Which is why it feels so odd to be leaving the training ward without a crowd of them around me.
The soldier presses a button, and the gate slides open with a heavy scraping sound. “Thank you for your service,” I say as I step out of the training ward.
“Your work honors us all,” he replies.
The gate slides shut behind me and I relax a little as I pass the Hydroponic Gardening Center, where my identicals and I will work when we graduate. Poppy hopes we’ll be assigned to the grains and grasses unit, because it’s the most spacious, but I hope we get vines and climbers. Or anything other than tubers, really.
Beyond the HGC are the Medical Center and the Arts Center. Then I come to a neat row of bureau headquarters in what must be the heart of the city.
The Defense Bureau is a featureless concrete building, squat at only two stories high but broad and deep. The Workforce Bureau is a utilitarian structure of steel and windows, and beyond that stands the Management Bureau, a narrow tower of mirrored glass reflecting sunshine back at the rest of the world as if it’s the actual source of the life-giving light.
I jog up the steps and into Management headquarters, then hold my wrist beneath one of the scanners in the lobby. The red light moves over my bar code, and that same electronic voice reads the onscreen instructions.
“Dahlia 16. Proceed to Suite 4C, room 27. Gardening manager Cady 34 is expecting you.”
I step into the nearest elevator, where my image stares back at me from the mirrored doors, and for a second the reflection feels like company. When the doors open on the fourth floor, I step into a white-tiled lobby, where a sign directs me to the left, for Suite C, home of Management’s gardening unit.
I knock on the door labeled 27 and a woman’s voice calls for me to come in.
Cady 34—and everyone else from her division, obviously—is a petite woman with light brown skin and dark eyes.
“Have a seat, Dahlia 16.” She gestures to the pair of chairs in front of her desk.
I sit in the one on the right, my palms slick with nervous sweat.
“Your instructor tells me that your produce is consistently among the best, not just in your class but in your entire union.”
I blink at her, surprised. Sorrel 32 is obviously pleased with my work, but standing out too much—even for a good reason—is never advisable. Anything that breaks from the norm threatens the efficiency of the system as a whole.
“Sorrel 32 has nominated you for consideration as a future instructor. She believes that your skills could better benefit the city by teaching others to grow food at a higher quality than by growing food yourself. Do you agree?”
I can’t remember another adult ever asking my opinion. This is a test. It must be.
My heart races. I don’t know the right answer.
“It’s not a trick question, Dahlia 16.” But Cady 34 isn’t smiling, nor does she make any attempt to set me at ease. “Do you believe you could best serve Lakeview as an instructor? Do you want to become an instructor?”
Do I want…?
What a strange question.
Selecting me as an instructor is the only way the city of Lakeview will ever acknowledge my hard work and superior skill. But rather than growing tomatoes, carrots, or strawberries in the company of my peers, I’ll spend the rest of my life growing other gardeners. Alone.
Is that what I want?
Cady 34 notices my indecision. “You don’t need to answer right now. But you should know that you’re not the only one being evaluated for this position.”
Surprise gets the better of me and I sit straighter in my chair. “Who else are you watching?” It’s Olive 16. I know it is.
Cady 34 frowns, and I realize I’m not supposed to care about who else they’re considering. This is not a competition. What matters is that Management chooses the person whose instruction of future gardeners will most benefit the city of Lakeview—whether or not I am that person.
“Dahlia, as long as your efforts continue to glorify the city, you have a good chance of being selected as an instructor. But the city of Lakeview has no use for ego or personal pride, and Management won’t reward either of those by putting you in a position of authority and instruction over young minds. You are just one pixel out of the thousands required to form a clear image, so you need to focus on that image as a whole. If your arrogance were to be deemed a genetic flaw, Management would have no choice but to recall all”—she glances at something on her tablet screen—“five thousand specimens of your genome. Do you understand what that means?”
Fear weighs me down like shoes made of lead. I nod. Recalling my genome would mean purging every girl in my division.
Five thousand corpses, all wearing my face.
I am numb as I step into the elevator. The doors slide closed and I begin to ascend, because I am so lost in this new fear that I forgot to press a button.
The floor number climbs as I jab at the button marked “L,” for lobby, but it doesn’t light up, nor does the elevator descend. Someone else has called the elevator.
My rise stops on the tenth floor, and when the doors slide open a cadet from the Defense Bureau steps inside. The name embroidered in white on his black jacket reads TRIGGER 17. He is just months away from starting his life as a full-fledged soldier.
“Thank you for your service,” I say as the doors slide shut, because that’s all a trade laborer is allowed to say to a cadet or a soldier.
“Your work honors us all,” he replies. Then he pushes the “L” button.
The elevator begins to descend, and I sneak a glance up at him because I’ve never seen his genetic model up close. The geneticist who engineered his genome has certainly brought glory to the city with this design.
Trigger 17 is tall, with skin a few shades deeper than mine and eyes like the night sky—dark and bright. His features have a pleasing strength and symmetry. I’ve just noticed the way the cadet’s hair curls around the top of his left ear when the elevator grinds to a startling halt, throwing me off balance.
As I stumble into the wall, the lights go out. I am trapped in a broken elevator with Trigger 17.
A panicked sound escapes from my throat. I blink, but the darkness doesn’t clear. My hands find the wall, searching for something to grip, but this elevator has no handrail. If it plummets, I will have no way to brace for impact.
Air rushes in and out of my lungs as I slide down the wall to sit on the floor. I can’t see anything, so I clutch my knees to my chest and try to stay calm. Someone will come for us. Someone will fix the elevator and turn the light back on. It’s just a little malfunction.
The elevator drops several feet. I scream as I am lifted, then slammed down hard enough to bruise my tailbone. My teeth snap together, cutting off my cry, and across the elevator there is a heavier thud of impact, followed by a startled grunt from the cadet.