CHAPTER 1: THE FACILITY
The morning bell blares through the metal halls while red lights flash slowly on and off as the sound spins high to low. By the time it's done, everyone in this pod is dressing their beds and getting into their uniforms: pressed and creased navy slacks with a red blazer and loafers. The only choice we have is whether or not to wear socks. Most of us go without just because we can. The other guys are dressed and lined up next to their bunks when the bunk leader, Chaz, inspects each of our uniforms and writes down a score. The score is between one and three. A score of one has severe penalties and as far as I know no one has ever gotten this. A score of two means you don't get to eat today, while a score of three means you can.
He finishes his checks and guides us to the cafeteria. We pass along and beside the other pods, one of which is pod 24, a girls' pod. A few of the boys say some crass things to the girls, no doubt thinking they're being charming. There's some laughter from the guys, but only scorn from the girls. Jeana, a girl who shares many of the same classes with me, rolls her eyes at the catcalls. We round the corner of this wide, steel corridor. Dim lights line the lifeless steel walls.
We enter the cafeteria, where the ceiling rises to make this the largest room in the facility. 7,000 students pour in through corridors and sit at their pod's table. Chaz stands with all the other pod leaders at the sound of a horn blast while the rest of us remain seated. Chaz is shorter than me, but more muscular, with a round face that is hard and set. Once the horn blast fades, the pod leaders begin to sing the morning chant. There are no words, just five notes mixed in a complicated pattern. Chaz sits down, takes a sip of his water and announces that we may eat. There's a pill sitting on my plate next to my meal. I take it.
"So who do you think we'll lose at the Auction tomorrow?" says Trace.
"You've got the lowest grades and the worst records Trace, so if anyone's going to be sold, it's you," replies Chaz.
We finish our meals and after another horn blast we are standing. The pod leaders all shout "dismissed!" at the same time. An eruption of voices bounces around the room but quickly fades as all students head to their first class. I am the last one left in the cafeteria. I like standing in the vast empty space of the cafeteria for as long as I can, savoring the silence. The most I can stay without being late to class is thirty seconds, but that thirty seconds is the only time that I get alone in a day. It's my treasure. My thirty seconds is up so I rush down a dreary corridor to my first class.
Range is about to begin his lecture about cytoplasm as I rush to my seat, barely making it in time. The consequence for being late is an extra lap in the pool, which is something I want to avoid. Even though many of the students here are pursuing different focuses, we are all the same age. My focus is Medicine, so this biology class is a required credit toward graduation. Of course, I only graduate if I manage to make it to the end of my eighth year without being sold at the auction, which few students manage to do.
Next to me sits Jeana. She and I have the same focus, so we usually request to be seated together in classes we share. We are both very quiet and have good records, so our request is usually granted. She wears the same uniform as all the other girls: a pale blue dress with a wide Navy blue belt cinched tightly around the waist, the skirt blooming out a couple inches above the knee. Her hair is her own. It's wild and tangled, but in a very organized way. It's deep black, just like mine and every other student here. Her skin is lighter than mine, but mine is slightly darker than most of the students anyway. Class ends.
"Are you worried about tomorrow's Auction?" Asks Jeana.
""Yeah," I reply. "You?"
"It makes me feel sick. I don't think I'll sleep."
She grabs her books and walks away. I find myself watching her as she leaves class, but look away as soon as I realize it. I move through the next few periods quietly and without event. Then there is lunch. I eat, savor my thirty seconds of solitude in the cafeteria and go to the only period I enjoy, Shield's class. Shield is the only man in my life that I respect. He chose to be my Guardian during my first year here at the Facility and each year since then, which forever puts me in his debt.
Every boy and girl is assigned to a Facility when they are fourteen. They spend their next five to eight years finishing their schooling before they are auctioned off to bidders. During the first thirteen years of their life, they are raised and trained in the Cradle. Cradles have taken over the role that was once assigned to Breeders. Every Breeder is required to surrender their children to a Cradle after the first three months of nursing are finished. Once in a Cradle, the child is forever severed from its Breeders.
