_There are fifteen days in a Grizzly week._ _On day four, we sift powder._ _..._ I stand with the other twenty threes in the biggest field at the complex. The sky is purple-pink with sheets of sulfuric red and blue and silver. The air is cloudy with the thick, sweet scent of sifting residue. Today is the longest and hottest day of the week. The powder's tiny granuals coat my arms and nailbeds. From eyelashes to palms, it stings everywhere the sun does. They say that _Day Four_ is the most important part. The mesh sieves and metallic pans were all assigned a number, from 1 to 237 -- representing us. They clink loudly as twenty threes scurry clumsily around each other, a mess of elbows and torsos. The service guides, known as "_Surveyors_", pass out tools benevolently. The handle of my own pan has **_7_** carved into its hilt. My eyes roam the seemingly endless mountain range of unrestrained powder, a cordillera of dust. To think that we are all so lucky to be here together, working and pulsing with color and vitality. When we breathe, the sky breathes. _All thanks to the Sky_. Every person, what we call _kin_, is only allowed outside the complex on one occasion -- that of their assigned Grizzly week. In a way, it's the highest honor you can experience. So far, I'd only been called two other times for service. The first was a Day Twelve assignment, simple enough. Everyone beginning their service starts with Day Twelve as the sunlight can be...difficult to adjust to. While the sun was still low, they called us to a plot with a thin plastic covering, and asked us to tend to the garden. My kin were to pluck and contain different plant species from a list we'd been assigned, some for healing and others deathly poisonous. I remember seeing one number cry so loudly that they thought he'd been injured. He fell to his knees almost immediately upon leaving the bunker and the Surveyors poured in. Turns out he had just been in awe of the sky. The second time I'd been called was a Day Seven assignment. I found that one to be more of a challenge. In groups of threes, they asked us to file into a glass chamber, a long tube connecting it back to our complex. We were told to hold our breath for as long as possible, and if we failed, to quickly press one of three buttons for ejection. I lasted the longest of my group -- 112 seconds. I was proud and the others congratulated me, but it had been hard to forget the burn of the gas laced chamber. My eyes had gone red and my skin tinted orange for weeks. They say some don't leave right in the head after Day Seven. I'd heard other stories and fables about the tests or grandeur of Grizzly Days, but never about Day Fifteen. There's been suspicions that those offered Day Fifteen for service are given the choice to leave the compound -- to freely live on the outside under the vermillion sun and sky. Those rumors are because the few selected for Day Fifteen never return. For this reason, it's thought to be the ultimate honor...the final frontier in service. But Day Four is the most important part. When my pan is finally full to the brim with powder, I level it with wire and secure it closed with foil. A Surveyor, dressed from head to toe in their familiar navy padding, takes my pan from me with a pleased look. "First to finish again #7...you're doing very well." I smile and nod in gratitude. "It's all thanks _to the sky_, my deepest gratitude." "_To the sky._" The Surveyor agrees, finishing the familiar platitude. The Surveyor then whips out a marker from one of infinite pockets, writing clearly across the foil top of my pan. **_Project Manhattan Mars Settler Colony Gunpowder Sample 7 Year 23, Week 25 _****_ _**I look away before the Surveyor can catch my eye. I don't know why I hesitate, though I'm one of the few civilians who can read, we both know those words mean nothing to me. "Here's another pan #7" The same Surveyor offers after placing another one of my finished pots in a center pile. "Keep up the good work." I smile again retreating to apart of the field that's much less busy. Since I am already ahead, I decide that I might as well help the others out while I'm able to. The crater of powder where _#31_ and _#233_ are sifting seems to funnel outwards into a hillside, unfortunately barricading them from the view of Surveyors. I decide to help clear it for them. __ _How else will the Surveyors know when those numbers have finished?_ As I approach closer, I realize that they don't seem to notice me. Rather, my kin are hunched low in whispers, "..._out of time_..._and when the war_..." As I open my mouth to offer assistance, my blood runs dry. Behind the wall of powder, where the two kin are crouched, is what looks like the opening to a man-made tunnel. The channel was conveniently hidden in the side of the field, dipping off the perimeter into _sky knows where_. But before I can react, a hand is over mouth and padded arms drag me swiftly underneath the unsifted powder, into the darkness of the underpass. I feel my self drifting unconscious as the sleeping herb I'd picked Day Twelve fills my airways. ... "Who is that? Don't tell me you grabbed #7, Isle...he was a _Day Fifteen_ prospect. They'll be looking for him!" "Oh shut up, that means I've done the kid a favor. And we didn't really have a choice, did we? He saw everything..." "Should we kill him?" "You know that's up to him..." "I hope not, he's easy on the eyes..." "Verity, please..." As I stirred, the voices around me seemed to hush. Fighting to open my eyes was a struggle, but the warm light filtering past the blackness was unlike anything I'd ever seen -- it even put the sun to shame. A face filled my vision. I'd never thought to really look at a number's face before, but this one was fascinating. Their eyes and mouth were so close, my breath hitched in my throat. "You...You're #7?" They accused. I nodded slowly, body still groggy with herbs. "**Choose a name**. _Seven_ is a number and you're not a number you're a person. They only call you by numbers up there to dehumanize you." I knew this kin was talking to me but it was as if my brain couldn't compute. Numbers are taught not to look too long or speak too often. And this number's face was still distractingly close. "I'm **Isle**. See? Just say whatever name comes to mind." "Isle, you know the numbers don't take well to individualism, give _7_ time..." "He looks like a Toby, to me. Can we call him Tobias? I saw that one in a magazine!" _What's a magazine?_ __ __ "Hmm, the origin of the name means _good faith, _how fitting for a number!_"_ "I wonder how long that faith will last..."__ __ __ _"_We're short for time and I don't hate Ver's suggestion -- fine, we'll go with Toby." This kin..._Isle_...pointed at my sternly. "You go by _Toby_ from now on, got it?" I nodded slowly in fear. I hadn't forgotten the whispers earlier of how I should be dealt with. "Toby...Grizzly...Manhattan... I'll explain it all. You don't have to understand, but for the next ten minutes I need you to think for yourself -- not as a number. Think about what's right. Think about who you've sworn duty to...whether your allegiance has been misplaced." The last of the drugs in my system had cleared and my head was spinning a mile a minute. "I'll start with the war."