The Beautiful Ones

by Kody Boye

  “They teach us about some of the settlements beyond the city in school,” he says, reaching forward to once again sip from his water.

  While I hadn’t anticipated the fact that he would be educated, it makes sense, considering his place in the world and the luxuries it possesses. I personally only learned reading, writing, and enough math to measure recipes out. The little history I know I learned from speaking with my mother and Mrs. Garret. Anything else is beyond me.

  “So,” I say, attempting to fight back the butterflies fluttering about my stomach. “What is it you do within the city? Or will do? I’m interested in learning more about you, especially since we’re to be—”

  “Wed?” he asks. He blushes, then, and swallows before saying, “I’m sorry. I spoke out of turn.”

  “It’s okay,” I reply.

  “As to what I do: I’m a classically-trained engineer.”

  “A what?” I ask.

  “Someone who works on machines. I specialize in farming equipment, and even though most of that is automated by machines—”

  “You mean people don’t work the fields?” I interrupt.

  “No. They don’t.” He smiles, revealing white teeth. “Most of the farms out east are tended to by some type of machine or other. It’s my job to ensure that they work.”

  “Is that awfully difficult?”

  “It requires a bit of math—”

  “Which I only know a little of.”

  “—and a knowledge of how things go together, but no, it’s not too difficult—at least, not until you get into the artificial intelligence aspect of it.”

  “Artificial… intelligence?” I frown.

  “The machines think for themselves,” Daniel explains. “It’s the wave of the future. Most of the vehicles in the city operate on it. They know when to move when lights turn green, when to stop when they turn red, can halt their advance if a person or animal crosses their path. Stuff like that.”

  “It sounds too good to be true,” I reply.

  “It’s really quite amazing,” he says, then frowns a short moment later. “You don’t have any of that stuff out west, do you?”

  “I take it you’ve never been outside the city?” I say.

  Daniel shakes his head. “No. I’ve lived here all my life. I barely know what it looks like beyond the walls. The city’s so big you could go your whole life without ever leaving it. Everything’s so self-sustained.”

  “Yeah,” I say, suddenly struck with a feeling of sadness over the sudden disconnect I feel from him.

  It’s almost impossible to imagine that someone couldn’t know the plight of the people living outside the Glittering City. It’s like asking someone if they’ve seen the stars and them replying that they never have—a fallacy that, while seemingly incomprehensible, could happen. Just as someone could have been born and then survived underground all their life, someone could have been born and never left the Glittering City. This reality is enough to make me realize that I should not judge him for his ignorance.

  I am just about to open my mouth and ask another question when the waitress arrives with our food. The meat is steaming and browned to perfection, the salad is green and succulent, and the fruit accents the plate beautifully.

  “Is there anything else I can get for you?” the waitress asks after depositing the food onto our table.

  “No,” I reply, then look up at Daniel. “At least, I don’t think so.”

  “This will be fine,” the young man says.

  The waitress then turns and leaves without another word.

  I lift my fork and knife and cut into the meat casually, using just enough force to dig into the tender morsel while at the same time remaining proper by not allowing my elbows to touch the table. Daniel himself digs in without mercy, and eats with gusto I can’t even imagine. Either he is excited to eat the food, or he hasn’t eaten at all today.

  “Daniel,” I say, dabbing my mouth with a kerchief. “Can I ask you something? That is, if it isn’t too personal?”

  “You’re free to ask me whatever.”

  “First: how old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “You’ve said you’re already employed,” I continue, “but do you have the means to support us?”

  “I… believe I do,” he replies, anxiously dabbing his mouth with his kerchief, as if unsure of the question I have just asked. “I mean… I’ve been living with my parents ever since I started working last year, so… I’m unsure how we’ll manage on our own, but I think we’ll be okay.”

  “You think?”

  He grimaces—an action that does not look good on his handsome features—but nods and continues by saying, “Yes. I believe we will. Besides…” He pauses here, as if unsure of what he is about to say. “The government won’t let us and our children starve.”

  That word—children—is enough to inspire a grimace of my own. It brings about a sense of purpose that I am unsure I can uphold. To be asked to be wed, and to a stranger no less, at sixteen, then to bear and give birth to his children, is an idea I would have never been able to comprehend in my previous life. But now?

  I bring a piece of the juicy meat to my lips and sink my teeth into it, nodding at the flavors that explode inside my mouth and the rumble that echoes throughout my stomach. I force myself to chew and then swallow even though I’ve basically lost my appetite—knowing, more than well, that this sort of meal is only granted for those most fortunate.

  Daniel stares at me as I eat, seemingly lost in not only my features, but my person.

  “Daniel?” I decide to ask, though I feel my tone is too clipped to sound friendly.

  “Yes?” he replies.

  “Can I ask you one more question?”

  “I don’t see how it would hurt,” he replies, but his tone is disingenuous and makes him sound like he would rather be anywhere but here.

  “You plan on supporting the family we’re meant to have… right?”

