The Green Ones

Episode 5, Part 2

We enter the stadium midway up the spectator stands. Surrounded by registrants and their families, we stream toward the lower level and the stone playing surface known as the court. Currently rimmed with Masa security,the court would normally host teams from two opposing barracks.

Yetic leans close. “What district are you from?”

I’m confused by the question. “You know what district I’m from. The same one you—”

He shakes me. “Wake up, Calli, and think. What district are you from?”

“Right.” Mentally I slap myself. “District Eight.”

“You’re gonna be to the left. I’m to the right.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We register by district.” Yetic shakes his head. “I thought you were ready for this.”

I scan the bottom ring of the stands and locate the clearly displayed district numbers. District One is on the exact opposite side of the stadium, the immortal side. I correct him. “Everything leading up to this.”

“First you need to get into uniform,” Yetic says.

“Now?”

“Now, and hurry.”

There’s no more time for hesitation, uncertainty or tiredness. Pushing my doubts beneath the surface, I don my new uniform over the top of my tzotzomatli. Using the tightly-packed crowd to conceal my lower half, I squirm out of the soiled garment and deposit it under a bench as we pass.

Yetic pretends to look away as I tug on my pants.

Darkly, I wonder if he’s waiting for the honeymoon.

“The first part is pretty straight forward.” Yetic talks loudly enough for Olin and Zorrah to hear. “Follow directions and watch for your number.”

“Number?”

“Your new ID band. Please tell me you know that much.” Yetic begs me with his eyes.

“Yes, yes,” I signal for him to continue, “of course. So we get our braid bands first?”

“As soon as you pass through the scanner at the base of your ramp.” Yetic points toward the bottom of the stands, less than twenty meters below us.

A new panic creeps up my spine with mention of the braid scanner.

“As I was saying,” Yetic continues, “the first half of the process just happens to you. It’s the second half you’ll need to be ready for.”

“The placement tests.” Olin pipes up.

“Exactly. If we flub those, making ometeotl will be an uphill battle from the start. The last thing we need is to end up in the Coyote or Butterfly barracks.”

I’m panicking again. “Tests? But I, I don’t know anything about any tests.”

Yetic grips my arm. “No one does. They change every year.”

We reach the bottom walkway. Beyond the railing, the stone court slopes steeply down to the flat surface some thirty meters below. The crowd above us continues to push.

Yetic raises his voice and lets go of my arm. “Remember to find me under the western hoop.”

“How will they know to keep us together?” I yell.

Yetic is already flowing away with the crowd. “That happens during the tests! Just find me!”

As Yetic disappears, Olin squeezes my hand. “What about Zorrah?”

For the first time, I realize I don’t know what district Zorrah is from. The day has just begun, and already I’m failing the very ones I’ve been put in charge of. “Zorrah?” I turn toward the tiny barnacle attached to my brother’s side.

She smiles awkwardly and looks at her feet. “Don’t be angry, but,” she hesitates.

“Yes.” The crowd is nearly crushing us as it pushes past.

“I saw District Eight in your information as I was feeding it to icpitl One and Two.”

“Yes?” This time Olin nudges her.

She blurts the rest out at once. “I didn’t want to be by myself, so I had One and Two change my district to eight!”

I breathe deeply, one potential difficulty averted. “Brilliant!”

Zorrah looks up, surprised.

“At least one of us was thinking in advance.” Grabbing both of them, I allow the flow of traffic to funnel us toward the ramps for districts seven through ten.

Progress on the walkway is quicker than the steps. I manage a short glimpse above. Streams of people continue to flow through each of the stadium gates. Those who came prepared have separated themselves from the remainder by moving toward their district ramps with purpose. Others seem more concerned with goodbyes than their future. It’s my job to make sure we don’t end up like them.

Girding myself for what lies ahead, I focus on the ramp for districts seven and eight. All of the ramps slope away from the playing surface and lead into the deeper Masa Academy complex beneath the stands. Over four levels deep, the complex supposedly fills the entirety of the rock spine separating the twin cities of New Teo.

The stands are public space. Only those wearing uniforms will proceed beneath them. I swallow. Those with uniforms and valid citizenship status. Reaching our designated ramp, we peel away and funnel into the stadium belly.

Midway down the ramp, a disturbance halts our progress. Peering past those in front, I catch a glimpse of a boy paralyzed between two Ometeotl Guardsmen. His face is telekinetically frozen in agony. Then he’s gone, disappeared into the complex.

“A non-citizen. I’m surprised they still try to register.” Zorrah claps her hand over her mouth after the fact. “I mean, not that, I’m sure you don’t—”

The line starts moving again. “Forget about it. I know what you meant. And I’m sure we don’t have to worry.” Instinctively I run my hand along my braid. On the inside, I’m extremely worried. “Centavo’s always been good on his word.”

Holding up a hand, Zorrah shushes me. “We shouldn’t speak his name. Not here.” She scans the crush of people around us as if regime spies lurk everywhere. “Never.”

Maybe she’s right. In Worker City someone had always been listening. Why would Masa be any different? Right or wrong, Zorrah succeeds in momentarily distracting me from the braid scanner.

As we reach the bottom of the ramp, my worry redoubles. What if Citlali messed something up? Something small like a single burn ring in a hair follicle? How many years worth of days are represented in an average braid? If something goes wrong, what will Olin and Zorrah do? There’s no way Yetic will help them with me out of the equation.

“Next!” A masazin attendant barks the order, and I realize he’s talking to me. I hesitate. Olin starts to move past, but I push him back. Striding forward, I hold my breath and place my braid in the scanner.