The Choosing (4 page)

Carrington gives herself a final scan as she runs her hands down the front of her red dress. She has been staring at this dress in her closet for the last two months, dreaming about this moment. She is only hours from being chosen.

The day before went well, she thinks. Seven men requested an opportunity to visit with her and her family. Seven is a very good number; her mother is extremely pleased.

The face of each man plays through her head on a carousel
 
—some more handsome than others, but all polite and kind. Each one would make an excellent husband, and she would be proud to be seen with any of them. Then again, being
chosen
by anyone will be enough. Butterflies erupt in her chest as the word
chosen
forms on her lips. It is hard to believe the time has finally come.

A knock sounds behind her. She turns to see her mother pushing open her bedroom door. For a moment, a wide smile captures her mother’s face, but it soon falls away at the apparently displeasing sight of her daughter.

“Carrington, you’re hardly ready and we have to leave soon,” her mother says.

“I’m ready, Mother.”

“Please tell me you’re joking. That is how you are going to
wear your hair? And your makeup? Don’t you understand how important tonight is?”

“Of course, but I think I look
 
—”

“Don’t think. You’re obviously not very good at it. Here, let me help you finish. Seriously, Carrington, how will you ever be chosen without me?”

Carrington drops her eyes and bites her tongue. She still thinks she looks fine
 
—beautiful, even
 
—but her mother knows best, so she doesn’t say a word as the woman begins to fix her.

“I have been replaying the visits from yesterday, and I think your best options are Bryant and Koshic,” her mother says.

“I thought Bain was very sweet, and his family is from the Cattle Lands, so I wouldn’t have to move very far.”

“Carrington, that is exactly why he is the wrong choice! Cattle Lands. Our family needs you to reach higher. Believe me, being stuck with a man who can hardly afford the things a woman deserves is no way to live. No, I think Bryant or Koshic is better for you.”

“I think I would be happy with any of them.”

“This isn’t about happiness. Of course I want that for you, but trust me
 
—you will be happier with a man who has more than this.” She motions around the room and Carrington understands.

From the day Carrington was old enough to comprehend status, her mother has constantly reminded her that status is everything. Since women have no say in whom they marry, it is important to attract the attention of men in stations above their own. The joining of two families is always a delicate
negotiation to ensure all parties involved benefit from the transaction. The union is about far more than just a woman’s happiness.

“Make sure you spend extra time with both Bryant and Koshic tonight.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Inexplicably, the scene around her shifts, and suddenly she is sitting at a desk in her practicing room. Familiar faces surround her
 
—girls who have studied with her for years. But they are young, maybe eight or nine. Their curls are pulled up into sweet ponytails, their white dresses pressed and ruffled. These girls are giggling and whispering among themselves, none of them acknowledging Carrington.

Carrington looks down at her hands. Long, lean fingers, nails trimmed and painted to match her red dress. They aren’t stubby and small as they were when she was young. She notices that she is still in her ceremony dress. It sparkles in the sun coming through the windows.

“All right, girls. Come to order.”

Carrington turns to see Mr. Holden’s warm smile. His light-gray hair and neatly trimmed beard look soft as always. His blue eyes remind Carrington of comfort and security. She can’t help but smile.

“Let’s begin again with our truth statements. Can anyone recite them from memory?” he asks.

Carrington’s hand shoots up as she thinks through the statements in her head.

Mr. Holden looks around the room and right over Carrington
as if he doesn’t see her at all. “No one? Come now, you have been learning them all summer.”

Carrington glances around and sees no one else has her hand raised, so she stretches hers higher into the air, wiggling her fingers in earnest. She knows the answer; she has been studying the truth statements with her mother for months, just as Mr. Holden instructed. It seems important that he know she did what was asked of her.

“Fine, let us recite them together then,” Mr. Holden says.

“Wait, I know,” Carrington says. Her voice is small, her fingers no longer painted, her dress no longer red but white
 
—the required uniform for all girls during their practicing lessons.

“Truth One: I am part of a community led by God, and the function I fulfill is essential to the success of our people,” the room says.

“Wait, wait, please . . . ,” Carrington cries.

“Truth Two: I take pride in my role and how I will serve under God’s law, set forth by the Authority.”

