Remake Page 4

  Her office is large, the ceiling ridiculously high. The walls are covered in panels that rotate through painted images of landscapes. Beaches, deserts, mountains, and forests phase in and out of display. Behind Eri, on the wall beyond her desk, is a quote from one of our most ancient texts. It’s a passage all Batchers have to memorize as small children:

  And the Maker formed man of the dust of the ground

  And breathed into his nostrils the breath of life;

  And man became a living soul.

  The Maker created man in his own image.

  In the image of the Maker created he him;

  Male and female created he them.

  And they were both made equal before the Maker.

  And the Maker blessed them, and said unto them,

  Be ye free, choosing for thyself, for it is given unto thee.

  It references the first male and female ever Made, though their names have been lost through time. The words are beautiful, and though my initial reason for wanting to become a Maker is somewhat self-serving, the inscription is inspiring. The first Trade ever recorded was that of a Maker. It’ll be humbling and thrilling to carry on in a duty set forth from the beginning of mankind.

  “Nine.” Eri looks up at me from behind her screen. “Is there a reason you haven’t chosen a name yet?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Please just call me Eri.”

  “Okay . . . Eri. I haven’t thought much about it.” My fingers tap the fabric armrest of my chair; I resist the urge to pull at a thread that has come loose.

  “And why is that?”

  “Um . . . I guess I’ve been so concerned about other questions, I haven’t given much thought to that one.”

  “Yes,” she says. “I see that.” She scrolls through the file on the screen. “You still haven’t decided on a gender either. Is that right?”

  “Yes.” I don’t understand what all these questions are for. I’m supposed to have until tomorrow to choose. “Is that a problem?”

  “No.” Eri slides her finger to shut down her screen and walks around to my side. She leans against the desk just in front of me. “Your gender choice will not be a problem, but your Trade choice is.”

  I raise my eyebrows, confused. “I thought everyone is free to choose whichever Trade they want.”

  One side of her mouth turns up briefly before dropping again. “Unfortunately, becoming a Maker requires preapproval.”

  “Approval from whom?”

  “Approval from the Prime Maker,” she says curtly.

  I can’t believe she woke me early and made me race down here just to tell me she did not approve of me. Being rejected is not exactly new to me, but with just a day left until my Remake, it’s kind of annoying.

  “And why is it I’m not approved?” I ask with gritted teeth.

  “For one, Makers must be willing to sever all social ties with those they know in their Batch. And from what I read in your file, I doubt you’ll agree to that term without protest.”

  I think of leaving Theron for any length of time, and it makes my stomach churn. Sever all ties. Maybe that’s why we’ve never met any Makers before. “Do Makers live outside of Freedom?”

  Eri crosses her arms and smiles. “Actually, most live here in the Core building, just two stories down. But their work is extremely demanding and leaves little time for mingling with anyone except other Makers.”

  The mere suggestion of being separated from Theron is enough to dissuade me from the Trade, but I have this burning need to defend myself. “So if I agree to social isolation, then I could become a Maker?”

  “Second,” she says, ignoring my question, “Makers are not allowed to request a gender change in their Remake.”

  “But I haven’t chosen a gender yet. You don’t know that I won’t remain female.”

  “You’re right. I don’t know that.” She studies me for a minute, thinking something through.

  “What does that have to do with anything anyway?” I ask, my frustration building. “There’s no difference between males and females; why does it matter which gender I choose?” Maybe the Prime Maker herself will give me a straight answer this time.

  Eri sighs. “Even if you didn’t change, I still wouldn’t approve you. Your . . . difference in appearance will not be accepted readily by the other Makers.”

  My jaw drops. I should remind her I won’t look this way after I’m Remade, but my anger takes over. “You mean my freckles aren’t even allowed?”

  Eri presses her lips together at my outburst.

  “This is exactly why I chose to be a Maker in the first place,” I say. “Because you people have no idea what these spots have made my life like. And I don’t want anyone else to have to go through what I have.” I stand and rush to the door, done with this conversation.

