Ugly Camp
A Novel by Taylor Michelé
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Artificial Intelligence was not used in the creation of this novel.
This is a work of fiction.
Resemblance of any person or place to any person alive or dead and/or to any place real or previously imagined is purely coincidental. This novel in all parts and its whole is the intellectual property of, and content created by the individual so named below. This property may not in part or whole be copied, reproduced, restructured, reformatted, transformed, cataloged, curated or in any other way altered or put to any use and for any reason without the express consent of the author/owner/copyright owner named below
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Copyright© James M. Schell 2026
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Ugly Camp
By
Taylor Michelé
Firmatas, utilitas, venustas (strong, useful, beautiful).
--Vitruvius
But . . . the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. All you have to do
is tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the peacemakers for lack of patriotism . . .."
--Hermann Goering
. . . if such things continue to happen, they will multiply into a pattern of disaster . . . our free life well may
be lost in a succession of bits and fragments.
--William J. Lederer & Eugen Burdick.
The rich man in his castle
The poor man at his gate
God made them high and lowly
And ordered their estate
--Cecil Francis Alexander
One
You don’t find out whether you are pretty or ugly until you are fifteen.
Not officially anyway.
If, by the Second Tuesday of November of the year you turn fifteen, you have not already figured out what your own Rating will be, you are either stupid or very conceited. I suppose there are some who are the opposite of conceited, whatever that is. Humble, maybe? And they really do not know how they will be Rated. But I have a hard time believing that. For most, by the time you have been around for fifteen years, you have a pretty good idea.
Unofficially, anyway.
Every Citizen of Dominion receives his or her Aesthetic Rating, officially, on their Second Tuesday. On that day you report to your city’s Bureau of Aesthetic Control Hall with everyone else born the same year as you. Once there all of us will all be officially Rated. My Rating begins when I hear an Official call out my name.
“Marlow! Clarissa Marlow!” I step forward. He does not even look up. He just points to a door. I suppose I should offer him my most winning smile as I step past, but I do not have one of those. I just open the door and step through.
Inside, is a sort of exam room occupied by a table, a man and little else. The air in the room is cold and carries an odor of age, dust, sweat and something sharper. It is the acidic odor of fear. The fear of countless other fifteen-year-olds who have passed through over the last few generations. The man is another Official. He looks Aesthetically Prohibited, which makes sense. No need to waste anyone higher than that for this kind of grunt work.
“Strip,” he tells me. “You can put everything in here.” He jabs one finger at a small plastic tote sitting on top of the table and then stands looking at a packet of papers on a clipboard he carries. I feel fire across my cheeks and ears at the thought of undressing in front of this man, but I prepared myself for this and will not let my embarrassment show any more than it already is. It is clear from his demeanor he has seen a thousand naked kids before and is, if anything, bored to tears. More so, I imagine, by the specimen before him just now.
I bend and untie the laces of each of my heavy boots, perfect footwear for the slushy, slippery streets outside. Nothing like an early snowstorm in Second City to make you appreciate good footwear. Balancing on one foot and then the other, I strip off my wool socks; next, off come my jeans and then my thick flannel shirt. I deposit them all in the tote.
“Everything,” he snaps, pointing at the tote again and glares at me with impatience before his indifference pulls his eyes back to his clipboard. There might be girls in the Hall today this man would enjoy ogling as they strip, but Clarissa Marlow is not one of them. I do not take this personally. Besides, every Citizen goes through the same thing on their own Second Tuesday. Off come my tee and panties.
“Step through there,” the bored Official tells me, pointing at another door. I do. Into an examination room. The tangy odor of some sort of antiseptic cleaner masks any others that might linger in the room. There are two Officials here. A woman. And another man. But I do not care. I am done worrying about who sees me naked.
The Rating process starts with an analysis of your general health. You know, heart rate, blood pressure, breathe in and out a few times. All of that. They already have your permanent health record and so they know I have managed to avoid any serious accidents for the past fifteen years. I fractured my arm falling out of the tree in our backyard when I was maybe ten. It was so minor in fact, that I barely remember what happened. The only notable thing in that at all was that my parents took me to a hospital on the outskirts of town rather than the big one downtown. Well, that and that at the same time I was diagnosed with mild asthma.
