“Are virtual y impossible,” the Official agrees. “So you can see why we were intrigued. Why we let you see Ky’s picture so that you would be curious. Why we made sure you were assigned to the same hiking group, and then to the same pairs. Why we had to fol ow it through, at least for a time.”
She smiles. “It was so intriguing; we could control so many variables. We even reduced your meal portions to see if that would make you more stressed, more likely to give up. But you didn’t. Of course, we were never cruel. You always had sufficient calories. And you’re strong. You never did take the green tablet.”
“Why does that matter?”
“It makes you more interesting,” she says. “A very intriguing subject, in fact. Ultimately predictable, but stil unusual enough to want to watch. It would have been interesting to see your situation play out to the final predicted outcome.” She sighs, a sigh of genuine sadness. “I planned to write an article about it, available only to select Officials, of course. It would have been an unparal eled proof of the validity of Matching. That’s why I didn’t want you to lose your memory of what happened this morning at the air-train station. Al my work would have been for nothing. Now, at least I can see you make your final choice while you stil know what happened.”
The anger fil s me so ful that there is no room for thought or speech. It would have been interesting to see it play out to the final predicted outcome.
It was al planned from the start. Everything.
“Unfortunately, my skil s are needed elsewhere now.” She runs her hand along the datapod in front of her. “We simply don’t have the time to monitor the situation anymore, so we can’t extend it any longer.”
“Why tel me al of this?” I ask. “Why do you want me to know every last detail?” She looks surprised. “Because we care about you, Cassia. No more or less than we care about al our citizens. As the subject of an experiment, you have the right to know what happened. The right to make the choice we know you’l make now instead of waiting any longer.” It’s so funny, her use of the word choice, so unintentional y hysterical that I would laugh if I didn’t think it would come out sounding like a cry. “Did you tel Xander?”
She looks offended. “Of course not. He’s stil your Match. In order for the experiment to be control ed, he had to remain in the dark. He knows nothing about any of this.”
Except what I told him, I think, and I realize that she doesn’t know.
There are things she doesn’t know. With this realization, it is as though something has been given back to me. The knowledge drops into my anger and distil s it into something pure and clear. And one of the things she knows nothing about is love.
“Ky, however, was different,” she says. “We told him. We pretended we were warning him, but of course we were hoping to give him impetus to try to be with you. And that worked as wel .” She smiles, smug, because she also thinks that I don’t know this part of the story. But, of course, I do.
“So you watched us al the time,” I say.
“Not al the time,” she answers. “We watched you enough to get an effective sample of what your interactions were like. We couldn’t watch al of your interactions on the Hil , for example, or even on the smal er hil . Officer Carter stil had jurisdiction over that area and did not look kindly on our being there.”
I wait for her to ask; somehow I know she wil . Even though she thinks she has an accurate sample, there is a part of her that has to know more.
“So what did happen between you and Ky?” she asks.
She doesn’t know about the kiss. That was not what sent him away. That moment on the Hil is stil ours, mine and Ky’s. Ours. No one has touched it but the two of us.
This wil be what I have to hold onto as I go forward. The kiss, and the poem, and the I love you’s we wrote and said.
“If you tel me, I can help you. I can recommend you for a work position in the City. You could stay here; you wouldn’t have to leave for the Farmlands with your family.” She leans closer. “Tel me what happened.”
I look away. In spite of everything, the offer is tempting. I’m a little afraid of leaving Oria; I don’t want to leave Xander and Em. I don’t want to leave the places that hold so many memories of Grandfather. And most of al I don’t want to leave this City and my Borough because they are where I found and loved Ky.
But he’s not here anymore. I have to find him somewhere else.
The prisoner’s dilemma. Somewhere Ky keeps faith with me and I can do the same for him. I won’t give up.
“No,” I say clearly.
“I thought you’d say that,” she tel s me, but I hear the disappointment in her tone and I suddenly want to laugh. I want to ask her if it ever gets tedious being right al the time. But I think I know what her answer would be.
“So what is the final predicted outcome?” I ask.
“Does it matter?” she smiles. “It’s what wil happen. It’s what you’l do. But I’l tel you if you’d like.” I realize that I don’t need to hear it; I don’t need to hear anything she has to say or any predictions she thinks she can make. They do not know that Xander hid the artifact, that Ky can write, that Grandfather gave me poetry.
What else doesn’t she know?
“You say you planned this al along,” I say suddenly, on instinct, acting as though I want to be certain. “You’re tel ing me you put Ky into the Matching pool yourselves.”
“Yes,” she answers. “We did.”
This time, I look right at her when she speaks and that’s when I see it. The faintest twitch of muscle in her jaw, a slight shift of her eyes, the smal est ring of performance in the tone of her voice. She doesn’t often have to lie; she’s never been an Aberration, so this doesn’t come easily to her, she hasn’t had as much practice. She can’t keep her face perfectly stil the way Ky does when he’s playing a game and he knows what he has to do, whether it’s better to win or lose.