Chapter 2: Chapter 2

We're all lined up, waiting for the bus in our traditional attire. Two buses pull up. They're a dull gray, made of iron, with no windows. Just long, hulking vehicles with massive black tires.

The doors swing open and we climb in from the back. The interior is as plain as the exterior, filled with rows of benches. Once we're all inside, they bolt the door shut.

We sit in silence, waiting for the bus to rumble to life and take us away. This is the first time I've ever left school.

I've spent years watching girls leave on these buses, heading off to start their new lives. I've met their daughters, tiny babies in the school nursery, but I've always stayed put, always watching from the window.

Now it's my turn. I'm the one leaving, the one moving on. The girls I've shared meals and dorm rooms with will one day recognize one of my daughters and remember me. It's the circle of life.

I wish I could look out a window, take one last look at my school. I spent the morning walking the halls, saying goodbye to friends and familiar rooms, but I found I had no tears left to shed.

I'm too excited, too nervous, to cry. I'm not even sad. My heart is pounding, my stomach is fluttering, but I'm not sad. I don't think I'll miss school. I think it's time for me to go.

It's time for me to become a mother, time for me to serve my country. It's given me seventeen years of life and learning; now it's my turn to give back. And I plan to.

Beth sits next to me, grinning. Every now and then, she turns to give me a wink. We hold hands tightly.

The journey isn't long, but the road is rough and we can hear bombs exploding in the distance. It makes us flinch.

The war has torn this land apart time and time again. The air outside is so toxic that even a few seconds of exposure can be deadly.

It's what causes the Defectives and Cripples to die prematurely in their factories. The factories aren't as well sealed as the schools, establishments, and nurseries.

I'm twirling my hair around my finger when the bus comes to a stop. We wait until we hear the bells chime. We put on our gas masks as instructed and wait.

The doors are unlocked and yanked open, and we're pulled out of the bus. I only get a brief glimpse of the establishment before I'm ushered inside.

Like all Albion buildings, it's tall and gray, mirroring the landscape. Its edges are rough, the windows small, and the walls are coated with cement.

Inside, we find ourselves in a small gray room. There are tables and chairs, sofas, and armchairs; a trembling chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and silver curtains line the windows.

The other girls and I crowd inside and wait, staring at the plush cushions. They're unlike anything we've ever seen before.

We don't have to wait long. A Perfect appears. She's clearly past her prime; her skin is as gray as the land.

She looks at us. “You're the Perfects from School 64?” she asks.

We nod, though we're still not used to being called ~Perfects~. She nods, jotting something down on her notepad.

“Congratulations. You will each have a room in this establishment until your first child is born. Then you'll be sent to a nursery. As I call your name, I need you to come into this room with me.”

She points to a door behind her before continuing. “I have a few questions, then you will be shown to your room and prepared for tonight.”

She looks at us all seriously. We nod. She does the same, then calls out number 987,533,512.64.5. Louise steps forward, her head held high.

Again, we wait. We're used to waiting. We've been waiting our whole lives.

We wait to recite our pledge each morning before eating, before class, we wait until midday when the blinds are lowered, the morning smog has cleared, and we can look out the school windows at the gray earth.

We wait until the end of classes when we can gather in the main hall and talk for half an hour before dinner. We wait until our tenth birthday, when we're allowed to let our hair down from pigtails.

Then we wait until our fifteenth birthday, when we're allowed to pull our hair up into high ponytails. We wait for the Testing. Then we wait to become Perfects. Now we'll wait to get pregnant.

“958,687,487.64.4,” the Perfect says, poking her head out from behind the door. I stand up immediately and hurry over to her. She holds the door open for me and then closes it behind me.

We're in a large room with gray carpet and darker gray walls. There's a window, but the blinds are down. A bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting a yellow glow over the room.

In the center of the room is a desk. It's old; I can tell it was made before Albion. It's made of dark-brown wood, and it's been worn smooth over the edges.

The Perfect sits down behind it on an iron chair. She leans back against a gray cushion and gestures for me to sit across from her on a similar chair.

Once I'm seated, she leans forward and picks up a paper from her desk. The writing on it is tiny, to conserve paper.

“Alexandra 958,687,487.64.4?”

“Yes.”

“I'm 98,439,785.64.2.1.6. You can call me ‘Eloise,’” she tells me with a small smile. “I think I might have known your mother. Do you know where she is now?”

“She died giving birth to my brother five years ago. He was her eighth child, though, so she had a full life.” I shrug.

Eloise nods.

“There was a girl in my school two years younger than me named Alexandra.” She nods to herself. “Now, you've recently turned eighteen?”

“Yes, almost exactly one month ago.”

“And your first period was…seven years ago?”