“No! Stop! I know them!”

“Truth Three: My first responsibility is to make myself worthy of being chosen.” The little voices echo through the room. Mr. Holden starts to pace up and down the aisles between the desks.

Carrington pulls her hand down and feels tears fill her eyes. She knows the statements! She has been learning them all summer. Her mother will surely ask Mr. Holden if she knew them, and what will he say?

“Truth Four: My significance comes not from my own merit but from being chosen.”

Carrington joins in with the other voices. “Truth Five: Being chosen secures my station and the love and acceptance I will receive under the Authority. Truth Six: Not to be chosen would yield a cruel fate of my own making.”

Mr. Holden walks by Carrington’s desk, and she tugs at his jacket. When he turns to look down at her, his face is different. Thin, nearly hollow, like wax spread across a bare skull, his blue eyes replaced with coal. Carrington gasps and Mr. Holden cocks his head to the side and smiles.

“And who are you?”

Carrington struggles to find her voice. “I’m Carrington.”

“Wrong.”

“But I am.”

“Let’s ask the rest of the class, shall we?”

Carrington turns to see that the faces from her memory are gone, replaced with the same monstrous features she sees in Mr. Holden. She wants to scream or run, but suddenly her desk feels like a prison around her, trapping her in this unending terror.

“Girls, do you know who this is?” Mr. Holden asks.

A roomful of black eyes turn to her and all the girls answer at once. “She is no one.”

Carrington’s tears feel cool against the hot fear collecting in her cheeks.

“They say you are no one,” Mr. Holden says.

“I’m not no one; I’m Carrington.”

“Were you chosen?”

Panic gathers in every cell across her skin. “I will be.”

“No, you won’t.” Mr. Holden’s face turns dark, and Carrington’s tiny heart roars inside her chest.

“I will . . . ,” she tries, but her words are like wind, invisible.

“She is nothing,” the girls sing around her.

“Stop,” Carrington manages.

“She is nothing.” Their voices grow, a haunting chorus that echoes the message across the room in unison. “She is nothing.”

The sun outside disappears and darkness fills the room. Laughter, deep and brittle, accompanies the hateful song. Mr. Holden bellows rippling howls from the front of the room.

“Please stop.”

“She is nothing.”

“That isn’t true. Stop!”

“Truth Six: Not to be chosen would yield a cruel fate of my own making,” the group says.

“No, I didn’t do this!”

“Truth Six: Not to be chosen would yield a cruel fate of my own making.”

Carrington clamps her hands over her ears and shakes her head. “No, no, no.”

“Truth is truth, little girl,” Mr. Holden yells. “As the Authority set forth the law, so the law must be obeyed.”

The girls continue to chant the truth as Carrington squeezes her hands tightly over her ears, her nails digging into the sides of her skull, her body shuddering in her desk, their words crashing into her with painful force.

“Truth Six: Not to be chosen would yield a cruel fate of my own making.

“Truth Six: Not to be chosen would yield a cruel fate of my own making.”

Hot breath rushes past her ear and she opens her eyes to see Mr. Holden’s terrorizing face inches from her own.

“You are nothing,” he whispers.

Carrington shot up in bed and gasped. Her breath came in heavy waves. The room was dark and she could hardly see two feet in front of her. Beads of sweat drizzled down the side of her head and plastered her nightshirt to her skin.

She swung her legs out from under the covers and stood on still-trembling legs. She felt she might be sick and swallowed to control the bile threatening to leap from her mouth. Dizzy and confused, she somehow managed to find the door to her new room and twist it open.

A cold breeze swept over her and she inhaled deeply. The lights from the city sparkled in through the single window in her loft, and she was glad for the illumination as she stumbled across the floor toward the bathroom.

She flicked on the light in the bathroom and shut herself in. Her fingers shook, her chest heaved, and her legs ached. She gripped the edges of the sink and dropped her chin toward her chest.

You are nothing.

Truth Six: Not to be chosen would yield a cruel fate of my own making.

The statements were stuck on repeat and Carrington couldn’t turn them off
 
—because they were true, because she was nothing. This
was
of her own making. She tried to remind herself of Authority Knight’s words. That this was God’s plan, that she could still be righteous, but her self-control failed her. She couldn’t keep from being sick anymore. Diving toward the single toilet, she released everything her stomach hadn’t digested. It stung coming up and scraped against her throat.

