The Killing Jar (8 page)

LANCASTER CENTRAL HALL, LANCASTER, NORTH AMERICA

AUGUST 7, 2232

Theo stood his place in the single-file, alpha-order line awaiting the announcement. Of the seventy eight Youths who would become full citizens today, only fourteen would select Scholar. Still, it was higher than the national average.

“Ready?” Allen Lefruene asked from behind.

“Yeah,” Theo lied. Now that he’d done it, slid the card into the slot and sealed his fate, he couldn’t help but feel he’d made a terrible mistake.

“Folks here?” Allen continued, oblivious.

“Yeah, probably.” In the spiraling tower above, Theo had no doubt Howard and Cheryl sat in a room of their peers watching the ceremony on their tablets. The final Kaufman to become a prominent Scholar. It would be a proud moment for them.

But not for Theo.

He fought the urge to run back to the Selection room and find his card, change his future. When he looked back toward the curtains, he saw Nate.

Near the end of the line, he didn’t look near as bad as Theo feared. His eyes were down, but the sadness had left them. Nate had accepted his fate.

Maybe he’d had a last conversation with Casey, at least enough to get some closure. Or maybe he’d made his peace with it.

Theo would have to wait until after the ceremony to ask him. Before he could say a word, the microphones emitted the introductory music.

Dean Norway began the speeches the same as always, though Theo had never heard them from backstage before. “Good afternoon and welcome to the Selection Ceremony for Youth Class 14925. Today, we are honored to have representatives from the three classes. The Northeast Sector Leader and Craftsman representative, Ms. Samara Russo. To her left, Artisan and local favorite Mr. Gage Vilchis. And, may I ask for a very warm welcome for the esteemed Vicereine of the Scholar Class, Dr. Indra Masry.”

Theo choked and coughed as he heard her name. The Scholar Vicereine? Of course, he would have to select his class in front of the most powerful woman in the Scholar class, one of the three most powerful people outside the Global Council. Why couldn’t it be the Artisan Viceroy? Or the Craftsman Viceroy? Why did it have to be
her
?

What had he done to deserve this?

Like an overplayed song, the Dean continued his usual speech. “Our society is a great one. It thrives on our system of three classes, each an integral component of our success.

“First, there are the Craftsmen, the foundation. They work hard in a variety of trades—culinary arts, carpentry, fabrication, and mechanics—each with particular focus in their area of talent.

“Next, there are Scholars, ever-reaching for new technologies and knowledge. Our scientists, engineers, and geneticists. They work to ensure a long and prosperous future for our great society.”

The words took on new meaning as Theo stood in line, garbed in the black robes, minutes from receiving the cords of his class.

“And finally, there are the Artisans, tasked with preserving our culture, our identity. They are our designers and architects, painters and poets, and through them, we remember who we are as a great society.”

Allen whispered, “I swear, if he says ‘great society’ one more time, I’ll throttle him.”

It wasn’t enough to quiet the drumbeat in Theo’s ears.

“It is fitting that in Lancaster, the historic home of the Amish people, that our Youths should experience such freedom. Much as the Amish adolescents intentionally moved away from their homes to experience all the world had to offer, the Youths of our great society were free to experience multiple fields and interests. After years of exploration, tasting a variety of disciplines and engaging in a wide range of courses here at Lancaster Central Hall, each Youth has chosen their class, the way they will contribute to our great society.”

“Oh my god!” Allen huffed.

“At this time, I will ask Ms. Jamila Adams to come forward. Ms. Adams has selected Craftsman.”

Of course.

A hearty cheer erupted from the audience several floors above.

Theo had seen it before—but from his tablet on the upper floors—the Youths emerging from the curtains separating back and front of stage, the shaking of the Dean’s hand before the class representative placed colored cords over their shoulders.

“Mr. Peter Artemus, Craftsman.”

After the fourth, the line lurched forward a step.

And then came the first person Theo knew personally. “Mr. Casey De La Rosa, Artisan.”

