Morgan

Fifty-eight minutes remaining. Thirty-four students released. Twenty-two more students needed to pass.

Though Morgan was confident they would reach the necessary number of students for passing, she was beginning to have her doubts. She had noticed by now that passing had little to do with talent and more to do with luck. Some students’ questions were particularly terrible while others received no formulas for their questions, forcing them to wait for a helper who could remember how to do that question. That usually meant Lumia or herself, which meant they had encountered a severe bottleneck.

Naturally, the stress was weighing on Morgan. She spent all her time dancing between tables, organising confused students, and effectively micromanaging the entire operation. Add to that the added time spent answering the most difficult questions and she was at her wits’ edge.

Then there was Lumia. Managing that ditz turned out to be the most difficult part of the test: Lumia had a habit of presenting herself at the desk of any student that gave her doe eyes. Oh, she knew what was expected of her—Morgan had made sure of that. Three times already! The problem was Lumia just did. Not. Listen.

Raphael did whatever she asked, but frankly he was not much help at answering questions. Keeping people in order, however, was much more his forte, so Morgan let him do that.

Tock was helping, certainly, but she took forever to answer a single question because she had to stop and talk to each and every student. Still, she was answering more questions than Lumia, so that was fine.

A strand of hair got in Morgan’s eye, so she brushed it aside reflexively. Then she stopped to give her eyes a good rub.

How can I speed this up? I know that we only need a few more students to pass, but still—

Someone tapped Morgan on the shoulder. She opened her eyes and brushed her hair aside again to see a student—a girl with black hair that was most definitely longer than regulation allowed. The student’s brows were furrowed.

‘Sorry, to bother you,’ the girl signed. ‘I think there’s an issue with the questions.’

Morgan shook her head. ‘I am aware. Which question are you having trouble with?’

‘No, that’s not what—’

A commotion broke out at a desk nearby. Two students were flashing their hands wildly at each other. Morgan recognised one as a helper: a boy who attended the same high school as her, whose name she remembered was Hervey.

Oh, what now?

Brushing aside the student whose question she was yet to answer, Morgan hustled over to where the students were arguing. Well, “arguing” was a poor way to describe what they were doing. It was more like non-verbal swearing contest, because almost every gesture was some form of slur or insult.

Holding a hand up in between them, Morgan tried to calm the two boys. When that did not work, she tried to physically push them away from each other. When that did not work—and Morgan was getting very irate now—she shoved her hands in both of their faces. Hervey audibly gagged and reeled back. Vaguely, Morgan realised she must not have washed her hand properly after… what happened before. Irrelevant. It worked.

‘Explain!’ Morgan signed.

The seated student began, ‘Answer, wrong.’ Then he pointed at the helper.

‘I asked for rule,’ Hervey replied, recovering from his coughing fit. Both were poor at signing so Morgan had to infer quite a bit.

‘Shift,’ signed the seated student.

‘You said left.’

‘Fuck you,’ the seated student signed. Hervey responded in kind, and they were off again.

Morgan was about to shove her hands in both their faces again when Raphael popped up and began to quell them. Amid their tantrums, Morgan checked the seated student’s terminal and read, “Locked out for 3:48,” in letters covering the screen.

This is exactly what I was hoping to avoid. Why could the helper not simply ask for help? He clearly did not know what he was doing.

After some shoving and having to place a hand over Hervey’s mouth to prevent him from speaking, Raphael finally managed to send Hervey off. He did not direct Hervey to another student in need of help, but to the side of the room where he would do nothing. However, the helper ignored Raphael entirely and joined two students lounging at a desk, who both wore the same black uniform as he. They greeted Hervey wordlessly with a rub of his buzzed head. Well, it was better than causing trouble, Morgan figured.

Sighing, she gestured to Raphael, ‘Thank you.’

Raphael shook his head. ‘Not the first. Leo hasn’t returned?’

‘I told you, the door was locked.’ She was still frustrated at that, and at Leo.

Raphael motioned to say something, then looked down and furrowed his thick brows. At that moment another dispute broke out across the room. Raphael clicked his tongue and went to resolve it.

Morgan watched the conflict from afar. This really is not fair. Many of these students will fail because their questions were unreasonably hard, and the rest will fail because nobody can help them. Is it really right to continue like this? She shook her head. What other way is there? If only Leo—she squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. Where was I? Right, Alan.

