DMB Digest: Minecraft Confessions
Is it so wrong to keep my kids up late to play Minecraft with me?
I’m a creator. Is there anyway I couldn’t love Minecraft? It’s the ultimate sandbox, world-building game. I mean, jiminy jillickers, I just recently learned you can attend virtual concerts in Minecraft. My youngest son wrote his first “book” in Minecraft. (Granted the story was derivative, lacked any real insight, and consisted of the single sentence “I got to cat befor [sic] bed time.”)
When I first installed the Pocket Edition of Minecraft on my generation one iPad, I had no idea just how much I would come to love the game. For once, I get to squarely blame my wife for something. Honest, it was totally her idea! “We need to try something that our son enjoys in order to connect with him,” she said. “Even better, we’ll let him teach us how to play it!” She said.
“Okay,” I said while scanning the request for sarcasm. When it turned up clean, I shrugged and consented. “Hey, you want me to play an app with the kids. No problem, I’m your man.” I set up my iPad, my wife’s iPad, and my iPhone with 3 separate accounts so we could play together and all join the same world, “Dad is Crazy.” (The second place title was something like Fart Gas. I went with the more classy of the two.)
Five minutes into our Minecraft experience, and after figuring out how to die in the middle of a peaceful meadow with no mobs anywhere to be seen, my wife was out. She flopped the iPad down, complained of being dizzy, and excused herself to the kitchen for a glass of wine (God bless her).
Four years later, my kids and I have done physics experiments; analyzed the psychology of villagers; delved into aspects of landscaping and architecture; learned the benefits of hard work vs. instant gratification; and discussed death, dying, and grief. (The worst was when I got ambushed by a witch and fell off a cliff while adventuring some two-hours-worth of constant in-game running from our spawn point in order to track down a woodland mansion using a map we had purchased from a cartographer villager we had to spawn by expanding the nearest village. I lost everything I was carrying including the map, several golden apples, and enchanted armor. In fact, the loss was so intense for my oldest son that I switched the game mode to creative for the very first time and spent two hours that night flying back to the scene of my untimely death in order to pick up the map.)
Anyway, now that my oldest son is twelve, he’s showing signs of apathy toward Minecraft. And I find myself saddened that the window appears to be closing. Maybe I’m just bummed that I’ll have to put in the hard work of letting my wife find a new method for us to connect all over again.
Coming Soon: A Streaming Substack Dedicated to My Lost DMB Files!
As soon as I wrap up season 1 of the Green Ones (Episode 6 is the final episode of season 1), I’ll take a short break from uploading new story content for The Green Ones in order to launch the Lost DMB Files. If you already know you want to sign up for receiving the Lost DMB Files directly to your inbox, you can do so now!
At the Desk This Week
Ah crap. I made a bonehead mistake this past Friday. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I totally brain farted while plotting the direction of my current episode of the 3rd Season of the Green Ones. I placed a key character at Masa Academy when I knew good and well he had joined the resistance by the end of Season 2. After writing several scenes, I realized the mistake. I was so disgusted that I called it quits last Friday, and at the time of writing this email I still haven’t gone back and rewritten the messed up scenes. I’ll have to totally upend the plot direction I was taking too. Pain in my ass. On the bright side, the writing was coming much quicker before I realized my mistake. I’m getting back into the old groove!
Outburst: Ep.5, Scene 10 — Ep.6, Scene 3
[Click here to start at the beginning.]
Yetic spits the gummy tzapotl resin out of his mouth and stares at me dumbly. He blinks. “Wait, you’re serious?”
Unfaltering, I stand my ground.
“No offense, Bluehair, but I don’t even know how to respond to that.”
“I’m making you an offer.” I swallow. “One you might find more tempting than Neca’s.”
“Let me get this straight. Instead of entering the academy as the undisputed champion, I enter as a laughing stock. That’s your offer?”
I chew the inside of my lip. Too late to change my mind now, I bull forward. “I win, you leave Neca alone and answer my every beck and call within the academy.”
