Aletheia (The Seventh River, Book 1)

Chapter 4

My head pounds from stress as I step up to one of the ration stations and onto the weight panel in the floor. A counter in front of me stretches to the wall. As soon as I step up, an empty cup and tray are pushed from dispensers. A two-foot-tall white device flashes green before me. I insert half of my right forearm into the padded black hole until my cuff clicks into place.

The cuff reader makes me hold my arm at an uncomfortable, slightly twisted angle. I wince as the reader tightens around me, putting sudden pressure on the metal screws securing the cuff to one of the bones of my forearm.

The device begins to read my data. Vitals, mineral levels, division, height, every biological detail I know about myself and more are quickly communicated to the machine. I run the thumb of my left hand over the small bulge of flesh spilling over the slightly exposed edge of my cuff. The cuffs are changed every few years when we are still growing. I got my last change years ago; I'll never see my right arm without this cuff again.

There's a quick push against my arm as the chemical refill unit clicks into place. I need to stop running late. A number representing my Value drops fifty-three places on the cuff reader's screen. I know it's coming, I think over and over as I brace myself. But I still jump when the ration square falls from the metal box above onto my tray. A spout pours a green and yellow liquid into my cup. I don't jump or flinch this time. I guess nutrient blocks are the scarier of the two.

It takes another minute for the reader to finish replenishing the many chemicals my cuff uses on me so often, and I take the time to down the greenish liquid. Finally, the reader releases me. I pull my arm from the reader and grab my rations. My hands are trembling, sending crumbs dancing across the counter. Somehow I manage to pocket my ration block before it's entirely jiggled to bits. A functional camera stares me down as I put my cup and ration tray through the corresponding sized holes in the wall. I give it a small glare, before leaving through the doorway towards dispatch.

Off in the distance, the dull red glow of three, sensor-lined doorways illuminate the hall. Above the central door, a metal plaque reads Division 7: Supply Collection and Ambient Retention or SCAR for short. Some people use the term to refer to those of us from Division 7. It works because there isn't a single person among us who doesn't have at least a few scars.

Silence presses in at my ears as I walk. Goosebumps rise on my skin in response to the cold seeping in from the walls. Gliding my hand along the cement I shudder a little, imagining the seven floors worth of deathly still earth sitting on the other side. I always imagine bones, and rock, and maybe even rivers of lava. It feels like we are so deep in the earth we could be competing with hell for building space.

As I near the end of the hall, my thoughts turn to the day ahead. 1633 is fortunate to no longer be in Division 7 since he lost his arm. Fortunate, but not lucky the way most think. I wish it was as easy as luck. A shudder spreads across my body as I remember the one time I had to go through an injury trial. It was a quick decision. All I had was a broken rib, compliments of a water-damaged floor out in the ruins giving way beneath my feet. I remember how I gritted my teeth as I ran and jumped at the command of the Prophet's Voices to prove I was still able-bodied enough to stay in Division 7. My life was far from on the line then, but many of the injuries received in Division 7 are far worse, and it's far from uncommon for an injury trial to end in harvesting—a missing limb normally guarantees it.

I reach my assigned dispatch door, and it admits me to a song of chimes and flash of green light. The mechanical door I just walked through closes behind me, and a wrist reader opens up. The chemicals in my cuff are already replenished, so the device relinquishes me quickly and the metal wall before me slides open.