Reached

games I made for him on the scribe when he was younger. And I thought he’d be more likely to send the microcard than either of my parents.
    Bram. I’d like to find a silver watch for him to replace the one the Society took. But so far the price has been too high. I rejected a trade for a watch earlier today at the air-train stop on my way to work. I will pay what’s fair, but not too much. Perhaps
this
is what I learned in the canyons: What I am, what I’m not, what I’ll give, and what I won’t.

    The sorting center is filled to capacity. We are some of the last to arrive, and an Official ushers us to our empty cubicles. “Please begin immediately,” she says, and no sooner have I sat down in my chair than words appear on the screen:
Next sort: exponential pairwise matching.
    I keep my eyes on the screen and my expression neutral. Inside, I feel a little
tick
of excitement, a tiny skip in the beat of my heart.
    This is the kind of sort the Rising told me to look for.
    The workers around me give no indication that the sort means anything to them. But I’m sure there are others in the room looking at these words and wondering
Is it finally time?
    Wait for the actual data,
I remind myself. I’m not just looking out for a sort; I’m also looking out for a particular set of information, which I’m supposed to mismatch.
    In exponential pairwise matching, each element is ranked by assigning an importance to each of its properties, and then paired to another element whose property rankings fit optimally. It is an intricate, complicated, tedious sort, the kind that requires every bit of our focus and attention.
    The screen flickers and then the data comes up.
    This is it.
    The right sort. The right data set.
    Is this the beginning of the Rising?
    For a brief moment, I hesitate. Am I confident that the Rising can bug the error-checking algorithm? What if they didn’t? My mistakes will all be noted. The chime will sound, and an Official will come to see what I’m doing.
    My fingers don’t tremble as I push one element across the screen, fighting the natural impulse to put the element where my training says it should go. I guide it slowly to its new location and slowly lift my finger, holding my breath.
    No chime sounds.
    The Rising’s bug worked.
    I think I hear a breath of relief, a tiny exhalation somewhere else in the room. And then I feel something, a cottonwood seed of memory, light and flitting on the breeze, floating through.
    Have I done this before?
    But there’s no time to follow the wisp of memory. I have to sort.
    It’s almost more difficult to sort incorrectly at this point; I’ve spent so many months and years of my life trying to get things right. This feels counterintuitive, but it is what the Rising wants.
    For the most part, the data comes through quick and relentless. But there’s a short lag while we wait for more of it to load. That means that some of it is coming from off-site.
    The fact that we’re doing the sort in real time seems to indicate that there’s a rush. Could the Rising be happening now?
    Will Ky and I be together for it?
    For a moment I picture the black of ships coming in above the white dome of the Hall and I feel the cool air through my hair as I rush to meet him. Then the warm pressure of his lips on mine, and this time there is no good-bye, but a new beginning.

    “We’re Matching,” someone says out loud.
    He breaks my concentration. I look up from the screen, blinking.
    How long have we been sorting? I’ve been working hard, trying to do what the Rising asked. At some point I became lost in the data, in the task at hand.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of green—Army Officers in uniform moving in on the man who spoke.
    I saw the Officials when we first came in, but how long have Officers been here?
    “For the Banquet,” the man says. He laughs. “Something’s happened. We’re Matching for the Banquet. The Society can’t keep up anymore.”
    I keep my head down and continue sorting, but at the moment they drag him past me I glance up. His mouth is gagged and his words unintelligible, and above the cloth his eyes meet mine for a brief moment as they take him away.
    My hands tremble over my screen. Is he right?
    Are we Matching people?
    Today is the fifteenth. The Banquet
is
tonight.
    The Official back in the Borough told me that they Match a week before the Banquet. Has that changed? What has happened that would make the Society in such