Yetic shrugs, humoring me.
“You win,” I pause. If I’ve misread Yetic’s level of interest in me, I’m about to make a total fool of myself.
“Yes?”
“You win, I agree to couple with you.”
Yetic freezes, clearly surprised by the offer. I’m about to retract it and excuse myself when his eyes grow big. “You and me?” He gestures between us and nods, as if double checking my meaning.
“Is there any other way to couple?” I roll my eyes. “I’ll commit to you completely for at least the first year, with the option to extend.” I flush, struggling for the right words. “You know, if we find the relationship beneficial. Of course your protection would extend over Olin as well.”
Yetic nods absently, his mind already a million miles away. “Of course.” He paces the narrow alley, mumbling to himself. Finally he faces me. “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t dreamed of the possibility.” He laughs. “This way is even better than I imagined—less schmaltzy and more efficient.”
I relax and drive home the deal. “Together with Olin, you and I would be unrivaled. We’d be almost guaranteed ometeotl status. It’s rare they break up a bonded couple, and they’ll see the value of keeping Olin and me together.”
“You drive a mean bargain, Bluehair. I’ve dreamed of crushing Neca for over a year, but Masa is more important.”
I raise a brow, waiting for his final decision.
“I accept your offer.”
I close my eyes, both relieved and anxious. My mind flits across all the ways Yetic will exert ownership of me in the year to come. Shame bubbles to the surface, but I push it down deep.
Yetic is strong. He improves me and Olin’s chances of graduation significantly. He’s skilled. He can help us learn. In one swift move I’ve turned a potential enemy into an ally.
At the same time, I can’t believe what I’ve done. In a few hours I’ll be locked inside a cage with someone who kills twitchers for sport. Olin will hate the arrangement, and Neca will probably never forgive me. At least he’ll be alive. We’ll all be alive. Suddenly it strikes me who I’ve forgotten. “And Zorrah. I forgot Zorrah.”
“Who?”
“She doesn’t look like much, but trust me, you’ll like this girl. She brings a unique skill set.” I pause. “And I think her and Olin are sort of developing a thing.”
“A foursome, sounds good,” he nods. “There’s only one problem.”
I narrow my eyes and tense, afraid he’s about to signal Huemac’s men to rush me.
“Getting you into the cage could be difficult. Huemac’s men will be everywhere. Afterwards, he’ll wanna kill us both.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Oh, that.”
“Luckily for you, I haven’t revealed my most advanced skill to anyone.”
I roll my eyes. “And that would be?”
“Human manipulation.”
“Umm, I don’t think that’s your most advanced—”
“Telekinetically, not emotionally. Keep up, Bluehair. I’ve never met anyone else capable of it, except the old man of course.”
“Yeah, I experienced the ability first hand in Centavo’s apartment. Not my funnest moment.” I shiver at the memory of being frozen in midair and having my strings yanked like a marionette.
“As far as preventing a riot…” Yetic strokes his chin. “There is one way—an old rule. I’ve never seen it used, but its practice is well accepted. If we can pull it off, no one will argue. There’ll be plenty of grumbling,” his expression sticks somewhere between a solicitous leer and sheer rhapsody, “but we’ll give them a good show in the end.”
The underground arena is crammed beyond capacity and sweltering. Most of the onlookers have been here for hours, watching novice matches and waiting for the bout of the decade—the bout I’m about to hijack. Currently there’s no fight. A flurry of activity near the center indicates betting for the big show has begun.
Olin had described to me earlier where he and Zorrah would be standing. Even so, it takes me a minute to locate them. Despite my nerves, I smile when I see Zorrah perched atop Olin’s shoulders.
I scan the vicinity for Huemac’s men, spotting three at safe distances. Yetic had explained how to distinguish them by their headset communication devices. Pushing through the crowd, I remind myself I’m making the right decision for all of us. They may not see it now, but isn’t this what Centavo had meant when he said some of us have to be monsters?
