Extraction (6 page)

The female instructor beside me keeps a hand around my wrist. Her hair is blond and curly, twisted into a high bun, and her dress suit is scarlet. “Final processing will be quick and painless,” she says. “We’re just going to take some scans of your brain for a final Promise check before the announcement.”

I nod to show her I understand, but something twists inside my stomach. I can’t even remember the last time I had brain scans. They’re the safest way of determining a Promise score, though there are other methods, like the obedience test I took yesterday.

The elevator bell dings, and the door zips open. We move into a hallway with spare red lights here and there, splashes of color in shadow.

The last time I had brain scans, I would’ve been a new child in the sanitarium. It wouldn’t have been long after my birth, not long after I was taken away from whatever girl in the work camp was forced to give birth to me. Whether she even knew what I looked like, whether she had any other kids besides me, I don’t know and I never will. My mother, whoever she was, was replaced and killed in quarantine long ago. No one has ever told me her name. Or my father’s name.

But I’m sure it’s written down somewhere.

The stairs end, and my instructor pushes through a door into a corridor. Her boots squeak with every step. I realize she was talking, but I didn’t hear what she said. “Sorry?” I ask.

“If you’re one of the top fifty potentials after processing, you’ll be shown into a private viewing room to watch the announcement, and you are allowed one guest. Who would you like to pick?”

My mouth feels dry all of a sudden. The answer is obvious, but I’m afraid to say it. She said
if.
Just because I give her his name doesn’t mean she’ll use it.

She presses her palm to a gel panel in the wall, and a hidden door slides open. There’s a small, square room beyond. A man in a purple uniform and white lab coat taps buttons above a panel on the wall to my right. Beside him, a narrow white table juts out from a fluorescent-lit, gaping hole in the wall. To my left, a small CorpoBot screen shows the symbol of the Core and plays a quieter version of the melody I heard out in the streets.

“Here she is, Jeb,” the blond instructor says.

The man in the lab coat turns. His fingers fly to his glasses, which he adjusts as he clears his throat. “Thank you, Dahlia,” he says.

“So, can you give me a name?” Dahlia asks.

It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to me. “Um, yes.” My cheeks grow warm. “His name is Logan.”

“Do you know his citizenship number, by chance?”

I nod, rubbing the number on my wrist. I ran my finger over the same spot on Logan’s wrist this morning, before we left for the fields. His skin was a bit too cold. It made me worried he was getting sick.
“
Z13729.”

Dahlia taps the number into her tablet. “Thank you. I’ll leave you two, then.”

The door zips shut behind her. I’m left alone with Jeb, who stares at me with a slight frown on his lips. He has a splatter of freckles on his cheeks, and a waviness to his sandy-colored hair. His eyes are pure blue, bluer than mine. A million oceans might be inside them—at least, if the Surface oceans really are as blue as the instructors say they are.

He turns away quickly, adjusting his glasses again. “If you’d please come over and lie down on the bed.”

I stay put, my gaze returning to the gaping hole beyond the bed. The walls inside are a stark white color, except for the bottom surface, which is made of shiny metal. That must be the brain-scan machine.

“It won’t hurt,” Jeb says. “I promise.”

“I’m not scared,” I say. To prove it I step over to the bed, climb onto it, and lie down on my back. My body sinks into the soft cushion. It’s far more comfortable than the straw bed I sleep on every night.

But I’m not comfortable, not really. My hands tremble again. I squeeze them into fists.

“I’m gonna slide the bed into the machine now,” Jeb says, touching my wrist gently. “I need you to lie still. There’s a strap I can use, but I don’t want to unless I have to. Okay?”

He turns to the buttons on the wall and presses a big blue one. The bed slides back into the hole, carrying me with it. I breathe in and out through my nostrils. The music from the CorpoBot plays in the background. When the bed stops moving, I’m staring up at the stark whiteness.

“Here we go,” Jeb says. “Lie still.”

Air rushes over me. Freezing air that raises goose bumps on my skin. A steady hum fills my ears, growing louder and louder.