Morgan’s gaze went straight to Alan’s desk and, to her surprise, saw that it was vacant. Finally! Alan, who had spent the entire ordeal lazing at his desk, finally decided to get up and… wait, where was he?

She whirled around, seeking the out the boy with his hair tied back, and—he was on the stage. Why was he on the stage? He should not be on the stage!

Grinding her teeth, Morgan stomped to the front of the room. She squeezed past another silent argument and popped out from the array of desks. Morgan had just thought of a good way to berate Alan when the slouching boy’s eyes settled onto her. Without a word, Alan leapt from the stage and set off at a jog towards the back of the room. Her pulse started racing.

No, you can’t flee as well! she panicked. We can still pass. Why would you?

Morgan bolted after him, but didn’t get far before skidding to a halt. Alan leaped on top of a student’s desk, much to the surprise of Morgan and the poor girl whose hands Alan had almost crushed. He cast his gaze over the room, scanning left to right, left to right. Then his dark eyes snapped open. Beaming, he sought out Morgan.

‘Come here. Quick,’ he signed. He pointed a finger at the desk next to him.

Though Morgan felt this might have been some game, Alan’s smile had sparked a dull hope within her. She decided to give Alan a chance. She approached the desk beside Alan where a boy was still seated and dipped her head, wordlessly requesting that he move aside so she could stand on his desk. The student stared at her blankly, so Morgan waved a hand to shoo him away from the desk. He slid back a little. Morgan shot him a cold glare. His eyes widened and he shuffled back further.

Really, what was he thinking of doing? Staring up at her from such an angle? Sure, Morgan was wearing pants so there was nothing to see, but even so it was highly inappropriate. She put it out of mind and leaped up onto the desk.

Though Morgan spent a few seconds staring at the desks, she had no idea what she was meant to be looking at. She cocked an eyebrow at Alan.

‘ASCII!’ he signed, then pointed.

Again Morgan stared at the array of desks, not seeing anything of note.

Frustrated, Alan snapped his fingers and signed, ‘Row five. Start front.’ He dragged a finger from the front to him, indicating which direction to read.

Then she saw it. Some desks had students seated, others did not: binary states. ASCII was a binary representation of text used in computing, requiring groups of eight binary values, ones and zeros, and there were eight desks in a row. It made perfect sense! The only problem was that she did not remember the binary representation of letters—and why would she need to? This was not a matter that required memorisation, nor was it ever tested on. It was perfectly reasonable for a student to forget that! She looked to Alan for the answer, and he grinned back at her.

‘W-E-A-D-M-A-N,’ he spelled out.

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Morgan glared at him without blinking, then prepared a torrent of abuse for having wasted her time.

Alan must have noticed because he waved his hands frantically. He signed, ‘One digit missing. When fixed says, “We admin.”’

Considering this a moment, Morgan signed, ‘Who?’

Alan pointed at the control room behind them, drew his finger down towards the array of desks, then circled the desks, outlining every student. ‘We,’ he signed.

The implications sprung out to Morgan. Firstly, even while trapped, Leo had found a way to not only help them but also to send a message. That, she promised, she would thank him for later. Secondly, it meant that whatever method Leo had used to unlock students was probably not exclusive to him. They were the administrators. In other words, there was hope!

She thanked Alan, curtly ordered him to find out how these administrators worked, then hopped down to inform Raphael.

Raphael

Things were getting out of hand. So far Raphael had broken up three fights and had hustled a number of students away from their conversations and back to helping. Most of them seemed to have this attitude that once enough students had passed, there was no need to help (anyone else). Which meant that he, Morgan, Tock, and Lumia were doing all the work. Therefore, there had been no increase in the rate at which students were passing.

Ironically, Raphael was noticing a pattern in the helpers where, when they were stuck on another student’s question, they would put their hands up when Morgan was nearby (and put them down again when Raphael made eye contact). Once Morgan offered assistance or directed someone else over, the first helper would leave and dawdle while finding another student to help. Some had stopped trying altogether and would take every opportunity they could to sign (gossip) to their peers. That phenomenon was particularly dangerous because it was only a matter of time before some of them actually spoke.

It wasn’t that Raphael feared the potential consequences of speaking. The rules were clear: if your meus was undocked once the test finished, you don’t fail. However, there was this strange behaviour he recognised in students where the moment one person spoke, everyone else would follow until the room was filled (deafened) with their voices. That possibility needed to be stomped down upon. Immediately.