The arena is nothing more than a cavernous underground space. Packed dirt floors slope downward toward the center where a single cage, yet to be charged, floats midway between the floor and ceiling. I gulp as I think about how I’m supposed to get from here to there.
The sides of the cage flicker to life with projected images of Neca and Yetic. A recorded voice booms over the din of noise, narrating the mostly-fabricated life stories of the two fated fighters. There isn’t much time now.
“Why are you dressed like that?” Olin eyes my sparring outfit suspiciously.
I shrug and shout over the noise. “Neca was showing me some moves, or trying anyway. It was nice of him to want to.” My preprepared story seems to satisfy him.
“Isn’t this exciting!” Zorrah yells from her perch on Olin’s shoulders.
I smile and nod. Looking past her, I spot a burly man with a headset moving in our direction. I swear. They must have known to watch for anyone talking to Olin. I wave Zorrah down from Olin’s shoulders. Here goes nothing.
Huddling the three of us, I communicate as quickly as possible without conveying panic. “Zorrah, remember what we talked about this morning?”
It takes her a second, but she nods. “About Neca?”
“I was at his physical. The officials are covering up the fact that fighting tonight could kill him.”
They stare at me wide-eyed.
“I’m not going to let that happen.”
“Why doesn’t Neca refuse?” Olin grips my arm.
“I don’t know,” I lie. “Maybe he feels pressure. Look, I don’t have much time. Centavo’s replacement has threatened to kill me in order to conceal his duplicity.” I nod in the direction of the nearest goon. “His men are wearing these.” I hand an identical headset to Zorrah. “You think you can do something with this to slow them down?”
Zorrah whips the device on her head and listens in before nodding. “Sure, but what—”
“Just keep them off me however you can.”
Olin grips my arm tighter.
I bull forward. “Stick to the plan. Bring my uniform to the academy in the morning. I’ll have to lay low tonight.” I yank Olin’s hand free. “I’ll be there in the morning with Yetic, I promise.”
“Yetic?”
“I’ll explain everything tomorrow. Trust me!” I thrust into the crowd and push downhill toward the center of the arena. Luckily, Huemac’s men have been instructed to block my escape. As a result, they’re intentionally forcing me closer to my actual target—the cage.
A loud squeal interrupts the recorded voice as the audio system temporarily distorts. I smile, imagining the effect of the surge on Huemac’s men. Zorrah’s a gem, no doubt.
Person by person, I shove my way through the crowd while trying not to panic. The process is painfully slow. I’m only halfway to the center when the recorded voice ends its introduction and the announcer takes over. I have to get closer.
“Citizens of New Teo! People of Worker City! What most consider a curse, we choose to embrace. We welcome the fight!” The crowd ignites, cheering and thrusting fists into the air. A chant breaks out organically around the arena, “Fight, fight, fight!” This continues for several seconds as I scratch and claw my way closer to the cage.
The announcer continues. “Tonight is the night of undefeateds. Two champions will enter the cage. Only one will exit!” At this point the audience splits, each person chanting for his or her favorite fighter. Using my head as a battering ram, I force my way closer.
“Determined by the flip of a coin, I introduce to you tonight’s defending champ, the only psych-fighter in history to string together more than fifty victories in less than a year, from District Four, your very own Golden Boy, Yetic!” The arena shakes as people cheer, cluck their tongues, and stomp.
The lights around the edge of the arena dim. Dead center, over the top of the cage and beneath it, spotlights burst into life. The light shining up from the floor redirects to illuminate a circular hatch in the arena ceiling.
The clamoring audience intensifies. They sharpen their focus upward and ignore the rude girl pushing past. I’m jabbing a particularly fat fellow in the side the moment Yetic plummets through the open hatch. The crowd flinches as he drops within centimeters of their heads. Manipulating telekinesis I can only dream of, he reverses direction and flies to the top of the cage.
The stunt reminds me of the fly or die moment Centavo subjected Olin and me to a couple of days earlier. The results are considerably different. Watching Yetic open the door on top of the cage and drop inside, I realize my time is almost up. Just a bit closer.
