not telling me.” Before she can respond, it’s my turn. I move to an open machine and place my arm and shoulder against the padding. Once I push into it, the machine clamps softly over my entire arm. With a sudden rush of air, the padding expands.

I count to three, waiting for the pricks. Before I feel a thing, the machine releases me and rotates to the next set of needles.

Proceeding down the tunnel, still at a creep, I wipe a tiny smear of blood from my arm. On closer examination I identify three puncture marks. In no time, Olin and Zorrah join me. “Besides the blood sample, what were the other two needles for?”

Zorrah shrugs, refusing to look me in the eye. “Shots of some kind.”

I place my hand on her back. “You know you’re gonna have to tell me.”

“I promised the old man I wouldn’t!” She blurts out.

“Ah, now it makes sense.” I nod.

Olin stares at me. “What are you two talking about?”

“The old man shared a piece of the plan with Zorrah and Zorrah only—something about the blood tests.” I respond to Olin while lifting Zorrah’s chin. “Look, I’m not angry with you. But I need to know everything.” She looks me in the eyes, and I continue. “The old man can’t help us in here. It’s just us, and we’ve gotta stick together. That means no secrets.”

As Zorrah ponders my speech, a light appears at the end of the tunnel. Thirty meters distant, the corridor opens into a brightly lit room.

Olin speaks first. “Well, whatever it was it can’t be urgent. We’ve already been stuck.”

I relent, not wanting to push Zorrah too far on a day like today. “Sure, we can talk about it later.”

“The old man said something was wrong with Olin’s blood, something that would disqualify him from the academy.” Zorrah offers the information in a flat voice.

Not knowing how to respond, Olin and I wait for her to continue.

“He said you didn’t know about it—that he discovered it while Olin was unconscious. He didn’t want you to worry.”

“So what did he ask you to do?” I nudge her on, the brightly lit room only meters away.

“I talked to One and Two about altering Olin’s test results, so his blood would seem normal.”

“That makes sense. But what could possibly be wrong with Olin’s—” the obvious hits me. I look at Olin and see the same awareness in his eyes.

He says it first. “The medicine.”

 I repeat it. “The medicine.”

Attempting to block the glare of the increasingly bright light with her hand, Zorrah glances back and forth between us. “What medicine?”

We’ve nearly reached the room at the end of the tunnel. I can’t look away from my brother. “What in the world was in that tiny, leather pouch?”

Before Olin can respond, the tunnel births us with a sudden push. We stumble into the bright lights of a huge subterranean room were a few hundred other registrants have already gathered.