I have used an inhaler for this once daily ever since. After inhaling my daily minty dose this morning, I made sure to slip a brand new cylinder into the dispenser which I then deposited to my shirt’s breast pocket before setting out for the BAC Hall. I cannot remember the last time I had an attack, but better safe than sorry. Besides, the BAC has my permanent record.
I imagine a chronic medical condition is a strike against me, but so what? I’m ugly, not stupid. I know my Rating already.
I am urged through a series of rooms, each containing different sets of equipment and different sets of Officials. One room is a tiny gym. Here they put you through your paces, observing how you stand, squat, touch your toes, kneel, and as you do a few simple exercises. They put you on a treadmill and watch your gait as you walk, jog, and run. They show you to a hard bench and watch how you sit and then stand. Then they have you lie down and get up again; stand like a stork, first on one foot and then the other to a ten-count. At least I do not fall on my butt.
Another room has a bank of recording equipment where you read a childish poem about a quick red fox and lazy brown dog as they carefully listen to how you recite these words. Tone, timbre and volume of your voice are important details. A girl should not be too loud, her voice neither too high and squeaky nor too low and manly. Shrillness is misliked. They watch your lips, jawline, cheeks, and throat as you whisper, speak, and then shout. An Officials then uses a tongue depressor to examine the inside of your mouth. I don’t hear myself talk enough to have any sort of sense about my own voice.
One room is filled with measuring tools and mirrors. I do not look into the mirrors. Here your current height and weight are added to the permanent record. Based on the height and weight of the Chosen Ones daughter, girls should fall between the optimal heights of 5’6” and 5’11”. A girl’s weight and body mass index should be proportional to her height. I miss the optimal height for my body mass by a full inch. Not short exactly, but not tall. Not fit, just skinny. Known statistics, precise measurements, concise mathematical calculations, and strict adherence to long established standards of beauty are applied.
Your facial score is based on the Golden Ratio. These are the ratios between the top of your head and your chin and your hairline to your pupils, your pupils to the tip of your nose, and the tip of your nose to your lips, which an Official carefully measures. The Golden Ratio also compares the width of your nose to that of your face, nose length compared to ear length, the length of your lips, width of your eyes, and the outside distance between your eyes compared to the width of your head. A perfect ratio is 1.62.
My ears are a bit small; my nose is a bit too narrow; my eyes are a bit too large. My big sister, Raina, once told me my eyes look like two chocolate drops. I think they look like mud puddles. The pursed lips of the Official who shines light into them from several angles tells me that I win that one. Mud puddles it is.
On the other hand, I have good lips and very good teeth. Everyone is always telling me I should smile more. What they never tell me is what it is I should be smiling about.
Your hair is important too. An Official pulls mine loose from its ponytail band. I always wear my hair tied up. So did my mother and sister. Dad always kidded the three of us about our mutual habit of tugging at our ponytails whenever we were nervous, worried, or deep in thought. I remember him once joking at the dinner table how the three Marlow girls could be spotted in any crowd because of three raised elbows tugging at three ponytails. My mom asked him, archly, why we wouldn’t stand out because of our striking beauty. He looked just then like he wished he had a ponytail to tug at. Thenl Mom laughed and as if on cue the three of us tugged in unison at three ponytails. I feel a small grin form at this memory. It evaporates under the disapproving glare of the BAC Official.
To gain the highest Rating your hair color should be a defined shade ranging from deepest black to platinum blonde. Mine is mousy brown, which goes nicely with its lack of bounce, shine, and texture. The official clucks over my hair fail and asks about my shampoo and conditioning habits. I cannot afford most of the haircare products you see advertised from screens, posters, billboards just about everywhere you look. Mostly my shampoo is the same rough soap I use on the rest of me. I have not owned a bottle of actual conditioner since I was about twelve.
You give up a sample, snipped off to be tested for eumelanin and pheomelanin, the natural pigmentations that combine to give your hair its color. You are not supposed to color your hair for six months ahead of your Second Tuesday. Nobody would dye their hair my color, but rules are rules. At least he returns my hair band to me. I immediately twist the lank bulk back into a high, tight ponytail. I feel naked any other way, never mind the fact that I actually am naked.