The cheers were dramatically reduced in volume, but no less enthusiastic. There were simply less Artisans. Theo’s eyes shot forwards as if he could see through the curtains, but no. He was forced to imagine the struggle on Casey’s features as he accepted the scarlet cords.

When Theo looked back at Nate, his eyes were cast at the ground, refusing to look up.

Theo’s heart snapped in two.

“Ms. Nina Folsom, Craftsman.” On and on, the Dean called the names, Youth after Youth, as the line shortened, as they neared the stage.

At last, Theo arrived in the space between the curtains. He could see the steps up to the stage, the middle-aged dean stood at the slender microphone, the class representatives in line beside him, each holding a handful of cords.

One floor up, the viewing windows for the Youths that had already selected, and in the one to the right, he saw Casey.

There was so much he wanted to say, to have a last few minutes with him, to apologize, to tell him how much Nate would miss him, how much Theo had enjoyed getting to know him and valued his friendship.

But he wouldn’t get the chance.

“Mr. Theodore Kaufman, Scholar.”

At the sound of his name—and Selection—Theo climbed the trio of steps onto the stage. Dean Norway held out his hand and offered Theo an absent smile. Theo shook his hand and moved to the Vicereine and Scholar representative, Indra Masry to receive his royal-blue cords. Nothing like having the most powerful person in your social class participate in your Selection ceremony.

It was done.

Theo was a Scholar.

The cords hung on his shoulders like weights. When he stood locked in place, Dr. Masry motioned to the far side of the stage where two escorts waited to take him to the Scholar viewing room.

The pale walls and muted tiles were a blur, the stale corridor, the transparent elevator, the cheers from the audience all obscured in the wake of his Selection. He could only try to grasp why he felt so out of sorts, why his arms prickled and his stomach turned as if nervous. But it wasn’t nerves. This was something else, something worse.

On the second floor, Theo entered a large room with a series of couches and the six Scholars who had already selected, including Isaac. Each stood in conversation, congratulating each other and describing their future research, their choice of mentor, their new lab.

“Hey, Theo. Congrats.” Isaac offered his hand, and Theo shook it, but he didn’t have anything else to say. He turned to the viewing window to watch the rest of the ceremony.

There was one person in particular he was eager to see.

Two dozen names he knew only in passing were called, a few other Scholars were brought to the viewing room, but Theo didn’t move. He would be there to support his friend even from a distance.

Mere minutes later, Nate stood at the curtains, his eyes up and to the right, to the window where Casey stood watching.

“Mr. Nathaniel Voight, Artisan.”

Theo had clearly misheard. At least, he thought he did until he saw the crimson cords placed over Nate’s shoulders, until he saw the wide consuming smile on Nate’s face, until he saw the way Nate looked up and locked eyes with him through the glass. And then, a moment later, Nate ran for the Artisan room and the boyfriend he couldn’t give up.

And like that, Theo lost the best friend he ever knew.

COLLECTOR PRECINCT 881, HELENA, NORTH AMERICA

AUGUST 7, 2232

Reality closed in on her, a tight, suffocating grip that wouldn’t let her free. Her body ached for a dose of peace, a little taste of the purple pill.

“Dasia King?” She didn’t know how long he’d been in the interrogation room with her.

Still, she nodded. There was no use in denying it. No use in denying any of it.

The man pulled out the opposing chair and made an attempt to keep his suit from wrinkling as he sat. He placed a tablet on the table but pointed the screen so only he could see it.

“My name is Dr. Nick Pastromas. I understand you’ve had a difficult morning.”

Dasia looked at him. Her eyes burned from so many useless tears. What she wouldn’t pay to give in to anth, to sleep it all away.

But no. That wouldn’t be fair to the boy she loved. The boy she would never marry. The boy she let die.

“The coroner indicated extremely elevated levels of gaseous toxicity as cause of death. There’s nothing you could have done.”