  “Nine.” Eri’s voice is soft and warm.

  The comforting sound is such a surprise, I turn around and wait for her to continue, my hands in fists.

  “You’re not a mistake.”

  I stop, unable to answer. Yeah, that’s what Theron says. And guess what? It doesn’t sound convincing coming from his lips either.

  A part of me wonders if I choose no Trade at all, would anyone notice? How big a difference will I make to our province anyway? I’m just a random number in a random Batch. Freedom has been producing ordinary Batchers like myself for years. I’m nothing special.

  Eri tilts her head in my direction. “You’re an experiment.”

  “What?” My jaw drops for the second time in the same minute.

  She comes to stand beside me. “You’re an experiment, the results of which are not yet conclusive.”

  Being rejected isn’t new to me. But this? I’m not prepared for this. I’m a freak on purpose? I suddenly feel like a caged animal being prodded by a group of cruel handlers, just waiting to see how I’ll respond, when all I really want is to be set free. Have they been spying on me my whole life, logging in data on their experiment every time I move, every time I breathe? I touch the tracker behind my ear and wonder if it’s used for more than just finding me if I’m lost.

  “You should feel honored, Nine.”

  Honored. Not exactly how I would describe the feeling of knots in my chest.

  Eri leads me back to my chair. I follow numbly, still in shock.

  “You’re a pioneer. First in what may be countless to follow.” Eri pats my shoulder. “I’m going to let you in on a secret,” she says. “World map. Freeze.”

  Her words confuse me until I see the wall panel to my right. A large map appears, familiar landmasses and oceans filling the screen.

  “Here we are,” she says, pointing to the southeast edge of the smallest continent on the map. The words FREEDOM ONE label the spot. Eri drags her finger across a large ocean to a continent in the north. “Here’s the Remake province,” she says. Almost as an afterthought, she adds, “It’s where everyone in the world goes to be Remade, no matter what province they originate from.”

  Our shuttle will transport us there tomorrow. The map does nothing to comfort me. That’s one big ocean, especially for someone who can’t swim and is afraid of the water like myself. I sigh. What am I still doing here?

  “And?” I ask, shifting in my chair.

  “If you want to be a Remaker, Nine, that I can approve. Though you’ll need to live there . . . permanently.” She gives me a pitying smile. She knows I won’t leave Theron. Why is she doing this to me?

  “How about Refuse Collector?” I mutter flippantly, though loud enough I know she hears me. “Or Sewer Specialist? Would you approve me for those Trades?” I’ve no idea who would want to perform those duties, but someone must choose them, right?

  Her eyes widen briefly, and she folds her arms, struggling to remain composed. Something I said upset her. She lifts her chin and continues, as though pretending she didn’t hear me.

  “There are Makers in every province on every continent in the world.” As she speaks,
labels appear on the map. Freedom Two, Freedom Three, all the way to Freedom Twenty-Six. “The entire world is watching us, here in Freedom One.” She clenches her hands and releases them twice before continuing. “They wait to see what will happen with you, Nine. And if all goes well, you’ll be the first.”

  The first what? All this information is overwhelming and makes me dizzy. As if being an outcast in my Batch of twenty wasn’t hard enough, now I’ve got the whole world following me. There are twenty-six Freedom provinces on the earth. Looking at the wall, I realize there’s a lot of land not labeled, emphasized by the sheer size of the map. I wonder, briefly, who lives in those far-off places, if anyone. Are they watching me, too?

  “What do you want from me?” I ask, resisting the urge to bite my nails. “What result is it you’re hoping for?”

  “Now if I told you that, it wouldn’t be much of an experiment, would it?” Eri crouches down next to me. “I’ve already said too much, but it breaks my heart to see how disappointed you are about not becoming a Maker. At least now you realize you’re far more important than some simple Trade.”

  “Now what?” I don’t know what to do with all of this. And freaky experiment aside, I’m back to not having a Trade chosen.