Something gelatinous presses against the sides of my head, latching onto my skin. Instinct screams at me to check what it is, to rip it off.

But no, it’s not anything bad. It can’t be. Logan would’ve said so, since he went through processing last year right before they told him he was out of the running.

The fluorescent light strengthens, blinding my eyes. I struggle to keep from blinking. Water trickles onto my cheeks.

Slowly, the gelatinous material pulls away from my face. The lights dim. The hum of the machine dies.

“You can relax now,” Jeb says.

I squeeze my eyes shut as the bed slides out of the hole in the wall. My heart won’t stop pounding. My hands hurt from clenching them so hard.

“I’ve sent the scans to the processors,” Jeb says.

When I open my eyes again, he’s wiping the small screen above the button panel blank. He glances at me. “Easy, wasn’t it?” His lips soften into a smile that reveals his dimples.

I don’t reply. It doesn’t matter if this part was easy or not. It’s the part that comes afterward I’m worried about. The part where I find out what the scans showed the Developers.

Jeb clears his throat. Turning, he heads for the door.

I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “Should I come with you?”

“No, no.” He quickens his pace, reaching for the gel panel. “They need me in another room now, but someone will come for you shortly.”

He leaves like that, without further explanation. The door zips shut behind him. The click that follows after a second tells me he locked me in.

*   *   *

I dig my nails into the bed cushion and glance at the screen above the buttons, where my brain scans might’ve been a second ago. I don’t know if the machine can figure out a Promise score on its own or not.

Biting my lip, I ease off the bed and move to the screen. Jeb didn’t say not to touch anything, after all.

I tap the screen. A number pad pops up. It’s asking for a passcode, nine digits.

I curse under my breath. I quickly type in a random combination.

“Access denied,” the screen says.

I try another, then another. But of course they don’t work. There are 387,420,489 possibilities, assuming the numbers can be repeated. Which they probably can.

With a sigh, I sit back on the cot and hug my legs to my chest. I stare at the bronze moon on the CorpoBot screen. The music, a soft trickle of bells, sounds almost ominous.

How long will it take someone to come? I hate being alone, especially now. The thought of death hovers too close to the edge of my mind. The thought of spending four more years working under hot sun out in the fields. The thought of being forced to get pregnant and give birth in the sanitarium, to assist with the Replacement system.

They don’t let girls and boys pair up when they pick them to procreate; they use artificial methods. They take part of us away and don’t give it back.

I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking how glad I am Logan hasn’t been picked for that yet. I wish he were with me now. Instead he’s freezing in the street, staring at a CorpoBot, waiting for the governor to announce the names. He’s probably getting sick, if he isn’t already. He’s probably praying my name won’t be called, though he’d never admit that to my face.

He’d never admit he’s afraid of being alone. But I’m sure he is. Isn’t everyone?

I realize the CorpoBot’s music has stopped playing. I open my eyes.

The emblem of the Core is still up on the screen. But as I watch, it fades away and is replaced by a podium in a dark room. A strip of fluorescent red light runs along the back wall, where figures sit in shadow, in a row on benches. On the lower right-hand corner of the screen, the word
LIVE
is flashing.

A person steps up to the podium, and a spotlight comes on. Governor Preston smiles at me through the screen. He crosses his gloved hands on the podium. The sound of clapping comes from the figures sitting behind him.

“Surface civilians,” he says. “It is time for Extraction.”

My shaky arms loosen their hold on my legs. I’m still breathing, but I can’t get enough air into my lungs. The ceremony’s starting without me. This must mean I’m out of the running. This must mean I’ve already been eliminated.

The governor continues talking.

I stand and run to the door, fighting back tears. I press my palm to the gel pad. A voice says, “Access denied.”

“Please,” I choke. “Please let me out.”

I wedge my fingers into the door crack, trying to force it open as Governor Preston explains the tradition of Extraction.

Five hundred years ago, pollution destroyed our ozone. The acid that’s leaked from the moon’s surface as long as history has been recorded entered our atmosphere, poisoning us and depleting our population. We had no choice but to escape underground until a shield could be constructed to protect the whole planet.