“Yes.”

“Any problems? Pains, irregularities?”

“No.”

“Good. Sicknesses?”

“No.”

“You’re in room 312, up on the third floor. Just head left out of here and take the stairs. That’ll lead you to the hall. That’s where we welcome the young soldiers,” she explains.

“You need to be there every night, sharp at seven. The only exceptions are if you’re sick or, naturally, pregnant. Speaking of which, when was your last period?”

“About three weeks ago,” I answer.

“Good, good. And you’re regular?”

“Yes.”

“Do you keep track?”

“Not really. I mean, I have a rough idea, but I don’t jot it down or anything.”

“You should. The moment you know you’re pregnant, you’ll be moved to the nursery. There, you and your baby will get all the care you need. We can’t afford to lose a child.

“Perfects are rare. Did you know that only forty percent of babies born are Perfects? That’s half of what it was fifty years ago.”

“I had no idea.”

“And more and more Perfects are turning into Defectives,” she adds gravely. “I’ve seen so many girls come and go. They stay a year, then they’re shipped off.”

“But they’re tested before being labeled Defective, right?”

“Absolutely. But they never stick around.” She sets my file down and looks at me. “Keep track and show me your calendar each morning. Be in the hall at seven tonight. You’ll see, everything will go smoothly.

“The other girls will fill you in on the rest. Get ready to enjoy yourself, Alexandra. You’re a woman now. A Perfect woman. Embrace it.”

She winks at me, then stands. I quickly follow suit, and she leads me back to the door. “Good luck,” she whispers before nudging me out the door and calling Veronica in after me.

I head back through the small entry room and then take the stairs on the left. They lead me upstairs, and I step into a brightly lit charcoal room.

Long tables fill the room, and curtains cover the windows. There are plush gray sofas and armchairs filled with Perfects sipping drinks and laughing.

They’re all older than me: girls who arrived here six months ago, girls who have already had children. The older ones, in their twenties, might even be waiting to have their eighth and final child.

They’re dressed traditionally, their blond hair pulled back tightly. They look so glamorous.

A few girls from my school stand to the side, sipping drinks and watching them with wide eyes. Beth is in one corner chatting with one of the older Perfects.

I slowly make my way over to them. Beth sees me and gives me a small smile. “Alex, this is Juliet,” she introduces me to the older Perfect.

Juliet smiles at me and flips her loose hair. “Alex?”

“Yes.” I nod, and she giggles.

“We’re in adjoining rooms,” Beth informs me. “Teacher Ingrid set it up for us.” She grins. I let out a small sigh of relief and smile back at Beth.

“I’m in room 313, right next to you, Alex,” Juliet tells me. “If you need anything, or if anything happens, just come to me. I’m here to help.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you girls ready for your first night?”

“What’s it like?” I ask.

Juliet pushes off the wall she was leaning against and looks at Beth and me. “Why don’t I show you to your room?” she suggests.

We nod and follow her as she crosses the room to a door. “So, what is it like?” Beth asks again.

“Unexpected,” Juliet finally answers, pushing the door open to reveal an iron staircase at the end of a dim hallway.

“Rooms 312 and 311 are on the third floor. We’re close to the hall, which means we’re close to the food. We get breakfast first.”

“What did you mean by ‘unexpected’?” I ask as she leads us up the stairs.

She doesn’t turn around as she speaks. “I won’t sugarcoat it. It’s scary. It hurt the first time, quite a bit. But then it starts to feel good.”

“Good?”

We step into a long hallway. She leads us down it, and I notice the numbers on the doors. She stops at number 311.

“Yeah. Sometimes. You’ll see. This is you, Beth. The doors don’t lock.” She pushes it open. “And this is you, Alex.” She opens the next door, and I peek inside.

My room is dark gray with a white carpet and a single window with charcoal curtains. In the center of the room is a huge bed, the biggest I’ve ever seen. It’s covered with a thick gray blanket and four pillows.

There’s a wardrobe filled with gray and red clothes. I look at Juliet, who gestures for me to go in. She leaves the door open behind us.

I find a door on the side wall, and I open it to Beth’s room. She steps into mine, her eyes wide.

“These are your rooms. Until you get pregnant. You won’t spend much time here. Just your nights and evenings with a soldier. The bathrooms are just down the hall. We spend most of our time in the hall.

“We head downstairs at ten each morning for breakfast, then we go to the work hall. I’ll show you later where we assist the soldiers. We make whatever needs to be made. You’ll see. We have fun.”

Juliet runs her fingers over the covers on my bed.

“How long have you been here?” I ask her.

“About five months now. I’m starting to get worried,” she confesses. “I’ll be down tonight. Maybe it’ll be my lucky night!”