She spit several times, trying to get the remaining bile out of her mouth, and dragged her hand across her lips. Defeat filed into her bones. Tears filled her eyes and then flooded her face. This was real; this was her place now.

Carrington laid her cheek against the cold white toilet seat and finally cried. Her body heaved with painful reality and her skin ached with truth. She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle the volume of her sobs so she wouldn’t wake the other girls and let the sadness consume her.

The Time of Ruin (also referred to as the Ruining) came between the first Prima outbreak in October 2112 and the last recorded Prima-related death in May 2113. During this time, the outbreak claimed over 9 billion lives worldwide, nearly destroying the human population.

Those who received the entire treatment of the Prima Solution and had been exposed for over twelve months were the first to experience symptoms of Prima’s developing mutation. It was determined that the solution, which was intended to isolate and extricate invasive agents, was, in its mutated form, equally targeting vital systemic flora as well. In fact, Prima had begun to act independently, essentially becoming an autoimmune suppressor, attacking the host itself.

As the Prima Solution took hold, the detrimental impact on internal organs, blood cell count, skin cells, and brain function proved fatal. The solution evolved into a super soldier, killing everything in its path. Initial patients declined too rapidly to diagnose, and once the cause was identified, the damage was already advancing too rapidly to be abated.

As the scientific community struggled to find a resolution, the
mass casualties were mounting. Dr. Zefnerbach and her team of specialists were desperate to find an antidote and to make Prima work; however, she became a target of public outrage and was found murdered in her lab. Her assassin was discovered dead next to her, having succumbed to the ravages of the Prima mutation.

As time passed, Prima mutated more rapidly, even affecting those who suspended the regimen after the recall. The only recipients who seemed to be spared were the few whose immune systems had rejected Prima initially.

The world changed overnight. Panic and chaos erupted. Military forces and governing bodies around the world collapsed.

The death and destruction were overwhelming. Those who remained after the dust settled found hope in an emerging leader named Robert Carson. He brought salvation to a flailing society and his Authority was instituted as the new order.

Carrington wasn’t sure how long she used the toilet as a prop, but by the time she finally dragged herself back to bed, the first light of day was peering through the window. She didn’t really fall back to sleep for fear that she would dream again. Instead, she lay on the thin mattress that made her body mourn for her old room and listened to the soft snoring of her new roommate.

It occurred to her at one point that she didn’t know the girl’s name and didn’t even know what she looked like. The few hours they had interacted the day before were so clouded with disbelief and horror that Carrington couldn’t even recall if her roommate’s skin was white, black, or blue.

When the automatic alarm programed into the thin screens above each girl’s bed sounded, Carrington’s entire body was too numb to respond. Her limbs had fallen asleep under the weight of exhaustion and tingled as she finally pushed herself up and waited for her roommate to stir. She took a moment to notice that the girl’s skin was dark brown. Now she knew at least one thing about her.

Although Carrington had noticed two sinks last night during her sojourn in the small suite’s single bathroom, she only remembered one shower stall and toilet. She
supposed she should try to get a jump on the traffic in the limited facilities.

She collected herself and crossed the main room to find the bathroom empty. She shut herself in and hurried with a shower and brushing her teeth. She found everything she needed was already in its place: toothpaste, shampoo, soap, floss, brushes, combs, and lotion. Everything felt and looked sterile. Back home Carrington treasured getting ready in the morning with her things
 
—the fluffy green bathroom rug, the vanilla-scented moisturizer, the beaded grapefruit body wash, her striped towel with matching robe. Nothing here was familiar or warm, each object a simple tool rather than a treasured possession.

She finished and opened the bathroom door to find her mysterious roommate. The girl’s eyes were warm hazel, but her face was cold. It was apparent she had no desire to make conversation, so Carrington stepped aside and let the girl pass. They would have to get acquainted later.

