Page 41 of Silver Elite

At that, she leaves us to navigate our own sleeping arrangements, and the moment she’s gone everyone hurries to grab their things. To my surprise, I find a duffel with my name on it. I set it on the bed next to Lyddie’s while Kaine settles on the other side of me. Great.

I unzip the bag and conduct a quick inventory. Three more uniforms—one black and long-sleeved, a second set of the one I currently wear, and a nicer, overly starched one. According to Lyddie, each uniform has a purpose: training, casual, formal. I can tell she wants to go into more detail, but I turn away to continue taking stock.

I find a pair of loose cotton shorts and a white tank that I assume I’m supposed to sleep in. A pack of underwear, plain white. Two bras, and while I’m aware that all my measurements are recorded in my ID file, there’s something incredibly intrusive about the fact that someone picked out a bra for me. The last item in the bag is a toiletry case with a hairbrush and some other amenities.

We each get a locker and a shelf above our beds. Most of the other recruits are making use of the shelf with little mementos from home. Mine remains bare.

Beside me, Lyddie pulls a digital photograph out of her bag and carefully places the small projector on her shelf. It’s a picture of herposing on a stone terrace with two people who must be her parents, the glass dome of the Capitol building serving as a backdrop. She wasn’t kidding about her parents being well connected.

When the hairs on the back of my neck rise, I turn to find Anson’s eyes on me again. Gleaming in anticipation.

Right, then. I gather my sleepwear and toiletry case, deciding to change in one of the lavatory stalls.

“Aww, what a shame. No bed for the unlucky little lamb.”

It takes a second to realize Kess’s mocking voice is not directed at me, but the girl behind me. She’s about eighteen or nineteen, timidly standing at the wall holding her duffel.

I glance from the girl to the rows of beds. Technically, there should be at least twenty-eight since we started the day with fifty-six recruits. Ford cut seven after the test, which leaves twenty-four of us in Black Cell. Yet there are only twenty-three beds, and a lot of empty space at the end of our row, as if beds had been deliberately removed. This feels like another one of their ridiculous tests, but I’m not sure what its purpose is.

“It’s probably just a mistake. I should go and find someone?” The teenager wears a stricken expression. Her voice is trembling.

No, she’s not a lamb—even lambs have more confidence than this. She’s more like one of my wobbly newborn calves, uncertainly following her mother as she adjusts to the big, frightening world into which she’s suddenly been thrust.

“It won’t matter.” This comes from Ivy, who, unlike me, has no qualms about undressing in front of twenty-three strangers and Anson’s unnerving gaze.

Ivy unbuttons her trousers and pushes them down to expose her bare legs. She reaches for a pair of drawstring pants she must have brought from home, their pale-blue pattern with its thin pinstripes telling me she comes from means, likely from an elite family in the Point.

Those types of fabrics are beyond rare. General Redden’s philosophy is all about functionality. Efficiency. The fabrics that roll out of his textile mills are utilitarian—solid grays, blacks, blues. You won’t find many ward shops that carry patterns or prints, but if you havethe credits, you can easily procure custom-made goods in Sanctum Point. All the pinstripes and florals your heart desires.

“They do this at the start of every session,” Ivy explains. “There’s always one less bed than recruits.”

“Looks like the little lamb will have to sleep on the floor.” Kess clicks her tongue. “Poor baby.”

The lamb bites her lip. “I’ll go find someone.” She takes a step. I feel bad for her.

“I told you, don’t bother.” Ivy sounds annoyed. “They won’t care. They do this on purpose.”

“To what end?” asks a guy whose name I can’t remember. Ford and Hadley barked out far too many names today.

“They do it to identify the bleeding heart,” Ivy says with a shrug. “Every session, someone inevitably gives up their bed, then gets cut from the Program the next morning.”

A hesitant Lyddie speaks up. “Why are they cut?”

“They’re considered a weak link because of their compassion.”

She can’t be serious. My annoyance simmers beneath the surface at the idea of such a pointless tactic.

I step toward the girl. “What’s your name?”

“Pera,” she says.

“You can have my bed, Pera.” I start to gather up my stuff.

“Wren,” protests Lyddie. “Didn’t you hear what Ivy just said? What if you’re cut?”

“They’re not going to cut me.” I’m confident of it, considering Captain Cross said he wanted to keep me close.

And if theydocut me, then, fuck yes, sign me up. I’d love nothing more than to leave this base.

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