  He grimaces at this—as if he is just as unsure as I am about the Process and what all it entails—but nods. He then says, rather confidently, “Yes. I’ll do everything in my power to ensure that you, and our children, lead happy lives.”

  I extend my palm toward his, hoping to catch his fingers within mine.

  He draws his hand away shortly thereafter.

  “Daniel,” I say.

  “Yes?” he asks, not bothering to lift his eyes to look at me.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” he replies. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  I hear the lie in his voice, but decide not to question him, for there really is no reason to. He, just like me, is scared, and with fear comes a camaraderie that can only be found in the most desperate of situations.

  Though I cannot know what the future may hold, at least I know that I will not face it alone.

  This man—he is to be my husband, and I his wife.

  It is only a matter of time before our true purposes are meant to be fulfilled.

  Eleven

  I am beyond exhausted by the time I arrive home, and though I want nothing more than to make my way into the washroom and stand beneath a warm shower, I can do little more than collapse into bed.

  As I lay here—mouth agape, eyes flickering, one foot dangling off the edge of the bed—I think of the conversation I had with Daniel Cross no more than an hour before.

  You’re beautiful, he’d said.

  I’m a classically-trained engineer, he’d explained.

  I’m unsure how I’ll be able to support us, but I imagine the government won’t let us and our children starve.

  Children.

  Children.

  “Children,” I say, the word a mere whisper on my lips.

  My thoughts are filled with the complications that can arrive during pregnancy—of miscarriages, of stillbirths, of ailments and sicknesses that can strike at any time and rip free the life you harbor within you. Such times are supposed to be joyous, I unders
tand, for when the men would return home to the Sandstone Hills and one of the women would become pregnant, the community would rally behind them with oohs and aahs and what will happen nexts. I know, however, from seeing such events unfold, that they are never easy. The body likes to rebel at times, and not always are children who are carried within the womb born.

  These thoughts assault me mercilessly as I consider what will happen when it is my turn to continue the circle of life. Will I be safer, I wonder, here in the Glittering City, where there are machines and people who are specially trained? Will technology save me from what could undoubtedly be a strenuous time, or will it leave me in a position where I cannot and will never be sure of anything?

  I try to console myself with the reality that death happens only in special circumstances—when the stars misalign and the world comes crashing down—but realize that I, with all my privilege, am not immune to the stakes in place. This helps little, and causes me to burst into tears a short moment later.

  In my beautiful red dress and dazzling crimson makeup, I am little more than a caricature of my former self—a beauty queen crying on her throne over a life she’d always wanted but could never truly afford.

  Regardless of my fear, my doubts, and my disposition toward believing that everything will go wrong, I have to keep assuring myself that everything will be fine—not because I know it will be, but because the forces that be will make it as such.

  I was chosen for my beauty.

  I was brought here for my beauty.

  I was given medical attention for my beauty.

  I am protected, by armed SAD agents at all hours of the day, for my beauty.

  And should something go wrong—and should I fall into a pit of destruction or utter despair—I will be saved because of my beauty.

  Whether I like it or not, find it fair or find it unjust, I am a commodity to the forces that be: an investment for the future of their great city and even greater country.

  For that reason, I close my eyes and, with resignation I understand comes from the acceptance of fate, try to fall asleep.

  The dreams that may come could potentially turn into nightmares, but I understand one thing for certain.

  I cannot be afraid.

  * * *

  The following morning is wrought with tension and insecurity. From the moment I wake up I am acutely aware of the fact that the Revered Mother could arrive at any time to demand any number of things. This knowledge, combined with the lingering emotions from the previous night, leave me in a state of unease—and, I am loathe to admit, fear.

  To keep myself from spiraling into self-destructive thoughts, I go about the apartment performing the most mundane of tasks. I tuck my sheets under the mattress, spread my covers across the bed, fluff my pillows, then walk into the washroom and clean my face and teeth. I then step into the shower, and attempt to bathe all my worries away, to no avail.

  By the time I make my way out of the washroom and into the main part of my apartment, a knock comes at the door, startling me from thought.

  Who could be here at this hour of the morning?

  Ceyonne?

  The Revered Mother?

  I swallow.

  Daniel Cross?

  The latter seems unlikely, considering there is no way he could possibly know where I live, but the former are more than possible.

  “Give me one moment!” I call as I strip the plush white robe from my body and make my way toward the dresser.

  Unlike before, when the Revered Mother simply barged in, whomever is outside gives me the time to make myself decent. This luxury, while slight, is a godsend, and allows me to prepare myself for whatever is likely to come.

  When finally I am dressed in a simple skirt and blouse, I turn, steel my emotions for the hardship I am likely to face, then make my way to and open the door.

  Ceyonne is waiting outside—her eyes unsure, her lips cast in a frown.

  “Ceyonne,” I say, surprised but at the same time relieved. “What are you doing here?”

  “Can I come in?” she asks.

  I nod, and step aside so she can come in.