Your overall skin determination is based on uniform pigmentation revealed under various kinds of light, projected from wands waved over you by another Official while another pokes, pinches and prods. You are graded on tone, blemish count, and glow or sheen. Some blemishes are considered pretty; beauty marks that draw the eye to full lips, a slender shoulder, or a shapely butt. I have none of those, so nature wasted no beauty marks on me. I imagine the only reason I am not pale and pasty is all the time I spend, winter, spring, summer and fall walking or waiting for busses.
Body type is crucial. Being a tall, lithe ectomorph is good. Unless you are too tall and too thin. That would mean you are boney or lanky. I am not naturally boney or lanky, but a diet lacking in nutrition tends to impact normal development. I am just plain skinny.
As for muscles, everybody likes them. Within reason. Being a natural mesomorph is good. Overdoing it is bad. The tests determine whether you are naturally slim with pleasingly taut and naturally toned muscles, or that you have just been starving yourself and lifting. Are you a true mesomorph, or just a roly-poly endomorph who hits the gym? The fact that the only gym I have encountered in the last few years is the dirty one at school with its ancient, dilapidated machines and weights, and the fact that that is about the last place anyone would ever find me, neatly settles things for me in that category.
A girl’s shoulders should fall within the ideal proportions of between fourteen and sixteen inches wide, depending on her height. My shoulders are a bit too broad for my height; I think I am strong, though skinny. I have been told I tend to stand with them rounded forward, hunched over as if I am worried something is about to fall on me from above.
You should be slender but strong, broad but feminine, and straight but not rigid. Your upper arms should be toned, your forearms slim and not too muscular. Women of Dominion are supposed to look like women, after all. Arm length must be proportional to frame and legs. Your wrists should be slender but strong; your hands should be dainty but not boney.
Next, they examine your breasts. They should be full, but neither too small nor too large. The best cup size is somewhere between a large B and a small C. They must slope naturally and display good symmetry. Each must be the same size as the other, with an acceptable variance of about ten percent. This, for some, will be remedied, later. It is illegal to have any sort of surgical enhancement done before your Second Tuesday, though. Since mine fall neatly into the too small category the rest of the standards are academic.
While washboard abs are considered a good look on boys, not so much for girls. You need to be more feminine, after all. Firm and flat is okay. A tiny pooch is considered very feminine. The last time I had any sort of tummy was probably before I was twelve. My belly is, if anything, a bit sunken. That happens when you almost never get enough to eat.
Your waist should be slender and proportional to height and shoulder width. Your hips should widen proportionally to a ratio of between 0.70 and 0.80 to your waist. Your rear should be plump and rounded, but not too wide and not too flat. So as not to wreck my general physical theme, my butt is skinny and flat. Tragically, my hips are not much wider than my waist, so my shape is closer to a length of board than to that pleasing hourglass look.
Legs are very important. Proportionally, your legs should fall within a range 1.2 to 1.5 times longer than your torso. Your femur-to-tibia ratio must fall between 1.61 and 1.65. Mine are close. Aesthetically Optimal calves and thighs are proportional; calves should have a slight roundness; thighs should not be too skinny and for girls, not too muscular. Your legs should be slender and shapely, tapering down to feet best in the five-to-seven size range. A bit of muscle definition along the back and front of the thigh is good; your calves should be nicely rounded when they have you stand on your toes as if you are in five-inch heels. Having to walk everywhere has probably helped tone my legs, but I’m too short to have the kind of long, shapely legs they are looking for. When all of this is completed, you find yourself alone in a small room.
When I find myself in a small room a woman I think may actually be a medical doctor joins me. Looking at her, I can tell that even though now in early middle age, she is very attractive. Only those Rated Aesthetically Optimal can become doctors. She draws a sample of my blood; she feels my pulse and uses a stethoscope to listen to my heart and lungs while telling me, as appropriate to breath or not. These things I do as commanded. I think of myself as a good Citizen, after all.
“Good, good, all good here,” she mumbles, setting the tiny stoppered vial containing my blood aside on a sectioned tray. Then she reaches into her white coat and pulls something out. She holds it up where I can see it. I guess they search your clothes while you are naked.
