The Law and the Codas

Chapter One

When the lights dim, we are to remain calm, seated, with our eyes pressed forward and glued to the holographic screen that flickers with images of FUA past glories: the victory at D.C.; the burning of the Whitehouse; the toppling of the Washington Monument; the inauguration ball of the ten men and women of the council known initially as The Law

the first Culling We are to applaud our country's success, and so we do, moderate, almost lazy claps breaking the silence and sounding off the room's barren walls.

Our teacher for today's lesson hushes us with a grunt from somewhere in the dark. We quiet, most of us going rigid as the hologram's blue tint silhouettes the stiff forms of the others. There's one of us missing in the line-up. November. She was taken last week and none of us have seen her since. Sam says she's dead, saw Corpse Removal leave her room, but I'm not convinced. Liars were one in a dozen; it seemed wasteful to kill her just because she'd been found with a pair of tweezers.

"But that's against the rules," Rima had said. "Could have hurt herself or someone else. It's a punishable offense."

But death? That seemed a bit harsh, even in the Facility. She must have been sent to the Calming Chamber. I'm sure she'll pop up again. She's my walking mate, and making my rounds on the indoor track alone is making me feel silly, especially with the armed guards watching from their eagles' nests.

The holographic player, a small silver circle recessed into the front wall, whirs and clicks, and a new set of images is projected in front of us. This time, it's each of the Law members, all ten of them, young and cheerful on Graduation Day. They held diplomas high overhead, crowned with black caps. Matching robes draped their bodies with flowy, bell sleeves.

From right to left: Councilman Ira, Abyashi, In-Semelle, Triav, Mercado, O'Mallory, Inez, Patel, Flint, and Dove. The image changes and we see these same ten faces on Inauguration Day, standing stalwart in matching suits emblazoned with the country's crest - a fledgling dove, mid-flight, a caning rod clutched in one talon, a stone in the other.

They wave at us as the prerecorded crowd erupts into a fever pitch of applause and whoops. The din echoes throughout the room, and I feel as though I'm there, witnessing the birth of a new nation. That is to be us someday— if we don't die before we graduate.

The slide show ends and lights burst on. Mistress Ramona scurries from her corner as the darkness recedes, her scarlet dress fluttering above her ankles. It takes a few blinks for my eyes to adjust but when they do, all I can focus on is the FUA crest--the dove-- stitched over Ramona's left breast. Where it lays, it's like its nesting above her heart, as though its feathers could provide her warmth, its wings could shield her from disaster, as though its heart could flutter in tandem with her own.

Mistress Ramona sniffs and drags her glasses to rest higher atop the bridge of her twice-broken nose. Though I hadn't been the one to give her a face-full of a fist, on some testing days, I wish I had.

"Today's test," she begins, her voice pinched, nasally and grating. I resign my head to my hand as the struggle to keep my eyes open becomes a battle I'm beginning to lose. Miss Ramona must not notice, despite her inches thick lenses, because she continues carrying on, "covers FUA History. Years 2037 to 2055. No exemptions." Mistress Ramona turns away from us and swipes a hand across empty air. A screen hovers before my eyes. "I've already uploaded everything. Remember—" She turns back towards us, straightening her shoulders. "You are to aim for 96%. Anything below that is an automatic fail and you will be expelled. There are always more of you that can be culled. Do not disappoint your country. Praise Dove."

"Praise Dove," I say, adding to the collective.

Mistress Ramona offers an approving nod before exiting the room. With a click, the door locks behind her, and a virtual timer begins counting down on our screen.