In the Cradle, we are taught the fundamentals of decent human behavior. We become masters of all the primary areas of study: math, reading, writing, science and art. Outside of class, every moment of every day is planned and controlled. By the time a student leaves the Cradle, they are ready for the stiff, cold, regimented life of a Facility. Facilities and Cradles are almost always stationed deep underground or deep underwater. I happen to have been at a Water Cradle and this is Water Facility.
A Facility's primary function is to produce Amharats. Shield once told me that there are only two categories of people in this world: Amharats and Bidders. Every worker in the Facility, including the professors, is an Amharat. No one here has ever met a bidder. We don't know who they are, where they come from, where they live, or what they do. Well, we sort of know what they do. They bid for Amharats at the auctions.
When a student first arrives at the Facility at the age of fourteen, they are led to a long, narrow corridor with a stage lining its length. More than a thousand new students all stand in a straight row across the stage. Professors then walk up and down the corridor choosing the students that will come to be under their tutelage for the next year. Senior professors get first picks, then in descending order of age and years of employment at the Facility, each professor chooses their 50 students, 30 girls and 20 boys. Once chosen, that professor becomes guardian for these 50 students.
I remember standing in that line. I was shaking and tears were running down my face because I didn't understand what was happening. The first twelve professors passed me, saw my demeanor and laughed before moving on to more desirable students. Then, Shield came by. He wore a charcoal gray suit, immaculately tailored and pressed, with impossibly clean white sneakers. But what was most striking was his slicked, dark gray hair, the same color as his suit. As he walked down the line, his step was straight and deliberate. Everything about him radiated command and authority. Without looking at me, he extended his hand. I didn't know what this meant so I just stood in place trying to control the waterworks. I knew I had panic in my eyes. After a moment of complete stillness, without facing me, he told me to get off the stage and get into his line. I obeyed.
There were still many students left unchosen after all the professors made their picks. They were guided out of the corridor and into a dark room beyond. I never saw them again.
During that first year, I became increasingly attached to Shield. I took in every word he said, watched every movement. I even began emulating him. I would sit the way he sat, walk the way he walked. He was the only person I had the slightest desire to please and the only one that made me feel any warmth in my life. He didn't pay any special attention to me, so it wasn't his fault. I think I just wanted to feel safe here. He made me feel safe.
During my second year, I began styling my hair the same way he did. I cut the sides short and slicked the top back. When he first saw the change, he stopped next to my desk and looked at me with an unreadable expression. My face reddened and I put my head down to avoid any eye contact. I went too far, I thought. Oh no, I went to far. At the end of class I was the first out of my seat. I made a straight line for the door, but then I heard his booming voice call my name. He gestured for me to sit, which I immediately did. I stared at the desk, counting the scrapes in the aluminum top.
"West, I want you to look at me."
I didn't.
"West. Look at me now."
This time I did. My face was beet red and my heart was racing.
"Why did you change your hair, West?" I didn't answer. He repeated himself.
"I just like it," I said and then looked away.
"Don't look away from me!"
His voice made me jump. I looked straight at him again.
"Now one more time, tell me why you changed your hair, and this time tell me the truth."
I couldn't answer so I looked away again. But this time he didn't command me to face him. Instead he took a seat next to me, put his feet up on a chair and took a deep breath. A moment passed quietly. Then he spoke again, but this time in a gentle voice, one I'd never heard him use before.
"I'll tell you what I think, West. I think you are copying me. Am I right?"
I started apologizing incessantly.
"Stop talking."
I stopped.
"I'm not upset." He pauses for an uncomfortable amount of time. "West, I want you to just be you. Not me. Who you are is just fine."
I didn't know whether that was a compliment or a reprimand. I nodded and asked for permission to leave.
"Just be West," he reiterated, then motioned that I could leave. It was one of the most awkward points in my life.
As the years progressed, Shield helped me and his other students prepare for the day when we would eventually be placed in an auction. Tomorrow will be my first. From then on I will be placed on auction every three months until the final auction at the end of my eighth year.
I take my seat and diligently take notes as Shield reviews our assigned reading and lectures about the themes and moral dilemmas presented by the author. Class ends and I rise to leave, but I feel a solid hand pressing me back into my seat.