The four underground sectors—Crust, Mantle, Lower, and the Core—were built. When the shield was ready, the leaders assigned new homes to everyone, most on the Surface or in the other outer sectors, where natural resources remained. The upper-class retreated to the Core to continue ruling.

But those in the outer sectors grew angry with the rulers. Everyone wanted to live in the Core, too, where they would be farthest from the threatening moon.

So they rebelled against the Developers. They hoarded the resources they collected. They hijacked ships to infiltrate the Core.

They didn’t realize how big the Core population had grown. They didn’t realize the Core had developed much more powerful ships and weapons, and a military system that would crush them.

Soldiers slaughtered many of the working class. They exploded buildings with missiles. They threw the minors into internment camps. They weakened the system of labor and then slowly built it back up again, calling it a fresh start. A more efficient way to live.

But the workers in the camps needed something to fight for; a reason to work hard. And the Developers believed there were some people in the camps who would be more useful in Core society as scientists, doctors, and leaders. So they created the system of Extraction, to weed out the most intelligent, strong, and obedient from the rest.

At least, that’s the story they tell us.

There’s a click, and the door zips open. I snatch my arm back.

Dahlia blinks in surprise. “Clementine. What were you doing? I came to let you know you’re still in the running.”

I stare at her. I open my mouth, but no words come out.

“Your friend is waiting for you in your viewing room.” She takes my hand. “Come with me.”

She leads me toward the left, down the corridor.

The governor’s voice continues through speakers in the walls, but I’m barely listening because I’m so relieved.

But that feeling splinters fast. I’m still in the running, but that doesn’t mean they picked me. That doesn’t mean I’m safe.

“Tonight,” Governor Preston says as we climb two flights of stairs and enter an area similar to a docking bay, “we honor the most Promising among those who were born sixteen years ago.”

Dahlia leads me down one of several short tunnels. There are three doors at the end of it. She presses a button on the wall, and the farthest one to the right zips open.

Beyond lies a small space—no more than six feet long by six feet wide. The far wall is made of glass. It shows me the dark room, with strips of red light on the walls, where the governor stands at his podium before a small audience of Surface adults. There must be other private viewing rooms to my left and right, where the other eligibles who made it this far wait for the announcement.

Logan sits in one of the two chairs in this room. He stands swiftly when I step inside.

I sink into the warmth of his arms, not caring that Dahlia is watching. I can feel his heart beating through his thin shirt, matching the rush of my own.

“You okay?” he says.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Good luck,” Dahlia says.

The door zips shut behind her.

I settle into the seat beside Logan’s. A small CorpoBot screen sits in the upper corner of the glass wall, showing a close-up of Governor Preston’s face, even though he’s not standing that far beyond the glass.

“Those who are selected tonight will soon board a ship bound for the planet Core,” the governor says, his voice loud through the CorpoBot speakers. “There, they will have the opportunity to choose their place and become a citizen worthy of remembrance.”

A dull roar of thunder shakes the building. Logan closes the space between our hands. Instead of the usual comfort, all I feel is uncertainty.

“I will now pass the stage to Cadet Waller,” Governor Preston says, “the Head Instructor of this year’s examination.”

The woman, Cadet Waller, takes the governor’s spot before the podium. Her face fills the CorpoBot screen. I recognize her slick black ponytail, her scarlet dress suit, and the tablet in her hand. She’s the one who administered my test yesterday.

I didn’t realize instructors could also be cadets in the Core military. But maybe she’s the only one.

“I’m honored to stand before you today and announce this year’s Extractions,” she says.

Pick me, come on. Please pick me.

“I am pleased to announce that fourteen Surface eligibles will be Extracted.”

I can’t help the small rush of joy through my veins. They usually only pick ten from each sector, to make forty total. The Core doesn’t have unlimited housing space, so they can’t take many more.

“I’ll get right to it.” Cadet Waller grips both sides of her tablet.