Free The Proving by Ken Brosky Page B

ocean. Cleo neither liked it nor hated it; she was more interested in whether she could (with a running start) run right up the sloping glass and maybe pretend she was surfing before any Spartan security could stop her. Bright green grass surrounded the building, and people — free citizens, not clan members — milled about, no doubt either talking about laws or complaining about their “volunteer” service in Parliament’s chamber of commons.
    “Yeah,” Cleo said, “these people got it tough, don’t they bro-bro?”
    Reza just shrugged. He was watching a woman sitting on one of the benches along the main walk. She was busily tapping away at a computer pad on her lap. Was her brother looking at the woman or the computer? She wondered.
    “Let’s go.” She grabbed his hand. Together, they walked in through the front doors of the structure, behind a handful of school kids and their teacher who were there for a tour. Parliament was an open space, sprawling, confusing, and way too full of people for Cleo’s tastes. But they weren’t going to sit in on a Parliamentary debate. No, they had special privileges today. Two Spartan security guards escorted them through the security sensors and to a pair of side elevators with shiny brass doors. One of the guards flashed his security card across the reader panel. The touchscreen above the panel read PLEASE WAIT.
    The Spartans were giving her a weird look. She casually checked the touchscreen of her VRacelet, sending a “wake up” message to her contact lenses. Two targeting reticules appeared on the Spartan guards. Their identifications appeared beside them. Cleo tapped on the human face icon on the VRacelet screen, opening up her facial recognition program. The nano diodes inside the contacts took in the reflection on Cleo’s eyes and highlighted the faces of the Spartans, reading their expressions to identify the most likely match. In this case: smug bemusement .
    The elevator doors parted.
    “Good luck, Persians,” said the tall one.
    Cleo forced a smile. “Thank you so much. Enjoy your day.” Once the doors closed, she added: “You big, ugly cretin.”
    “He seemed nice,” Reza said.
    “He was being condescending,” Cleo snapped. “He thinks we’re a bunch of weaklings.”
    “Who?”
    “Clan Persia. The Spartans loooooove being the big, tough guys. Or girls. Whatever.”
    Reza sighed. Cleo’s facial recognition program scanned his face, registering profound bewilderment. “Why can’t we just sit in our rooms and program what we want? Why can’t I just make my video game? Why do we even need a clan at all?”
    “Because it’s tradition,” Cleo said. “Because a long, long time ago people got together in groups and started worrying about other groups. Go ask a Historian. And the reason you can’t sit around designing your video game is because your class was assigned to the Spartan combat protocols. Better start getting used to it, buster. When you graduate, you’ll go work in a little cubicle and take orders for a living. Can’t you have fun making video games for the Spartans?”
    “I like making video games with wizards and trolls.”
    The doors opened before Reza could complain any more. Cleo put a hand on his back, then gave him a strong push. He resisted. She pushed hard. “Just go already!” she hissed. The doors shut behind them. “No going back, bro-bro. Only forward.”
    “Shoot,” Reza said. “I was hoping they’d already left.”
    Everyone was standing on the other end of the small subway station, waiting for them. Two from Clan Sparta. Two from Clan Athens. Two from Parliament. And the Historian.
    No going back, Cleo thought. She held up her VRacelet and opened up her super-secret program marked with an X icon. She pressed it. The illegal computing chip inside her brain clicked on. She felt an exciting surge of electricity course through her brain. This was it. The Proving. The last test before official adulthood.
    No going