This is when Yetic is supposed to address the audience with the simple invocation, “I welcome the fight.” Instead, the plan is for him to invoke an archaic version, one never used but still in the books. He hesitates. Tension builds in the crowd.
Is he still trying to locate me? Is he waiting for me to get closer? Or is this Yetic’s idea of showmanship? He clears his throat. The sound cracks loudly due to the telescoping microphones positioned on him. For a split second, he looks straight at me.
I’m close enough to see his expression. It’s the same one he wore when he came up with the idea. What have I gotten myself into?
“Anyone and everyone close enough to hear and brave enough to respond,” Yetic’s voice is jocular, teasing, “I welcome you to fight.”
The audience breaks out in clucks and laughter. They get the joke instantly. Yetic has sold the taunt with perfect disdain and flare. In the old days, challengers were decided by whoever was first to lock themselves in the cage with the champ. Everyone in the arena thinks Yetic is rubbing in his victory of the coin toss with a wink and a nod. Everyone in the arena except for me. I raise both hands, the signal that I’m ready.
If Yetic moves fast enough, while disguising his involvement, no one should be able to stop us now. With a sudden yank, I rocket upward from the arena floor, leaving the crush of the audience below. I grit my teeth. I have to keep my eyes open and look in control, despite my total lack of it.
In an improvised flourish—something Yetic and I had not discussed—I perform an acrobatic flip before landing on top of the cage. Yetic cuts the cords of his psychic control, leaving the rest up to me. The spotlight beneath the cage has shifted toward Neca’s hatch, but I can tell by the murmuring that many in the audience are watching me instead. The announcer hesitates, buying me more time.
I lunge for the open door of the cage the same moment the audience gasps at Neca’s descent into the arena. According to the archaic rule of challenge, the first to enter the cage is bound by the sacred honor of the sport to fight. Neca’s the only one left who can stop me. I jump for the opening.
Neca’s voice cracks over the loud system. “Wait! What—” the cry is one of confusion, perhaps betrayal. A second passes. He’s too late.
I grasp the cage door and slam it shut above me. Dangling there, I lock eyes with Neca. I want to wish him well, perhaps kiss him goodbye. But the opportunity has long passed. We’re both too late.
The cage jolts to life with telekinetic energy, dislodging me. Yetic’s thoughts clutch me before I hit the bottom.
With Yetic suspending me, I turn my attention to the matter at hand. I’ve got seconds to learn how to fight, or else become Yetic’s personal marionette for the remainder of the bout, and possibly for the next year.
Up to this point, the crowd has remained in a mumbling state of shock. Yetic does a nice job of appearing as surprised as everyone else. A rowdy individual somewhere in the arena demands to know what’s going on. Agreement ripples throughout the audience. I wish I could see the expression on Huemac’s face.
Using the break in the action, I search the telekinetic energy swimming in and around me for the key to unlocking my latent abilities. So what if I’ve no formal training or experience? Everybody’s got to learn sometime. I close my eyes and think.
Neca had mentioned borrowing energy from the cage and his opponents. Maybe I can do that. But the more I focus, the more the energy around me seems to confine rather than empower.
“Citizens of New Teo! People of Worker City!” Less energetically, the announcer interrupts my thoughts. Before he can continue, I somehow hear Olin. Startled, I search for my brother’s location in the crowd as the announcer explains the official decision.
I hear Olin again, even closer, and I realize he’s in my thoughts.
He repeats his question. What are you doing?
The announcer finishes with an energetic, “Let the fight begin!”
Yetic glances around at the crowd theatrically, giving them his best shrug. A few claps and cheers build across the arena. Yetic darts about the cage, working the audience up. Finally, he leers at me. “You know who I am. Who might you be?” Some scattered laughter joins the energy growing amongst the audience.
I focus inward and think of Olin. Help. In response, I hear my mind suggest a specific course of action I know I haven’t thought of on my own. It’s as if my mind is translating external signals into nerve impulses my body can understand. Of my own volition, I raise my hands and ball them into fists.
