The Green Ones

Episode 5, Part 3

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.