“We’re creating a generation of spoon-fed, babied, no-good Proxies. Just last week, one of them asked me if they would be allowed shampoo for their outdoor scavenge. I suggest that we overhaul the teaching modules for the next generation.” - extract from memorandum#3424, sent to the Bureau of Administration, Houston Arcology, by Charles Neither, senior Proxy.

“Worth.”

The word resounded, echoing, bouncing along the walls of the amphitheatre…

Martin glanced up from his introspective search on Solzhenitsyn. He kept his face neutral, as he had done when Chiyo Moyamoto had come with her offer. Though, this time he intended to keep his reserve. He straightened his back and put his hands on his knees. Whatever the instructor said, he would still keep calm.

Sviratham closed his eyes as the waist-height squares behind him rose. Their lids, for that is what it must have been, fell off.

There was a clattering sound, but all eyes were on the contents of those metal rectangles.

Ten of them.

One was sea-foam sheets. A second was white, with two set of arms and as many wings. A third was cast in that image that had made the first Proxies famous. A medieval knight in jagged chrome, complete with a rusted sword and shield in the form of a tire. Someone had once made the remark that the first generation of Proxies had lacked imagination. That person had in turn been answered in such a way as to deny rebuttals. The answer had been simple; the first generation of Proxies cared more for survival than mere appearance.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

One Chassis in particular drew his eye. The helmet had been made in the likeness of an elephant’s head. Barrel-torso segments could be made out, and a winged staff hung next to it.

“Ah.”

Viktor Solzhenitsyn’s eyes were burning with longing, focused on the armor which Martin too had looked at. That made him wonder: could an individual Proxy hold more than one set of Chassis?

And that emotion that burned in Solzhenitsyn’s eyes was too intimate for such a public setting. Perhaps he had known the Proxy who had carried it previously? It was an open record that some Chassis could be re-used whereas others were worn only once.

“Worth! Once, would-be Proxies were required to stalk the battlefields of the Exodus. Once, we tested for more than scientific mettle,” Sviratham declared.”But that time has passed,” he reiterated. His eyes, more honey than that old thing of bees glared at them.

“I am told that I should offer you a choice before we start the Examination of Worth. Indeed. The administrators of this great arcology would like me to offer you a chance to quit.”

The last word drew reactions. The boy with patch grew bland and cold; the twins resolute and Viktor shook his head.

Sviratham spat at the floor.

“Now, then. Would anyone like to be the first to flee? To be lower than this spit on the ground?”

Martin swallowed. He too felt it. That emotion, to stand up and shout his name. This was what he had desired, wasn’t it? Power, to matter, to be something. He didn’t want to be spit on; he’d rather do to the spitting. That sentiment, he suspected on a covert glance, was all around him.

Calm, he reminded himself.

Seconds, then minutes passed. The silence was such that Martin imagined that he could hear heartbeats. The holographic clock made no noise, yet Martin could still hear a countdown.

Raja Sviratham smiled then. It transformed him. He would never be beautiful, but there were something more powerful here. Charisma. Whoever had picked him to lead this class, had picked well.

“Those of you who possess Chassis will have a more active examination, but for the rest?”

He swept his sword, and the last thing Martin saw was a golden arc that obliterated the world. The last thing he heard was a soft voice.

“Try not to die.”