  “Your Remake can proceed without a name or Trade selected,” Eri says, anticipating my concern. “I’ve made a note in your file that you’ll be allowed to choose those after your Remake recovery.” She pauses. “Of course, you’ll still need to choose a gender before you get on the shuttle.”

  I nod and head for the door, anxious to get out of there.

  “Good luck with your Remake,” Eri says, her warm voice betrayed by the cold of her touch on my back as I leave.

  * * *

  Just outside the Core building, my composure breaks, and my legs begin to shake. A part of me wants to run to Theron. I want to get lost in his arms and his words. I want to forget how much more like an outcast I feel. Another part of me is disgusted with my dependence on him, and I end up stumbling to a metal door just around the corner of the building. It’s unlocked. I slip in and close it behind me, sliding to the ground in complete darkness.

  I cover my ears and close my eyes, blocking out the whole world. How could things have possibly gotten worse? This isn’t fair. It wasn’t my choice to be this way. Where was the standard of equality on the day I was Made? No one asked me if this was what I wanted—to be the lone oddity in a throng of equals. I don’t care what the cracked Makers hope for me to accomplish to make their experiment a success. After tomorrow the playing field will be level, I’ll be like everyone else.

  After a while my hands fall, and my eyes crack open, slowly adjusting to the darkness. I’m sitting on a cement slab against the cold metal door. To my right, a set of stairs rises, and to my left they descend. I’m in a stairwell. I stand and compose myself, turning to the door behind me, ready to face the world again. But as my hand turns the handle, I hear something. It’s a faint wailing sound. And though I can’t place it, I know it comes from below. I hesitate—and there it is again. A dim howl from the stairwell beneath me.

  I lean over the rail but see only a weak green light. Keeping my hands on the metal railing, I descend two sets of concrete stairs. A door on my left reads CORE BUILDING, SUB-LEVEL ONE in faint glowing green letters. I’m still in the Core building. What was it Eridian had said? The Makers live two stories down. I walk down another two sets of stairs and find a similar green sign: CORE BUILDING, SUB-LEVEL TWO. I try the handle. The door is unlocked. I slip inside and hear the noise again, louder this time. It sounds like the echo of a scream from far, far away.

  I walk through a dimly lit hallway filled with dust and a flickering, buzzing sound. Cobwebs and rat feces spread along the ground. It looks as though no human has been here for years. The sound grows louder and is joined by shouts from several people. I peek my head around a corner and see a large door at the end of another hall. As I step closer, I notice this door has a small glass window in it at eye level.

  When I’m just outside the door, the screaming is loud and distinct. I still can’t tell if it’s male or female, but whoever is making the sound must be in a lot of pain. The glass window has a film of dust over it, and I can’t see through. I pull my red sleeve over my hand and rub at the dirt. Peering in, I see a white, brightly lit room. It’s clean and spotless, a stark contrast to the abandoned hallway I’m standing in. On the far side of the room is a row of individual, white tents. They are roughly the length and width of a bed, but the plastic is opaque. I can’t see inside of them. Strange wires and tubes are attached to the tents. Are there people inside those tents? I don’t understand what it could mean.

  I see one woman in the room. She is laying on a bed, screaming; the veins in her head and neck protrude in her distress. And there’s blood, loads of blood, on her clothes and staining the bed beneath her. A sharp, metallic smell sifts under the door, edged with an odor that reminds me of scorched earth. She screams again as a man stands in front of her, blocking my view.

  My heart races. I have no idea what’s happening, but everything about this is wrong. This can’t possibly be the Maker level. There should be a lab or computers, shouldn’t there, used for programming or harvesting those being Made? I can’t think why someone would be isolated or tortured for any reason. This is Freedom, after all.

  A few others gather around her bed, moving with purpose as though excited for something that is about to happen. I fear for a second they’re hurting her, or worse . . . but they keep their distance. They don’t even touch her. Wherever the pain is coming from, it’s not from them. It doesn’t make sense.