“Your records don’t show that you are being treated for asthma.” Her eyes, crystalline blue, narrow on me. Maybe she is testing my honesty.
“My parents were doctors,” I answer, though I know she must know this from my permanent record. “They put me on that for my asthma when I was eleven. I have a whole box of them.” The one thing my parents left me. Other than my sister. The doctor is nodding in consideration.
“Yes. I didn’t know them, but I knew of them,” she allows. “I’m sorry for your loss.” I guess the community of doctors in Second City is small enough for her to have heard of mine. What she probably heard of was what happened to them.
“Thank you,” I say reflexively. It’s a conversation I’ve had before. She makes no mention of the fact that I am obviously headed for an Aesthetically Prohibited Rating, despite this pedigree.
Lips un-purse and she brusquely shoves the inhaler back at me. I take it and return it to my breast pocket as she places a tiny round sticky bandage on the spot where she took my blood. Her fingers are as cold as ice.
“You’re done.” She says. I take that to mean with the tests.
Dressed again I find myself in a hallway with a half-dozen others here for Second Tuesday. Arrows on the floor make it obvious which way I should go. Soon I am back in the BAC Hall among still others milling around or already seated in the plastic chairs that stretch across the broad room’s width. I scan this small crowd I recognize a few faces from my school. None are what I would call friends. But then Rissa Marlow does not really do friends. Other faces are entirely new; those who attended the other high school in Second City.
Avoiding the eye contact that might accidentally invite conversation, I make my way to a chair in a mostly empty row. I tighten my ponytail and sit. I stare unseeing at the verts blinking on the screen and at posters and placards on the wall and allow my mind to wander.
My Rating is a foregone conclusion. I accept that. The very worst thing about that Rating is that I will not be going back to school. Despite how generally dumb high school is, I still like it. The learning parts, anyway. Even a low Aesthetically Optimal Rating would allow me to finish high school and then spend an additional two years at a technical college, maybe becoming a skilled technician of some sort. Lower-level AOs can become managers and supervisors in factories, farms, mines and such or even up to mid-level Government Officials, just like the Bureau of Aesthetic Control Officials I have met today. A few are permitted to become second-tier screen personalities. Usually, the parts they get are for villains such as criminals or traitors, or even playing Enemies, though they must be heavily made-up to play those parts. Upper echelon Military officers are nearly always Aesthetically Optimal, although there have been APs with oddly exceptional minds who’ve climbed those ranks on occasion. Operators, whether deployed in the Homeland or on the borders and battlefields, are always Aesthetically Prohibited.
But unless someone makes a huge mistake, I will never again see the inside of another classroom. And everyone knows the BAC does not make mistakes. The Chosen One and his daughter, the Apex Models for Aesthetically Optimal, devised the Rating system themselves. It is a perfect solution and a perfect process. A strong country is a beautiful country.
The Chosen One recognized that too many people strove to become things beyond their suitability. He knew this could lead people to wrongly believe they might become anything they might desire. Which led to much wasted time and energy. The Chosen One and his favored daughter knew that people who are matched early with what they are suited to in life are much better off. This is why they developed the Rating system for Dominion.
Those Rated AO get to not only finish high school, but they also go on to Dominion University in First City. For them the sky is the limit. They can pretty much pick whatever they want to do with their lives after college. Most go into executive management in the Corporations. Many go into government and even politics. And a lot of AOs pick careers of glamor and fame as entshow and newshow personalities and vert stars who become the faces and voices of the many wonderful and useful products and services available to Citizens of Dominion.
These restrictions only make sense. You do not want to risk your brightest and most beautiful people in dangerous, dirty or mundane jobs like mining or farming, construction, manufacturing or working as plumbers and electricians and housekeepers and shopgirls. It goes without saying that the Aesthetically Optimal cannot be operators. Dominion cannot risk her best, brightest, and most beautiful on the battlefield.
Operators not only face the enemy on the battlefield but have also since the time of The Chosen One, maintained law and order within Dominion. It is hard to believe but some who are Rated Aesthetically Prohibited become criminals. Operators keep Citizens safe within Dominion’s borders and are sent to our borders to deal with the frequent incursions from the Enemies.