Yetic raises a brow, looking both surprised and impressed that I’ve broken his mental constraints.
I should be totally in Yetic’s control, but I’m not. I shouldn’t be able to channel Olin through the cage, but I can.
Slowly, telekinetically, I unravel my blue-black braid from around my neck. Lashing it to the side, I crack the air loud enough to distort the sound system. The arena becomes pin-drop silent. I shake my head and loosen my shoulders while gaining quickness and familiarity with translating Olin’s signals.
When I open my mouth, the words are totally my own. “I’m the next champion of New Teo. You heard the man, let the fight begin.” I lash my braid toward Yetic’s face. As he pulls away, I spin into an attack with both feet aimed at his chest.
Partially repelling me and partially dodging to the side, Yetic avoids all but a glancing blow. Before the heel of my foot slides past his ribs, I bring my braid around for another lashing attack. Sparking the air, I catch Yetic’s ear and draw first blood.
As I rebound off the cage and dodge a wild roundhouse from Yetic, the crowd erupts. In seconds they’ve forgotten the fight they came here for, intent on the one unfolding in front of them. I’m sorry Neca, tonight’s story isn’t yours to tell.
Regrouping and giving the fans a moment to catch their breath, Yetic and I float into the center of the cage. Yetic touches the tip of his ear, rubs the blood between two fingers, and licks his lips. “Nice to meet you.” Without moving a muscle, he launches a psychic attack.
Caught in the electrical storm, my body seizes in spasm right up until the moment his open palm drives into my sternum. Pain blossoms across my chest. In the midst of it, my mind politely suggests I wrap my braid around the attacking wrist and return the blow to Yetic’s ribs.
Obediently, my right fist drives upward as I twine Yetic’s arm with my braid. Yanking him forward, I drive my fist into his third and fourth ribs, cracking one with the force. I spin away from Yetic’s weak counter and retreat into the opposite corner where I struggle to catch my breath.
Off balance, Yetic strikes the cage with a shoulder. The current propels him back into the middle where he quickly regathers himself.
Beneath the pain, my mind continues to talk to me. But I can’t discerning between the two. Finally, I force a full breath into my lungs despite the searing pain. Yetic and I exchange growls. We both lost on the last exchange. What ever good-natured chivalry he brought into the cage has been cooked by his smoldering rage. Good. Anger doesn’t scare me.
I crack my braid twice, daring the bull to charge.
This time he comes with both telekinetic and physical attack. The psychic blow compresses between us as I counter. Before the tension explodes, I drop out of the air. Striking the bottom of the cage with my feet, I borrow the energy of the field and bound upward in a twisting somersault.
Yetic leaps over my attack, rebounds off the cage, and thrusts toward me head first.
As his head impacts my gut, I aim my braid for his neck. He’s ready this time. Catching it, he batters my sternum with three quick punches. Clutching the base of my braid, he slams my rigid body into the cage.
The wash of its telekinetic field drowns me. Despite being able to see, I’m mentally blind. Olin? Nothing responds except static.
I aim a punch for Yetic’s face. He deflects it with a thought.
The feeble attack is my worst mistake so far. His eyes flare with awareness. He knows I’m broken. Yanking me from the cage’s field, he spins me over his head. I search the static in my mind, groping to reconnect. Olin?
Yetic tosses me and unleashes a vivid, show-stopping bolt of dark-red light into my chest. The force of it punches through me, draining whatever life I’ve left. Erratically, I bounce off of separate walls before coming to a stop in the middle of the cage. Nearly unconscious, I’m late to recognize the fact my body is completely inert—paralyzed by Yetic’s mind.
After hearing nothing except Olin and then nothing except static, I again hear the roar of the crowd. It’s filled with lust. Yetic has brought them to the brink. Time expands as the arena basks in the moment of climax. Not yet willing to step away from the cliff’s edge and embrace the afterglow, the audience shares in Yetic’s conquest.
I gasp for breath. Pain sizzles throughout my body. I’m angry yet resolved. We’ve given them the show they wanted, and no one had to die.