Dasia looked up at Dr. Nick Pastromas in his fancy suit. He seemed genuine. There was no hint of smile to his clean-shaven jaw. Maybe it was the remnants of anth, still lingering, still playing its tricks.

“You mean, I’m not—” she fought for the words.

“Oh, no. You’ll still be held responsible for his death. Also, there was a large quantity of anth in your home. Possession with intent to distribute, being under the influence of an illegal substance, and breaking curfew. You’ll have quite the record when this is all processed.”

Dasia had expected no less.

It was all she deserved.

It was only a fraction of the true price of her actions. She would have to live with herself, live with Cole’s absence for the rest of her days, regardless if she was free or in prison. There was nothing a guy in a fancy suit could threaten that would be worse than what she’d already done.

“Your file indicates you selected Craftsman last year. You plan to take over your family’s farm. Is that right?”

“Does it matter anymore?”

“You took only a handful of classes at the Monarch Center, but amongst them, an interesting variety. Agriculture, Creative Writing, Calculus, Aerospace, and Geology to name a few. Do you have interests in any of these areas?”

“Does it
matter
?” she repeated, growing more distraught by the second.

“Your test scores indicate you are in the upper echelon of your sector. I’m curious why you would choose Craftsman when you have so many other options available.”

Dasia pushed to standing in a single, furious movement. “Is
this
my punishment?” she shouted, leaning over the table to scream in his face. “Are you going to remind me of all the plans I’ll never live out? Do you want me to relive this moment so you can watch my pain?” Words tumbled out rapid-fire, an onslaught she couldn’t stop once she’d started. “You want to know what happened? He was beautiful, kind, generous, sweet when it was just us. I was going to marry him, but instead I killed him. I
killed
him.” Her voice was little more than a crack, a squeak of agony as she broke into pieces.

The fancy-suited monster sat wide-eyed and silent. He watched as she collapsed into the chair and folded her face and arms into the table.

“I apologize, Ms. King. I think you misunderstand me entirely.”

His words fell on deaf ears. She was too angry, too grief-stricken to accept any possibility but that of her own pain. She deserved nothing more than a lifetime of misery.

He let her sit quiet for what seemed like a while. He let her cry out her tears until her sobs were still and her cheeks dry.

Then he told her what he really wanted.

“I represent a unique opportunity, one that requires complete and total submersion. I had hoped you would be willing to take a chance on us.”

With her face pressed into the crook of her arm, Dasia pretended not to listen. She didn’t want to think there might be hope for something else.

“If you accept, your record will disappear, your files will be destroyed. It will be as if none of this ever happened. As if you were never here.

“But you will never return to the life you have now. You can never contact anyone you know. You will renounce you status, your class, everything you’ve ever known.”

Her interest piqued, Dasia lifted her head. For the first time since the start of their strange conversation, she really looked at him. His late-twenties confidence, his sandy brown hair combed just so. He was hardly the type to frequent Monarch. “What?” she asked. There was no way he was real. Anth had its claws in her deeper than she thought.

“If you leave with me, I’ll take you to our facility. We’ll get you clean. It’ll be a new start. You’ll be provided living quarters and a reasonable living, but you will never leave. Once you’re with us, you’re with us until death.”

“What about my parents? The Daughertys?”

“You’ll sever ties with all of them.”

“What about my dad’s farm? Who’s going to run it?”

“That’s not really any of my concern.” It wasn’t the answer Dasia wanted. It hurt to think of her parents having no one to rely on for their future. But it made her trust the man, Nick Pastromas. If he was lying, he would make it sweet, he would make her like it. Only the truth could be so bitter.

“What will you tell them? About me? About C—” She couldn’t even say his name.

“They’ll be told a lie about where you’ve gone. In your case, I imagine it’ll include a lengthy stay in a prison nation. They’ll know the truth about his death. There’s no reason for us to alter those records. My point is, they won’t expect to see you again.”

“I can never see them again? Ever?”

Nick’s features wrestled for a moment before he answered, “Never.”

Dasia nodded slowly. “Promise?”