We learn very early on about the Enemies who surround us. Their envy of everything we are and everything we have enrages them and leads them to hate us. This drives them to forever attempt to destroy us. Dominion has been at war with the Enemies forever. For generations. Even before the Shock Event The Chosen One, leader of the nation that came before Dominion, was forced to invade nations that sent poisonous drugs to this land and forced the people here then to take them. In those days the Enemies gathered as one and attacked. Aided by traitors within they nearly succeeded. But then The Chosen One courageously rallied, drawing the patriots of that time together under his upraised fist of defiance.
He reluctantly made himself leader for life of that nation even as it was collapsing. This difficult position he passed on to his daughter and it has been held by their descendants ever since. Only due to the courage and patriotic love of The Chosen One was at least a part of the old country saved both from the ecological calamity of the Shock Event but also from attacks by the vengeful and envious Enemies. And this heavy mantle of leadership was passed on to The Chosen One’s daughter and thence to their descendants ever since. And since that time they have led the new nation of Dominion to prosperity and liberty while fending off the unrelenting attacks by the Enemies.
I am fortunate. I have never actually seen the Enemies. Every Citizen knows this is a testament to the valor and courage of the many members of Dominion’s strong Military and the superiority of the weapons our Corporations produce. Of course, we also know that we as a people are superior to all others, too. But the Enemies are legion and are forever lurking just beyond our borders, waiting and watching for any chance to attack our great nation and even as I find and take a seat in the BAC Hall I am reminded of who and what we of Dominion are by the images on the screens around me.
Screens run around the room where the walls meet the ceiling, and form a sort of flickering, electronic fence line. Newscreens carry images of recent victories in the War. Entscreens carry patriotic shows and of course verts for products and services available to Citizens. This plenty is of course only possible because of liberties our Military protect so that the Corporations can produce it all.
It occurs to me that I will not be buying much in the near future. Still, it is heartening to see that the country I am soon to be serving one way or another is so great I consider just as a crackling noise from an overhead speaker snaps my attention from this flood of images back to the here and now. I tense on the hard plastic of my chair. I cock an ear in the direction of one of the ceiling speakers. Reflexively I reach up and back to tighten my ponytail
“Attention Second Tuesday Citizens,” a man’s voice calls over the PA. “The Rating process for your cohort has been completed. Officials will now call names and provide each of you with your Official Rating. Those Rated Aesthetically Optimal please exit the Hall through the front doors where your families are waiting. And congratulations!” The voice pauses on this exultation to allow for a ripple of self-congratulatory clapping and cheers among those who feel they are certain to be rated Aesthetically Optimal.
“Those remaining,” the voice continues in a decidedly more officious tone, “are to silently and with all good alacrity, follow the blue line on the floor out of the Hall to the train depot behind the building. There you are to board the train that will transport you to Aesthetic Recover Camp.”
Aesthetic Recovery Camp. That is the official name. Unofficially it is called Ugly Camp.
A loud snap from the speaker tells us the announcement is finished. A hushed nervous murmuring travels around the room as the sound of boot heels come to my ears. I look around to see a dozen Officials entering the room. The Officials are followed by a cadre of much more sharply stepping Homeland Operators in full mufti: Crisply pressed midnight black BDUs, over which each sports a black tactical vest each hung with six fragmentation grenades and at least a dozen extra magazine pockets squared up in a way that tells me they are occupied. Each cradles a standard-issue thirty-caliber carbine with a standard twenty round magazine. All but one of these Operators’ heads is entirely encased in a bulbous black tactical helmet with the opaque anti-flash visors closed. Either they are expecting the BAC Hall to be attacked, or this is all SOP. Standard operating procedure, I decide.
Double timing it with a staccato stamp of heavy black boots they form a phalanx beneath the shifting vert screens along the front of the room and come to ridged attention staring silently out at us. Or I assume they are. I cannot see the eyes of any of them save the one not wearing a helmet. An officer I see. Though just barely. Twin bars sparkle from his lapels; a freshly minted second lieutenant tasked with babysitting a roomful teenagers.