Back in her room, she threw her towel over the end of her bed and dressed in one of the simple gray uniforms she’d found there the night before. It fit perfectly, as she knew it would. She stepped in front of the mirror, and agony pulsed through her chest. She looked like a Lint. Plain gray pants paired with a matching T-shirt and zip-up jacket. She yanked at the bottom of the jacket and fidgeted with the short, upturned collar. The material wasn’t terrible, but there was no possibility of being comfortable in it. It could have been made of silk and it still would have felt like sandpaper.

Carrington wrapped her damp hair into a bun and retrieved the microchip from its processing dock on her dresser and inserted it into her suit.

The screen on her left sleeve buzzed to life. The Authority symbol blinked into the middle of the screen and then spun out of view, replaced by the morning announcements. Blue lines of text filled the space and Carrington tried to read along before they disappeared.

Good morning, Authority Worker. Welcome to your orientation. Today you will be assigned a trade and given your training schedule. It is essential that you be at every orientation session promptly. Attendance is mandatory and will be recorded. Harsh penalties apply for truancy or tardiness. The dining hall is now open and the following instructions will guide you there. If you have any questions please seek out an appropriately labeled Authority Worker.

A black badge with the Authority symbol spun onto the screen, held for a moment, and then evaporated.

As God set forth the law, so the law must be obeyed.

The screen went blank and Carrington dropped her arm. She was hardly hungry, but the idea of standing around in this loft for another moment made her nauseous.

After double-checking her preparedness, Carrington quietly slipped out alone.

The dining hall was nearly identical to the front lobby except for the long white tables that filled the room, and the noise. Women of varying ages occupied the tables and stood in line for food, most of them chattering, some actually laughing. Carrington wondered how long it would take her to reach a point where she could laugh again.

She followed the women forming a line. A large cylinder, three feet in diameter, stretched from the floor to the ceiling. In its center an open section held a thin blue beam that scanned the chips inside the girls’ suits. Each girl placed her arm under the scanner and, after a moment, a panel in the wall slid open and a tray of food appeared.

Carrington followed their cue and placed her arm in the cylinder when it was her turn. It beeped softly, signaled for her to retract her hand, and then presented her food. She grabbed her tray and turned to face a room of strangers. It was a sea of gray, all their faces blending into their uniforms. Not one girl stood out from the rest
 
—a herd of Lints, and she now belonged among them.

“Hey,” a voice said.

Carrington started and turned to see a girl standing beside her. She looked oddly familiar, but Carrington couldn’t place her.

“You just gonna stand and eat?” the girl asked.

“Oh, umm, no, sorry. I’m just not sure . . .”

“Where to sit? First day?”

Carrington nodded.

“Follow me, newbie.” The girl edged past her, and after a moment Carrington followed. What else was she supposed to do? The girl found a seat at a half-empty table and immediately took a swig of the milk she had on her tray. Carrington walked around to the opposite side and sat slowly.

“First days are rough for everyone. You’re disoriented, disillusioned, disliked. Don’t worry; it gets easier. You just have to let the truth sink in and move on.”

“Right,” Carrington said. She stared down at her tray and saw a steaming bowl of oatmeal, a banana, and a glass of milk. Nothing looked appetizing, not that it would have held any appeal regardless of what it was. She glanced back up at the girl across from her. Her face was so familiar
 
—small, round features, dark-chocolate eyes, naturally pink cheeks. A mound of thick brown hair hung past the girl’s shoulders in tight curls that were starting to frizz a bit as they dried. Petite shoulders, petite hands. She couldn’t have stood any taller than five feet.

“Name’s Larkin, by the way. Larkin Caulmen.”

A bulb went off in Carrington’s head. Larkin Caulmen had been in the practicing class across from her own. Other girls had whispered about her, rumored she was a troublemaker, said she spoke out against the Authority and its laws. Carrington had always kept her distance to avoid being associated with her. Now here she was eating at the same table as the girl people had said wouldn’t even make it to her Choosing Ceremony before ending up arrested.

Larkin must have noticed the switch in Carrington’s expression because she nodded as if she agreed with the thoughts swirling through Carrington’s mind. “Most girls from our year give me that same look.”

“Sorry,” Carrington said.

“Nothing to apologize for. I know my reputation precedes me . . . even if it’s painted darker than it actually is.” Larkin shoved a chunk of banana in her mouth. “That’s the one beautiful thing about this place: no one cares who you were. You’re just another gray suit. It’s kind of freeing, really.”

