2081. In a sinister world where human survival hinges on biotechnology, an oblivious sixteen-year-old possesses the one code to undo it all. Can she survive the devious world designed to eliminate anything - anyone - out of the ordinary before it's...
Siren squeals like a mofo in the dark, dragging my unwilling ass awake. I bury my head under my pillow, trying to block the rude intrusion. Sleep hangs on my eyelids like a heavy fog.
Heavy boots thump the surrounding ground, rattling the flimsy cot beneath me. The siren continues with a whomp whomp and someone yells, 'Mia, wake up! It's happening!' inmyear.
"I don't care what's happening. Just let me sleep!" I grovel, peeking out from under the pillow. From the soft eerie glow of the exit lights along the doors in the hangar-sized dormitory, I can only make out silhouettes, and they are moving.
The surrounding recruits are up. I can hardly blame them. No one can sleep through that cry of the siren. No one except Nate, probably. He usually sleeps like the dead. Usually. The only time he isn't a perfect human being. In fact, how the hell didn't I wake up earlier? Usually, I wouldn't take as long as I did to wake up either— judging by how swiftly the others are already moving. All I can say is, I was likely exhausted last night. And who the hell had yelled at me?
The thought of Nate makes me turn around to find him. But it's impossible. The exit lights are inadequate and the darkness is thick at the center of the hall. There is no way I can tell Nate from other students his height or build. All I see are shadows scurrying towards the exits in an orderly line.
I try to pierce through the dull darkness, anyway. The figures shuffling towards the exits look like ants. Their calmness feels uncomfortable. The siren keeps blaring, intermittently interrupted by echoes of instructions over the intercom. But no one is running, no one is yelling. I would have thought an evacuation drill at God-knows-what-time would have them running, like they normally do in our school drills. The chaos as they rush to get out of the building first. But not here. Weird.
I glance at my left wrist, at the faint amber glow of the subcutaneous nanites. My internal clock literally reads 1:43 AM. "What the hell?" I curse under my breath, heading for Nate's bunk. I'm not interested in following the crowd. His bunk is two rows up, and five beds down from mine. I memorized it the moment they assigned us our beds.
I stay low to the ground to avoid being spotted. Occasionally, beams of torchlight sweep over my head. I duck under cots. The Sentries are on the lookout for recruits left behind. I'm not interested in getting into trouble. I just want to catch up with Nate. He's my only friend here. In fact, he is my only friend. Ever. I hope he is waiting for me, but I can't see any silhouette ahead of me. It tells me he's gone. He's followed the herd. Bloody obedient Nate!
"Accompanied by their Article 34, all recruits are to proceed to the cafeteria hall in an orderly fashion. Accompanied by their Article 34, all recruits are to proceed..." Another announcement comes over the intercom as the dormitory empties.
I shake my head. What in the world is Article 34? I wouldn't have a problem remembering if I had bothered to read the required list, I'm sure. I must find Nate and ask him — he'll know what it is. Then, I can scramble back to my bunk, retrieve my Article 34, and join them in the cafeteria. I'm pretty sure my governess packed this mysterious Article 34 with my stuff. I hope there is coffee ready when I join the others in the cafeteria. It's the least they can do.
This evacuation drill is bordering on rude. I mean, who wakes up three hundred recruits in the middle of the night for some stupid camp activity? I'm pretty sure it's another stupid camp activity. My guess? It's some obstacle run, and thus a good chance that Article 34 is a pair of running shoes or something else ridiculous.
"Nate," I hiss at his bunk despite knowing he's already gone. Bloody goody-two-shoes. "Nate? Where are you?" I whisper. He was probably the first eager recruit to hot-foot out of there. Nate has a thing about being good at everything, and I mean everything. Maths, Science, English, French, Mandarin, History, Communications, Arts, and even the more specialised elective Weapons Arts. Every subject they throw at him. Every subject. It's bloody annoying!
I'm always trialling behind Mister-First-in-Class. Don't get me wrong, I love Nate. Wait. I don't love him like that. That's gross. We're practically siblings.
"Nate!" I can't go to the cafeteria without Article 34, whatever it is. I do not want to be that member who forever drags down the team.
Nate doesn't respond — cause he's obviously not there — and I curse in code, "Fudging fudge sticks!" since they outlaw cursing at Camp Sweep. A lesson I learned the hard way on day one while waiting for Nate to turn up on a later bus. I cost our school minus fifty points before the whole thing ever began. Let's just say, if it weren't for Nate, I wouldn't have a single soul to talk to on my team.
No sooner had the words, "Fu*k, Nate," slipped from my mouth, heavily armed Sentries descended that day, dragging me into the compound, to the big boss's office inside the military-grade Camp Sweep. It surprised me they didn't shoot my ass!
Turns out, they didn't just help students find their 'employment niche' and graduate — by which they meant you either get funnelled into the elite Hive or drafted into the dowdy Service, depending on the number of weaknesses you presented in our time here. Minor weaknesses caused by faulty system code? Not a problem. A quick visit to the Coder for a 'brief amendment,' would fix that. Apparently, the inability to stop cursing was one of those things they could fix, and boy, did they threaten me with it if I didn't watch my tongue.
Either that, or I get drafted — straight into the Service.
There is no way I'm risking becoming a Service bod, so I swore on my parents and their parents — all Hivers, working directly under the Chancellor, the Queen Bee — that I'd never swear again in Camp Sweep. A promise I've kept so far, as hard as that has been.
"Move it, recruit!" The butt of a rifle jabs against my back, hard. While I mulled over not-so-fond memories of my first day at camp, a Sentry in full black ops gear spotted me. He's doing a fine job of staring me down. He would be scary if the damn balaclava he wears — a grandpa-green — didn't clash with his gritty black uniform. I half expect his dentures to fall out.
"To the cafeteria!" he barks. "Now."
"What's going on?" I steal a glance at him as I shuffle towards the closest exit. "Is it a fire drill? I bet it was some knuckle-head lighting a stick in the showers after curfew again."
"Walk." He pushes me again.
"All right, all right, I'm moving. Geez." I hold up my hands in surrender like I'm some convict.
"Where is your Article 34?" he demands, blinding me with his flashlight.
"My Article 34?" Fudge! I have got to pay more attention in class, like everyone keeps telling me to.
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