It occurs to me to wonder why I know so much about their gear and how I recognize a send lieutenant’s insignia. Too many news and entshows maybe? Why Operators are there at all is another question, but not one that is my business. I sit back and await official notification of my AP Rating.
Observe. Analyze. Prepare.
A voice is in my ear. Or my head I decide. And this is not the voice from the speakers. It is a girl’s voice. Close to my own, but slightly different somehow. The stress of the day I decide. I reach back and unnecessarily tighten my ponytail. If anyone else has a voice in their head I cannot tell it. Glancing about I find that the BAC Hall has fallen so silent I think I can hear heartbeats and not just my own. But at least that crazy voice has gone silent, too. Then one of the Officials clears his throat and calls out a name.
Nobody in the cheap, ancient plastic chairs utters a sound. The Official calls the name again, more sharply this time. A boy practically jumps out of his chair and calls his own name back at the Official. The Official steps up to him, offers him a smile, and more quietly informs the boy of his Rating: Aesthetically Optimal. I could see that coming. You learn to gauge others’ Ratings early in life; by my age it is an autonomic response to every new face you encounter just as it is for the person you see whenever you pass a mirror. I avoid mirrors. The Aesthetically Optimal boy raises a triumphal fist and a celebratory hoot. He offers the rest of us a bright, cheerful smile; the upraised fist turns into a jaunty wave, and he turns on his heel and strides with confidence to the doors that exiting onto the street outside.
Officials begin calling out more names and most answer readily now. Eagerly in the case of those who know they will be rated AO. Resignedly for those who know their Rating will be AP. Despite myself, I do as that strange voice dictated and observe. What I see is that each AP is handed a sheet of paper and pointed toward the blue line. The newly Rated APs, some looking dazed, most trying to put a good face on it; like a row of ants, they follow the blue line to the building’s rear exit.
“Marlow, Clarissa!” A voice not inside my head calls out. I look up. An Official is glaring out across the room. The scowl on her face tells me this is at least the second time she has called my name.
Stand. Answer. Eye contact. Confidence. It’s that voice again. More orders? I do what it says though. But only because I want to.
“I’m Rissa,” I call out, rising to my feet. “I mean. Marlow. Clarissa. I’m Clarissa Marlow. Ma’am.” My raised hand tries to go to the back of my head to tighten my ponytail. With a force of will I stop it. I manage to maintain eye contact as the Official weaves toward me around others still seated and the empty chairs, too. She considers me narrowly, probably wondering if I am so stupid I do not even know my own name. She speaks my name again. I nod verification and she shoves one of the sheets of paper at me. I take it as she speaks again.
“Aesthetically Prohibited.” The words leave her lips slowly but clearly, as if she a judge passing sentence. In a way, I suppose she is. You, Clarissa Marlow, she might as well be saying, are hereby sentenced to spend the rest of your life ugly. Officially ugly.
“The rules,” the Official says tipping her chin at the sheet of paper I clutch. “For Aesthetic Recovery Camp. Read them. Learn them. Follow them. Do you understand?” The page crinkles in my hand; she does not wait for my answer. She turns away and calls out another name.
I fold the sheet and slip it into the breast pocket opposite the one where my inhaler nestles. My eyes find the blue stripe of nicked, scratched, and faded paint that spans the room from front to rear down its center before cutting sharply to the left to disappear into a dimly lit hallway beneath a screen now showing a smiling, beautiful AO model who seems to be selling toothpaste.
I suck in a breath. I square my shoulders. I turn to take what will be the first step I tell myself, into my future. Or I try to. Blocking my way is a broad back and a bulbous head of dark hair perched on a thick neck. A boy. I do not need to see any more of him to know he is AP. Besides, one heavy but not muscular arm ends in a fist clasping a sheet of paper. The Rules. And he is blocking the path, frozen like the proverbial deer in headlights.
If I know this boy from my school, I do not recognize him. But then I was never what one might call a terribly social person. A sharp demand bubbles into my throat and I raise a hand to shove this unmoving lump out of the way or at least demand he get a move on, but before I can do either a loud wail of raw anguish echoes across the now rapidly emptying Hall.