Carrington looked down at the dull color covering her skin. “Not the word I would use.”

“Yeah, well, in the beginning it feels like chains, like eternal damnation for the sin of not catching the attention of the right man
 
—some absurd law that a group of egotistical men ruled on . . . without the input of a woman, I might add.”

Carrington started to feel uncomfortable with the volume of Larkin’s voice. She glanced at the table closest and saw that a small group of girls were eyeing them curiously.

“So,” Carrington said, “how long have you been here?”

Larkin swallowed the clump of oatmeal she’d spooned into her mouth. “Four months. I was in the fall Choosing. My mom was hopeful because our neighbor’s son Denny was also taking part. Clearly that didn’t work out.” Larkin chuckled softly, and Carrington forced a polite smile.

“I admit I’m surprised to see you in here,” Larkin said. “I won’t ask you what happened.”

Carrington swallowed and shook off the pressure
collecting in her throat. “Nothing happened. I just didn’t get chosen.”

Larkin’s eyes filled with compassion, and it was too much for Carrington to hold her stare.

Carrington cleared her throat and grabbed her tray. “I need to get to orientation.”

“I can show you the way,” Larkin said.

“No, it’s fine. I think I can make it alone.” Carrington didn’t wait for Larkin to reply. She just turned and headed toward the exit, fighting to control her tears each step of the way.

She found the orientation room with little effort. The directions given on her arm plate for navigating the building were actually very helpful. The room was small and plain as she had expected. The group was beginning to gather; Carrington estimated there were about fifty of them. Some faces she recognized from the train; others she had never seen. She knew each girl in this room had been on the train, but most of that night was hazy smog.

Chairs formed rows in the center of the room, and Carrington chose one toward the back. She had no idea what to expect, but she didn’t want to draw any attention to herself by being up front.

The room was deathly quiet already, but everyone knew the moment
he
entered the room. Carrington could feel him as if all the air had been sucked from the atmosphere
and replaced with lead. The sound of his shoes echoed off the cold tile floor as he approached the front of the room. Carrington almost couldn’t help following him with her gaze but thought better of it. She already knew what he looked like. Every girl did.

His name was Enderson Lane, and he was one of the twelve Authority members. He was in charge of the Authority Workers and had a fearsome reputation. Girls whispered about the unorthodox methods he used to keep the Stacks and their personnel running in complete order
 
—a well-oiled machine with absolutely no room for error.

A poster of him had hung on the wall of her practicing room. She’d never really understood why. Maybe it was to scare girls into following the rules so they would never have to meet the man who eyed them constantly from his pedestal. His face was pale and threatening. A thin mustache, as black as the hair on his head, grew around the sides of his mouth to meet the sculpted beard on his chin. His eyes were equally dark and menacing. He kept a cane at his side. Carrington was uncertain whether he needed it to walk or kept it as a disciplinary tool; either way, it made her cringe.

He stopped before the group and stood silently. He nodded toward two Lints to his left, and the girls walked to either side of the front row. They scanned the row quickly and then moved to the next. As they looked over the girls in Carrington’s line, she heard her arm plate beep softly and understood that they were taking attendance. She
couldn’t help but feel nervous for the group and prayed that everyone was there.

“This will be quick,” Enderson said. “I expect the session to progress without complication or interruption.”

No introduction, no welcome, just straight to business. Carrington took a deep breath and tried to silence the pounding of her heart.

“This morning you will be given a list of rules that are to be followed explicitly. Should you feel inclined to apply your own interpretations to them or observe them selectively, you do so with the acknowledgment that punishment is meted out with a heavy hand. It is essential for the well-being of your kind and of the entire community that the Authority Worker Stacks run seamlessly. It is also crucial that you regard your trade as your utmost priority and give it the respect it is due.

“Your trade assignment will be based on your physical condition and your rank. These assignments, once given, are never to be questioned.” Enderson’s face pulled tight and stern as he continued. “I cannot emphasize enough the importance of compliance without complaint. Your future and your purpose are tied to the trade you receive, and you should treat it accordingly. We monitor all trade activity and expect each of you to excel in your performance. Anything less will not be tolerated. Is that clear?”