More than once he’d tried to tell Morgan about this but… how could he? She was always so busy, and she looked a little pale. He didn’t want to put more pressure on her. No, it was better to handle things on his own. If things got really bad then he’d bring it up (maybe).

From the corner of his eye, Raphael noticed Lumia standing awkwardly next to two other students. It still shocked him how brilliant the Prospect was. Take this moment, for instance: her inability to sign, her tabula rasa, and the sheer magnitude of her presence all culminated into the most stunningly weird display of just standing there, smiling. Every time she showed up to one of those conversations, the mood deadened instantly and the (lazy) helpers were soon back to the desks, doing their jobs.

Still, he groaned, ushering another pair of chatty students back to the desks, it’s a losing battle. All it’ll take is for Morgan, Lumia, or I to miss one of these conversations and—

“Honestly, why can’t we just talk?”

Raphael froze on the spot. His head rotated until he caught Tock grinning (smugly) at an ill-looking Morgan, who was gesturing wildly in response. He stared blankly at Tock from across the room, feeling so many emotions at that moment that he simply did not know how to process them.

Or that, he thought. That’ll do it.

“But we already got our meuses back,” Tock continued, her voice echoing across the room. “We literally cannot fail!”

Then Alan shuffled over. With his head thrust forward, he yelled at Tock, “You over-engineered, under-tested half-equation!” With each insult his voice cracked a little more. “What’s wrong with you? You trying to throw the future away?”

“Oh, shut up!” Tock said, rolling her eyes. “I read the rules. You’re all panicking over nothing.”

“No we’re not, you cat! There’s too much we don’t know.”

“You’re the cat!” Tock retorted, thrusting a finger at Alan. “You just didn’t understand the rules. We only fail if our meus is docked.”

“I understood them fine. The problem is there’s information missing. From everything. We shouldn’t be making assumptions!”

“There isn’t! You’re just paranoid.”

While they argued, Raphael made sure to put some distance between himself and the fight. He might have had things under control before, but now… All about him rose the steady hum of students murmuring, joking, speculating, sharing their (irrelevant) thoughts. Besides, he’d seen enough arguments in his last school—rarely participated in them—and knew things were about to get nasty.

Morgan was trying her best to stand between them, holding both hands up in the hopes it would calm them. But by this point Alan and Tock were in each others’ faces and were straight up ignoring Morgan’s calls for calm (order). Of course, Morgan sought out Raphael. When her eyes settled on him, they practically begged him to help.

Her hair clip was dangling in her hair and not pinning up anything, and her black blazer was creased all over. Her face was pale, her eyes sunken, and her face was etched from stress such that she appeared much older, worn out. Usually, if Raphael saw someone that looked as haggard as Morgan he would have jumped to their aid without a thought. However, this situation was not usual. Even if Raphael did want to help her, there was no way people would show her a modicum of respect when she appeared like that.

So Raphael looked away. Sorry. Can’t help.

He trudged back to his desk, walking on his toes. He usually walked on his toes—an old habit he’d had since he was little—and tended not to notice, but today he was very conscious of it. By this point conversations had sprung up around Raphael. Not sign language conversations but actual, spoken conversations. Whatever damage could be done had already been done.

I know you need help but it’s over. I tried to tell you, Morgan, that the class doesn’t want to pass. Everyone gave up a long time ago and you can’t convince them otherwise.

He sat down at his desk and took his meus out of his pocket. Besides, there was something I wanted to do a while ago but I’ve been so busy keeping everyone else from being failed (stupid) that I could never try it. I mean, I’m aware that I should have spoken up but—no, nobody can speak. We’re on our own. So now I’m going to give this a try. Moving on, trying new things; it’s better than trying to fix this whole mess.

Gingerly, Raphael placed his meus in the dock. There was a brief pause where he was convinced nothing would happen, but to his surprise (excitement) the protective shutter snapped closed on him and the terminal screen lit up. His eyes went wide, and Raphael leaned closer to read the too-small print.

> Your test is complete. You may choose to answer another student’s question.

