Red Rising Chapter 17 The Draft

“Son of Linus and Lexus au Androdus, both of the House Apollo. Would you prefer to mark yourself as requesting House Apollo preferentiality?” a tedious Aureate administrator asks .

Goldbrows’ first loyalty is to Color, then family, then planet, then House. Most Houses are dominated by one or two powerful families. On Mars, the Family Augustus, the Family Bellona, and the Family Arcos influence all others.

“No,” I reply.

He shuffles over his datapad. “Very well. How do you believe you perford on the slangSmarts test? That is the extrapolational test,” he clarifies.

“I think my results speak for themselves.”

“You were not paying attention, Darrow. I shall mark that against you. I’m asking for you to speak for your results.”

“I think I took a gory piss on your test, sir .”

“Ah.” He smiles. “Well, you did. You did. House Minerva for brains might be right for you. Perhaps Pluto, for the deviousness. Apollo for the pride. Yes. Hmm. Well, I have a test for you. Please complete it to the best of your ability. Interviews will comnce when you have finished.”

The test is quick and it is in the form of an imrsion ga. There is a goblet on a hill that I need to acquire. Many obstacles stand in my way. I pass them as rationally as possible, trying to hide my anger when a little elf steals a key I acquire. But every step of the way, there’s so damn setback, so inconvenience. And it is always unforeseen. It is always sothing beyond the bound of extrapolation. In the end, I reach the goblet, but only after killing an annoying wizard and cruelly enslaving the race of elves by ans of said wizard’s magic wand. I could have left the elves be. But they annoyed .

Soon, the interviewers co in intervals. I learn they are called Proctors. Each one of them is a Peerless Scarred. They are chosen by the ArchGovernor to teach and represent the students of the House within the Institute.

All said, the Proctors are impressive. There’s a huge Scarred man with hair like a lion and a lightning bolt on his collar for Jupiter, a matronly woman with gentle golden eyes, and a quickwitted man with winged feet on his collar. He can’t sit still and his baby face seems imnsely fascinated by my hands. He makes play a ga with him in which he puts out both hands flat and facing up and I put mine atop facing down. He tries slapping my hands, but never quite manages. He leaves after clapping his hands together in joy.

Another strange encounter cos when a beautiful man with coiled hair interviews . A bow marks his collar. Apollo. He asks how attractive I believe myself to be and is displeased when I undershoot his estimate. Still, I think he likes , because he asks what I would like to be one day.

“An Imperator of a fleet,” I say.

“You could do great things with a fleet. But a lofty notion,” he sighs, accenting every word with a feline purr. “Perhaps too lofty for your family. Maybe if you had a benefactor of better familial origin. Yes, maybe then.” He looks at his datapad. “But unlikely due to your birth. Hm. Best of luck.”

I sit alone for an hour or more till a sullen man cos to join . His unfortunate face is pinched like a hatchet, but he has the Scar and a razor hilt hangs on his hip. His na is Fitchner. A wad of gum fills his mouth. The uniform he wears is black with gold, and it nearly conceals the slight belly paunch that sticks outward despite the faint sll of tabolizers. Like many of the others, he wears badges about his personage. A golden wolf with two heads decorates his collar. And a strange hand marks his cuff.

“They give the mad dogs,” he says. “They give the killers of our race, the ones full of piss and napalm and vinegar.” He sniffs the air. “You sll full of shit.”

I say nothing. He leans against the door and frowns at it as though it offended him in so way. Then back to , sniffing improperly.

“Problem is, we of House Mars always burn out. Kids rule the Institute at first. Then they find out that napalm lasts about …” He snaps his fingers. I have no reply. He sighs and plops down in a chair. After a while of watching , he stands and punches in the face. “If you punch back, you will be sent ho, Pixie.”

I kick him in the shin.

He limps away, laughing like a drunk Uncle Narol.

I’m not sent ho. Instead, I find myself escorted with one hundred others into a large room with floatChairs and a large wall dominated by ivory gridwork. The gridwork forms a checkerboard square on the wall, ten rows high, ten rows across. I’m taken on a lift to the middle row, so fifty feet off the ground. Ninety-nine other students are ushered in till each box is filled. This is the pri crop, the best of the students. I look out from my box, peering up above . A girl’s feet dangle out of the box above my head. Numbers and letters appear in front of my box. My statistics. Supposedly I am very rash and have upper-outlier characteristics in intuition and loyalty and, most noticeably, rage.

There are twelve groups in the audience. Each group sits close together in floatChairs around vertical golden standards. I see an archer, a lightning bolt, an owl, a wolf with two heads, an upside-down crown, and a trident, amongst others. One of the Proctors accompanies each group. They alone do not have their faces covered. The others wear ceremonial masks, featureless and golden and slightly like the animals of their Houses. If only I had known this was going to happen. I might have brought a nuke. These are the Drafters, the n and won of highest prestige. Praetors and Imperators and Tribunes and Adjudicators and Governors sit there watching , trying to choose the new students for their House, trying to find young n and won they can test and offer apprenticeships. With one bomb, I could have destroyed the best and the brightest of their Golden rule. Maybe that’s the rashness speaking.

The Draft begins when a titan of a genAlt boy is chosen first to the House of the lightning bolt. House Jupiter. Then go more girls and boys of unnatural beauty and physical prowess. I can only guess they are geniuses as well. The fifth pick cos. The babyfaced interviewer with the winged feet floats up to on golden boots. Several of the Drafters of House rcury float along with him. They speak quietly amongst themselves before asking questions.

“Who are your parents? What are their family’s accomplishnts?”

I tell them about my modest false family. One of them seems to think highly of a relative of mine who has long since passed away. But despite the Proctor’s objections, they pass over for another student from a family with the ownership of ninety mines and a stake on one of Mars’s southern continents.

The rcury Proctor curses and shoots a quick smile.

“Hope you’re available next round,” he says.

Next goes a delicate girl with a mocking smile. I can barely pay attention, and, at tis, it is difficult to see who else is being selected. We’re arrayed in an odd way. With the tenth pick, the Proctor who struck in the interviews floats my way. There is disagreent amongst the Drafters. I have two ardent advocates: one is as tall as Augustus, but her hair flows down to her spine in three golden braids. And the second is broader, not very tall. He’s old. Can tell by the scars and wrinkles on his thick hands. Hands that bear the signet ring of an Olympic Knight. I know him imdiately even without seeing his face. Lorn au Arcos. The Rage Knight, the third-greatest man on Mars, who chose to serve the Society by safeguarding the Society’s Compact, instead of reaching for crowns in politics. When he points to , Fitchner grins.

I am chosen tenth. Tenth out of one thousand.