The following seconds and minutes blur. I hear snippets of Yetic whispering in my ear. “That was something, Bluehair…never seen anything like it…they won’t soon forget.” He’s cradling me and in a hurry. Several other voices yell for people to stand clear or get back. The noise of the crowd lessens. The air grows cooler.
Then I hear Neca. “Yetic! What have you done?”
We stop moving. I struggle to open my eyes. We’re in a tunnel. It’s dark.
The whites of Neca’s eyes loom in the darkness above me. “I thought a deal was a deal.” He’s angry.
Other bodies crowd around. I can smell Yetic’s breath, but his face is too close to focus on. “The girl’s deal was better. Nothing personal.”
“The girl’s deal? What are you talking about?”
I reach my hand for Neca’s floating face.
He notices the movement and focuses on me.
“I’m with Yetic now. Don’t waste what’s left.” My hand drops limply.
There’s more yelling in the distance.
Yetic tosses me over a shoulder and starts jogging. “You heard the lady.”
I can’t be sure, but I think I hear the word “why” trail from Neca’s lips before all sight and sound blink out.
END of Episode Five
REGISTRATION DAY. THE ANXIETY is even worse than I expected. So much of my life has been in anticipation of registering for Masa Academy. Now that it has come, I’m careening out of control. And of all people, only Yetic is here to stabilize me.
Verging on frantic, I search the milling crowd for Olin’s sloppy, black braid. I press the palms of my hands into my eyes. Lack of sleep compounds the matter.
Sometime after midnight I had awoken in a strange place, surrounded by strange, sleeping people. Awkwardly, I had found myself clothed in a stained, second-hand tzotzomatli—my sparring unitard, along with most of my memories of the fight, long gone. And there next to me lay Yetic, his rhythmic snoring the only anchor in the ever-shifting sea of my new life.
During the early morning hours I hadn’t slept. All I could think of were the dozen different ways this day could end in death or worse. So many moving parts—my braid, the icpitls that Zorrah programmed, our new records, blood tests, and the possibility Huatiani had confided the truth of our identities with someone else.
I freeze as I glimpse the fleeting image of a dark-skinned face pushing through the crowd meters away. There it is again. But it couldn’t be. I duck down and look the other direction. Why would Neca come here? To say goodbye? Again? In my exhausted state, I start to tremble.
“Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time to find them.” Yetic wraps an arm around my shoulder and parts the crowd in front of us.
My natural instinct is to recoil from his touch, but Yetic has been a solid leader over the last twelve hours. He eluded Huemac and his goons after the bout. He found us a safe place to spend the night. He got us to the gates of the ōllamaliztli stadium.
He’s no Neca. Then again, Olin and I don’t need a tender-hearted romantic like Neca to get us through our years in Masa. We need the brute determination of Yetic.
Still, every time I look into his face, I catch a glimpse of the madness that frothed from his eyes in the cage—the uncontrolled animal gorging at the trough of rage. The two of us have more in common than I want to admit.
“I want this day to be over.” Standing on tiptoes, I spot the back of a head that could be Olin’s and force myself to banish the thought of Neca.
“What? You’re not in the least bit excited to check out the competition? To stand out above the rank and file?” Yetic fills his lungs as if savoring another victory in the cage.
I shake my head. “Survival is all I’ve known for too long.”
“I hate to break it to you, Bluehair, but beyond those doors,” Yetic nods toward the stadium gates, “survival’s no longer enough.”
I pull him forward.
He continues, “The two of us—”
“The four of us,” I correct him.
“The four of us have to be the best. In the end, it’s only the best who survive.”
“Well then it’s all about survival after all, and that’s something I know plenty about.” I tug on him. “This way, I think I see them.”
The ōllamaliztli stadium is situated on the spine that divides the twin cities of New Teo. It’s the one place where mortals and immortals are almost allowed to mix. For a typical ōllamaliztli ballgame the mortal side of the stadium fills to bursting with workers while the other side spaciously hosts a few thousand immortals. Even so, the stands on the immortal side are much higher, to block any potential view into Immortal City.