I nod, and she laughs again. “I’ll let you get settled in, and see you downstairs at seven.”

Beth and I are standing in my room, looking at the bed. We exchange a glance.

“Is it normal to be scared?” she asks.

“I think so,” I reply, offering her a small smile.

“Five months,” she says, taking a deep breath. “That’s a long time.”

“She still has seven more,” I remind her, pulling my hair out of its tie. It falls down my back and I shake it out.

“Yeah, but still,” Beth says, biting her lip. “She could be Defective. She could contaminate us.”

I frown. “I don’t think she can contaminate us until she’s declared Defective,” I reassure her.

“Really?” She takes another deep breath, and I nod.

I glance at the clock on the wall. “We have an hour,” I tell her, counting the numbers on the clock face slowly.

Beth nods and takes a sip from my drink. She makes a face and then sips it again.

“It’s for our people,” I remind her.

“I’m proud to be producing Perfects for Albion,” she says, but it sounds like she’s reciting from a book.

“You should be proud. Very proud to be chosen, to have the privilege of seeing a Perfect soldier, and giving him and this land a Perfect child.”

She nods. “I’m going to lie down for a while,” she tells me, turning and disappearing through the adjoining door.

I wait for it to close behind her before sitting down on the gray carpet and hugging my legs to my chest.

My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts. I remember a teacher, a Perfect. Her name was Teacher Emma. She had eight sons and was a highly respected Perfect.

I remember being in awe when I saw her step into the classroom in the early afternoon to teach us how to assemble bombs.

It was hard for us; we were only five when we started that class, and our chubby childish hands struggled to find the right slots for each piece of metal and wire.

They had to be perfect too; we weren’t allowed to make mistakes. But the bombs back then were only the simple ones. The older we got, the more technical the weapons became. I was ten when they first let me use a welding iron.

I remember, being five, leaning over my bomb, twisting wires together with my tongue sticking out. Teacher Emma stopped next to me and kneeled.

“Keep your tongue inside your mouth, Alexandra,” she told me.

I nodded and sucked it in loudly. She laughed lightly, and I remember grinning at her. But then the joy left her eyes as our gazes lingered. Her hands balled into fists, and tears sprang to her eyes.

“How old are you, child?” she whispered.

“Five and three months,” I told her.

“Twelve years,” she said. “Twelve years, then you’re leaving this place.”

“Yes, Teacher Emma,” I replied.

“Are you excited?”

“Yes, Teacher Emma! I want to serve my country! I would leave earlier if I could! Can I? If I have my bleed earlier, can I have babies for my country earlier?” I asked.

A single tear trickled down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it away.

“I remember being five and three months,” she told me. “I had a very good friend. Her name had been Melissa. Do you have a good friend?”

I’d pointed at Beth, who was wrapping her wires in her hair and laughing. Teacher Emma glanced at her, then back at me. “Melissa was just like that.”

“She died?”

“Yes, she was declared a Cripple at our Testing because her teeth were too large.”

I remember making a face at this.

“I stopped talking to her that day, and I left for the establishment the next morning when she left for a factory. I only found out she was dead when I saw her name on a list in the nursery after my fourth son.

“I remembered her suddenly and felt very sad. She’d been blown up. Though the factory was in a dangerous zone, they hadn’t warned them or given them any sort of evacuation. They were sacrificed, I don’t know what for.”

“Eternal Albion,” I’d informed her.

Teacher Emma just stared at me, then wiped another tear from her cheek. “Girls. That’s all we have left. Girls and boys. All my boys are dead.”

“For Eternal Albion.”

“Oh, Alexandra, you’re such a pure child. You have such potential.”

She’d stared at my meticulous mix of wires, all designed to connect perfectly to the explosives without separating and causing an explosion before they were set off and hurting any Perfects.

“Such potential,” she’d repeated. “You are a very organized and logical child. I’m not used to seeing such craftsmanship before the age of ten.”

I’d beamed at her praise.

“Will my bomb kill Foreigners?” I asked.

She gazed at me, then nodded. “Yes, it will kill many Foreigners,” she answered.

I smiled, pleased with her praises and my work.

“You’re so innocent. So innocent. You don’t know anything yet, and it will all be too late when you finally do understand.

“Alexandra, I wish I could tell you. I wish you could understand me. You shouldn’t look forward to anything, everything. Your future is gray. Gray and ashes and death. Forever.”

Then she bowed her head to sob.

I’d spoken about her sadness to Teacher Francis the next day, and that same day Teacher Emma was declared a Defective despite her eight Perfect soldier sons.

I was watched closely by my teachers for the next year for any signs of being contaminated. But I showed no signs; I had great potential for becoming just as fine a Perfect as Teacher Emma had once been.