A subtle grin etched onto Raphael’s face. His guess had been right and now he was glad to actually be doing something worthwhile. This needed to be reported to Morgan—after she sorted out that argument. Which was still happening. Raphael was beginning to feel a little guilty now for abandoning Morgan, but this discovery changed everything. He decided it was best to explore the options this terminal gave before doing anything else.

After some experimentation, Raphael determined four things. One, he could undock his meus using a button in the corner of the screen. Two, he could select any question from any student and answer it as normal. Three, he could not see a question until he selected it. Four, while answering questions, he could not undock his meus. For all intents and purposes, it was just like taking his own test except he passed after answering any question. Raphael sat back and templed his fingers.

At first, it would seem like a convenient method for speeding up the answering process, but in actuality it’s a trap. Say a student had completed their test and decided to help another student. Knowing that some of the questions are near impossible, they could potentially be trapping themself back at their desk. Select the wrong question and more students fail. If too many students choose wrong, the entire class may fail.

He checked the time shown in the bottom corner of the screen. Fifty minutes remaining.

Though he felt a sense of urgency, Raphael knew that acting rashly would only make things worse. He needed a strategy. And what he came up with didn’t fill him with any amount of confidence.

The best approach was to sit every student back at their desks and answer as many questions as possible. If some of them failed, then they’d have to wear the loss. What mattered was ensuring that they met their quota. That itself posed another dilemma. Knowing that it was risky to be locked down again, the students would most likely refuse to comply.

The reason for that was simple: leadership. As it stood, the students did not respect (recognise) Morgan’s leadership. If she ordered students to risk themselves for the team, they’d balk at her orders. However, if those doing the ordering were also seen to be risking their own grades, then the other students would be far more inclined to follow. It was simple enough, but their team of five couldn’t all lock themselves in. They needed to make a choice.

Deciding to discuss further with Morgan, Raphael was about to remove his meus from the dock when a cry sounded from the front of the room, carrying sharp and urgent over a sea of mutterings.

“No, I answered everything! Let me go!”

Taking advantage of his height, Raphael peeked over the heads of the students to see a girl with silky-blonde hair clawing at the dock cover on her desk, trying to pry it open. She kept shouting, “It’s not fair. I passed. It’s not fair!”

He was over there immediately. Placing a hand on the girl’s back to calm her, he made soothing motions until the girl drew away from the dock, placed her hands over her mouth, and met Raphael’s gaze. Tears were welling in her eyes and that made Raphael’s heart fall.

“I answered the questions,” the girl blubbered. “I answered them. I—it won’t let me go.” Then she collapsed onto his chest in a sobbing heap. Thankfully, his jacket was water resistant so the girl’s tears wouldn’t seep in.

Raphael was about to launch into a series of probing questions, but fortunately the girl’s terminal presented the answer:

> You have successfully answered your questions. However, you have violated Rule 0 by speaking so your personal terminal will not be released.

Between the sobbing girl and this horrible realisation both weighing down on him, all he could feel was a tightness in his chest and numbness in his legs. Raphael didn’t think. He reacted.

“Stop talking, you’ll be locked in!”

His voice boomed through the theatre and was greeted with silence, broken only by the sobbing of the girl in his arms. With that silence came the dawning of realisation, and stinging regret. He’d just broken rule zero, and his meus was in its dock. His future played out before him: denied entry to King’s College, forced back to Augustus Academy, facing his classmates in shame, spending the next three years of being prepped for the military, drill instructors lecturing him at every morning training on why he was better off there, and privately haunted for the rest of his life for bugging up his greatest opportunity. He let that regret overwhelm him, then forcefully swallowed it. He had already failed. All he could do now was help (his duty).

Morgan clambered up beside him. She dived at the crying girl’s screen and her eyes bulged once she recognised what it meant. She tried tapping around the screen to see if it would change anything, but the system was locked down, stuck on that message as though to remind the offending student of their crime.

Raphael was about to launch into a spiel about how he thought it best to deal with this new problem, but when he realised Morgan’s hands were shaking he hesitated.

Come on, Morgan. Now’s not the time. We need a plan (hope).

He tapped Morgan on the shoulder and, ignoring the fear in her eyes, signed out everything he’d discovered and how he thought it best to go about it.

From the corner of his eye, Raphael saw Tock at the back of the room standing alone, watching the crying girl. There was so much strain in Tock’s eyes that it seemed the slightest poke would cause her to burst into tears. He knew that feeling all too well: guilt (shame).