Today, the only spectators will be families who’ve come to say their final goodbyes. As the crowd outside the stadium gates swells and jams together, the stickiness of the early morning air intensifies.
“Olin!” He turns slightly, and I recognize him. “Zorrah!” I push my way through a final knot of people, Yetic in tow. “I’m so glad to see you.”
Olin stares at me, deadpan. He shakes his head and says, “After everything we’ve been through, you still don’t trust me? Or am I just a baby to you? Your pathetic little brother?”
“What are you talking about?” My brother’s anger strikes me like a fist to the gut. I sway on my feet. My actions from last night come crashing down, forcing me to face their repercussions.
“What am I talking about? What am I—” Olin squeezes his temples. “You’re my sister for gods’ sake, and you concoct a plan that put’s your life at risk without even informing me?”
Zorrah clings tighter to his side, distracting him.
Olin sputters before continuing, “I don’t know what’s more insulting, that you don’t think I can help, or that you don’t ask until you’ve got no choice.” He lowers his voice. “I killed for you.”
I close my eyes and scrape together reserves of strength. “There wasn’t time. I did what was best for all of us.”
“In your opinion.” Olin thrusts out his hand, my uniform clutched in it. “This may come as a shock to you, sis, but you’re not always right.”
I take the uniform and open my mouth to argue.
Olin cuts me off. “My entire life, I’ve listened to you. These last two years I’ve followed your lead without wavering. You wanna know why?” He glares at me.
Exhausted, I nod my head.
“Not because you were right, but because you were all I had.” He softens slightly. “We need to stick together. I know that. So we have, and we will. But not like this.” He points at Yetic with his chin.
Finally we progress to the conflict I had anticipated. “Yetic has agreed to help us. He improves our chances of survival.” I shift my stare from Olin to Zorrah and back to Olin. They’re waiting for me to say more. At first, I’ve no idea what. Then I realize they’ve deduced the arrangement between me and Yetic. I shrug. It’s not like I had planned on keeping it a secret.
Yetic steps forward, puffing his chest and straightening his shoulders in response to the silent challenge.
“Yes,” I blurt out, “I’ve agreed to couple with him.” I cross my arms and glare.
Olin is unfazed. “In a matter that directly affects my future, you don’t even think to consult me?”
“I’ve been busy figuring out how to keep us together and keep us alive. You should be doing the same.” I indicate Zorrah with a flicker of my eyes.
Olin blushes and stares at his feet.
Clearly he’s thought about coupling with her, but hasn’t worked up the nerve to ask. Or maybe he thinks I’ll take care of it. This is one thing I’m not going to do for him. “That’s the last I’ll speak of it.”
The pop and buzz of the daily identification burn crackles around us, indicating it’s 7:30am. The milling crowd stills. All at once we inhale the ionized air along with a foreboding anticipation.
Our means of identification is about to change forever. As masazin the ID burn will no longer matter. Instead we’ll bear the band, the mark of our barracks that will serve as the intermediate step between our lives in Worker City and our lives as ometeotl. If we survive the transition.
Before any of us can think to speak, the stadium gates swing open. The nearest pair are less than twenty meters away.
“This is it.” Yetic huddles us together. “Slow and steady. We’ve got a long morning ahead of us.”
Olin presses his shoulder against mine as we shuffle forward. “There’s one thing you still need to understand.” I take his hand. He doesn’t withdraw it. “Masa is your dream, not mine.”
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.” I grab both of them and 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. We reach our designated ramp and funnel into the stadium belly.
Midway down the ramp, a disturbance halts our progress. I peer past those in front to 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.” 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 stride in front of him. Holding my breath, I place my braid in the scanner.
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 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. 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 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. 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 says, “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?” I ask the question out loud, but it’s more to myself than to Olin.
Before Olin can respond, the tunnel births us with a sudden push. We stumble into the bright lights of a huge subterranean room where a few hundred other registrants have already gathered.