  I reach for the door handle and jiggle it, but it’s locked. One of the individuals across the room turns his head toward the door. Toward me.

  I duck my head in an instant and crouch as low as I can beneath the door’s window. My hands press against my sour stomach, beads of sweat forming on the back of my neck. I force myself to wait, suffering through the sounds of more screams—a symphony of horror. As soon as I’m sure I haven’t been seen, and no one will be looking for me, I run back down the hall, turn, and race to the stairwell. I run up the two flights of stairs, skipping steps and tripping once as I hurry.

  When I break free into the light of day, I don’t stop. I head straight for my Batch tower, feeling as though every Seeker I pass stares suspiciously at me. Once in the tower, I decide I’m not ready to see anyone, not even Theron. I strip and stand in the showers through three entire cycles, then I dress in a fresh tank top and pair of sweats and climb into bed. Theron is still asleep, though it’s almost midday. My eyes close, and I try to fall asleep and forget everything that has happened this morning—with Eridian and Sub-level Two. It’s a futile wish, though. I know I’ll never forget the spine-chilling sound of that woman’s scream.

  “Come with me,” Theron says, leading me out of the eatery after dinner. We enter our building’s stairwell, and I freeze just inside the doorway, the memory of this morning still fresh in my mind.

  “What’s wrong?” Theron asks.

  I straighten and shake my head. “Nothing.” I don’t know what I saw on the Maker level today, but I do know I’m not ready to talk about it yet. Not even with Theron.

  I follow him up the stairs until we reach the final door at the top. Walking out onto the roof of our building, I gasp in surprise. Layers of bright-colored blankets sprawl along the ground. Portable hologram screens on low tables surround the clearing, casting a glow in the already dark sky of Freedom. Each screen projects a moving image, floating in the air above it: a bird flying through the air, snow falling on a mountain ridge, clouds drifting across a full moon. The images are beautiful. Magical.

  “Where did you get all this stuff?” I ask, grateful for the distraction.

  Theron grins. “I have my ways,” he says. “I’m not completely helpless, you know.”

  I laugh, wondering whom he had to flirt with to acquire such things. It’s as good a
s a pair of Freedom passes. I jump into his arms and give him a giant hug. “It’s wonderful.”

  “One more thing,” he says, sitting me down on the pile of blankets. He reaches into a metal box on the ground and pulls out a plastic jar filled with firm, glossy squares of something edible. As he unscrews the lid, the sweet scent of cocoa drifts to my nose.

  “Chocolate!”

  Theron’s laughter fills the night. After stuffing our faces with as many pieces as we can, we lean into each other and watch the lights of the province do their thing. Blues, reds, greens, and yellows weave a path through the streets and buildings as far south and west as we can see. But near to us in the east is the black mass of ocean. The lights of Freedom and dark water meet in the far north, converging on a giant building used for music concerts. It sits at the edge of the water, next to a harbor, glowing like giant fingers fueled by light.

  “They are shells at the edge of Freedom,” Theron says, looking at the building. “Caught in the earth just out of reach of the water.”

  I shake my head. “They are sails of an ancient ship, heading out to sea.”

  “Yes.” Theron sighs and grins. “Can you imagine sailing a boat across the seas like the explorers did a millennia ago?” He looks out at the water. “I bet the stars are never-ending when you see them from the middle of the ocean.”

  “There are no boats anymore,” I say. “Isn’t it scary to know we’ll be flying over the ocean for hours in a shuttle? I won’t be able to relax until we’ve landed on the Remake continent.”

  “Not scary,” he says. “Free. Heart-thumping, high-jumping kind of free.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Are you really afraid, Nine?” He wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me closer to him.

  I don’t answer. Of course I’m afraid. The ocean is a dangerous place, full of monsters with sharp teeth and disease and death. It doesn’t help that I can’t swim—no one in my Batch can. I watch the white water where it meets the sand near the lighted building. It sloshes and splashes, like a dance that alludes to chaos, yet if you watch long enough, falls into a pattern that soothes at the same time.