  Ceyonne enters cautiously, tentatively, with the gait of a mouse that is being pursued by a feral cat, her eyes wide and her lips pursed into a seemingly-permanent frown. She scans the room, as if expecting that someone else is already inside, before turning to me and asking, “Can you close the door?”

  I do so without asking, though at the same time, can’t help but wonder why she’s so nervous. “Ceyonne?” I say. “Is something wrong?”

  She shakes her head, vehemently at that. She then crosses her arms beneath her breasts and asks, “How was your night?”

  As obvious as the deflection is, I decide to humor her by saying, “It was… nerve-wracking, to say the least.”

  “What happened?”

  “I met with the Handsome One that I’m meant to marry.”

  “You did?” she asks, then frowns a moment later. Her eyes widen and her nostrils flare as she takes in a deep breath. “You mean it’s already started?”

  “You weren’t aware?”

  She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “It’s just… I thought that, maybe because we just got here, that we’d have more time. That’s all.”

  “I hear you there,” I say, and laugh—a sound that, while clear and pleasant in its clarity, seems to cause Ceyonne discomfort. She turns to look away from me as I consider her face—which, at this moment, is covered in undeniable distress. “Ceyonne… what’s wrong?”

  She shakes her head again and begins to make her way into the apartment, creating distance between us that can be measured in more than just footsteps. I try to follow—if only to see if I can help ease whatever burdens she carries—but stop as she turns to face me.

  Ceyonne’s eyes, they are wild: filled with fear unlike any I could have possibly imagined. She opens her mouth to try and speak, then stops and gasps, as if she has lost her breath.

  A short moment later, she begins to cry.

  I am at her side almost immediately. “Ceyonne,” I say. “What’s wrong?”

  “Last night,” she said. “He came to my room.”

  “Who did?”

  “The Commandant.”

  My blood runs cold. My heart skips a beat. The inside of my head screams in complete and undeniable anger. The girl before me trembles as she stares at me through the tears in her eyes, and at that moment I want to do nothing more than comfort her, but realize that any wrong action could be irrecoverable.

  With caution I have never felt before, I say, “Did he—”

  She shakes her head. “No,” she replies. “He… he didn’t. He just… touched me… like I was his… and… and—”

  “And what?” I ask.

  “Told me that I was his favorite,” she continues, “and that if someone wasn’t found for me, that I shouldn’t worry. That he would take care of me.”

  The words are enough to inspire dread within my bloodstream. Once warm but now cold, it freezes within my veins and causes the aspects that make up my person to tremble. The fact that he would even go into her room, let alone violate her mind in such a way, is unfathomable.

  Ceyonne sways, briefly, before stumbling back and catching herself on my bed. “I’m sorry,” she says a short moment later. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “Have you told the Revered Mother?” I ask, settling down upon and then pulling Ceyonne onto the bed.

  “No,” she replies. “I thought that… that maybe I should tell you first.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because you’re my best friend.” She sniffles. “And my only friend.”

  I draw her into a hug a short moment later, regret filling my consciousness over the tone I’d used with her and anger brewing in my gut over what the Commandant has done. It stews, bitterly, in the bottom of my stomach, causing me real, physical anguish. I want nothing more than to march up to the capitol building and have a word wit
h him myself, but I know that will never happen.

  No.

  Instead, I know I must go to the next best source.

  Standing, I make my way toward the threshold that exits my room and the communications device that will hail the front desk, granting me my any need.

  “What are you doing?” Ceyonne asks.

  “Contacting the front lobby,” I reply.

  “Why?”

  “Because we need to tell Mother Terra.”

  “No!” Ceyonne cries, throwing herself forward. She stops before she can reach me halfway and stares at me. Gone is the shame in her eyes, on her features, in her heart. Replaced is an expression of fear—of terror found only in the eyes of children who are about to meet the most brutal punishment of their lives. “You can’t.”

  “We have to tell her.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Ceyonne—”

  “Who’s to say that I’m right?” the girl asks. “Or that it was wrong for him to do what he did?”

  “Please—”

  “Don’t strip me of my choice,” she begs, stepping forward. “Please… let me handle this in my own way.”

  “But what if he comes again?” I ask. “What if he… he…”

  I’m unable to finish the thought. It’s too terrible to think, let alone speak.

  I reach up to brush my hair back from my face and say, “Okay. I won’t do it if you don’t want me to.”

  “Thank you,” Ceyonne says, then wraps me in a hug.

  While standing in the girl’s embrace, holding her as if she is the last person on earth and I her only companion, I wonder what will happen in the coming days, in the next few weeks, in the following months, and find myself trembling within her grasp. I wonder: what is next?

  Hopeless, I realize I cannot know.

  All I know, in this moment, is that I have to do what is right for her—here, in the now.

  With that in mind, I continue to hold her tight.

  * * *

  Not long after Ceyonne leaves, I dwell upon an unspeakable thought, one that could endanger not only my own life, but my best friend’s as well.

  My thought is simple: