The Green Ones

Episode 5, Part 6

“Calli!” Zorrah’s voice floats over the clatter and bustle of the long corridor on the back side of the interview closets. In a daze, I swim toward her and Olin. Registrants rush past. The tempo and the excitement level have risen ten fold.

Reaching my brother, I embrace him. “We’re masazin now.”

“You did it.” He squeezes me while including Zorrah. “We’re masazin, and we’re family.”

I look them in the eye in turn. “Family, now more than ever.” I blink away a tear. “Come on, let’s get above ground. Maybe we’ll be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the sun.”

The foot traffic heading toward the stadium moves at a fast walk. In less than fifteen minutes we reach the surface of the stone court. A fat drop of rain pelts the end of my nose. Gazing upward, all I see is the top of the Palace Tower, the shield dome and a blanket of rain clouds. “Well, at least it’s fresh air.”

“I’m sweating like a tapir.” Zorrah holds her arms out to her sides. “And some of it’s not even mine. Maybe the rain will wash it off.”

Olin puffs his shirt to fan himself.

After a moment of relief, I lower my gaze and focus on the next step of the process. We’re masazin now, but the day isn’t over.

The wide, level surface of the stone ōllamaliztli court is filling with new masazin rapidly. On the eastern and western sides of the court, people scramble up the steep slopes toward the high ground beneath the hoops. A good number of registrants have already reached the narrow flat area running along the top of the slopes. The stands are empty. During our time underground, the last of the registrants have begun the registration process.

The longer we wait, the harder it will be to find Yetic. Assuming he reached the ramp for district four about the same time we reached ours, he should be above ground now. He might already be staking his spot beneath the western hoop.

“Come on.” I signal for the others to follow, and we jog toward the middle of the court. The rain falls steadily, splashing off the stones beneath my feet.

“How many do you think there are?” Zorrah asks.

“Of what?”

“How many in our class?”

“Oh.” I shake my head while scanning the western slope for Yetic. “That’s a question for Olin. He’s better with that sort of thing.”

“Probably around 2,000,” Olin offers. “Some classes are a bit bigger. Some smaller.”

“And we’re all going to be competing?” Zorrah scampers beside me.

Olin laughs. The sound of it surprises me. It’s been a long twenty-four-hours since I’ve heard him laugh. I know Zorrah will be invaluable for that alone—for making my brother happy. We stop at the base of the western slope. I still haven’t spotted Yetic.

“Well, subtract four from the total number.” Olin holds out his fingers before pushing four of them down. “Me, Calli, Yetic and you of course.”

“Oh, and then there’s the new girl, Cera,” Zorrah adds. “So that means 2,000 minus five.”

We all laugh at that.

“There.” I point toward the hoop at the top of the western slope. “That looks like Yetic to me.”

“No mistaking that swagger. That’s him alright,” Olin says.

I can think of another swagger that comes close to Yetic’s, but I don’t want to. I remind myself I’m a masazin now, not a chadzitzin. That part of my life is gone for good, along with everything and everyone in it. There’s no room for thinking of Neca now.

The rain increases, covering the court with a couple centimeters of standing water.

“It’s really coming down. Do you think we can still make it up there?” Olin nods toward the hoop.

I test the stone slope. The surface of each stone has been etched or stamped with the state seal of New Teo—a coiled snake with wings. The carving provides modest traction, but some spots have been worn smooth by years of ballgames. A quick glance left and right reveals dozens of other registrants struggling to traverse the slope with varying degrees of success. “We’ll have to be careful, but I think we can do it.”

“Good enough.” Olin slaps his bare foot against the stone surface and starts up.

Side by side the three of us take it slow, choosing stones with the least wear. The rain comes down harder. Three quarters of the way up, we’re forced to scale the slope on hands and feet. The drops explode off the stones in front of me, reducing visibility to nothing.

“Almost there.” I raise my voice over the all-encompassing rush of the rain. A second later I choose poor footing and slip. Bouncing off my stomach, I slide down the slope. Before I can point my toes and dig in my fingers, my right foot strikes something solid.

I flex my ankle and realize someone is holding my foot in their hand. Over my shoulder and through the roaring rain I see the impossible. “Neca?”