As one the boy and I turn toward this sound. It is issuing from a girl a few rows back. Like the lumpish boy, I do not recognize her. She is dressed very nicely in a short filmy dress and heels. Something about as practical as roller skates in the slippery slush and ice of the November streets outside. Of course this outfit is about the same as every girl in the Hall this day anticipating an Aesthetically Optimal rating.
The thing of it is though, that this tall gangly girl with long, lank, pale blondish hair framing a long and plain face, is so obviously Aesthetically Prohibited that her glaring pale blue eyes would have to be blind not to know that about herself by age fifteen. As I and the frozen boy watch, her face breaks into a contemptuous sneer. With a theatrical flourish she raises one bare skinny arm and crumples the sheet of Rules in her boney fist before pointedly dropping it to the floor between herself and the Official facing her.
“There’s been a mistake!” the girl shrieks. “Check your stupid numbers again!” It seems like she might be used to ordering other APs around. “My father is going to hear about this. You are going to find yourself working in a lead mine,” she bellows at the Official.
“The Bureau of Aesthetic Control,” the Official says, “does not make mistakes. It is your Duty as a loyal Citizen to accept your Rating.”
“This time, you idiots did make a mistake. There is no way my father would allow me to be rated AP!” She spits the acronym like a curse. At this the Official raises a hand and I wonder if she is going to slap some sense into this arrogant girl. She is about as AP as my left foot. But the raised hand is a signal.
Like beads of oil across glass a pair of Homeland Operators slide off the wall along the front of the Hall. In an aggressive two-step they hunch over rifles that seem to pull them directly toward the girl. She has enough sense to recoil in fear when the Operators step rapidly up to her. As if this gawky girl might be a dangerous Enemy infiltrator, one of them aims the muzzle of his rifle at the quaking girl’s face. The other one drops his rifle on its strap and sweeps around behind her before jerking one of her arms far up her back.
Terrorized, she shrieks in pain. Both Operators ignore this. The one with his rifle trained between her eyes might as well be a statue carved out of some cold black stone. The other whips something out of a utility pouch on his tactical vest. With the efficiency of a machine he pulls her arm roughly down and secures both skinny wrists with a nylon restraint.
“You can’t do this to me,” the girl wails. “My daddy,” she offers. But the Operator behind jerks her up onto the toes of her expensive shoes and turning her words into a shriek of agony before he shoves her roughly toward the central aisle while the other follows, his aim never wavering. By now the girl is crying. Teary ribbons of mascara cut tracks down her sallow cheeks. Snot bubbles from her long narrow nose. Everywhere her pale skin colors with splotchy red.
The Operators march her to the center aisle and force her feet in their heels onto the blue line. She stands crying. The one behind roughly shoves her. And again, shoving her stumbling and gasping and weeping, all the way down the blue line and into the hallway leading out to the train. A last sob echoes out of this dark tunnel and then she is gone.
Observe. Analyze. Prepare.
Great my crazy is back. Perfect timing. The last thing I want to do is observe this. Analyze what? This girl’s fear and humiliation? Her stupidity at thinking some mistake was made? That she should somehow be Rated Aesthetically Optimal when she is so obviously Aesthetically Prohibited? And prepare For what? The same treatment? Yeah that is not going to happen. I know an object lesson when you smack me over the head with it.
“Move,” I whisper to the boy still blocking my way. He turns to me. His eyes are wide, so wide the whites have almost swallowed up his chocolate irises and black pupils. “Get going,” I say, then add, “Please.” See? I can be nice. He does not budge. Nice only goes so far. I am about to shove him aside when a voice calls sharply out.
“You!” It is another of the Operators. The one without anti-flash glasses. The officer. As an officer he does not carry a rifle. Instead there is a chunky Great Leader model forty-caliber semi-automatic pistol strapped to his waist. “You and your friend,” he barks at me. “Get moving!”.
Suddenly the boy and are friends? Somebody should tell the second lieutenant I do not do friends. But it is not going to be me.
Control the situation. It’s that voice again. It does not sound like me. It is not saying something I would say. But it’s coming from inside my head. Instinct, I decide. And just now it is smarter than me. I press my lips tightly together and rather than shoving the boy out of the way I reach down, firmly grab his fleshy hand, step around him, and pull him after me.
Before I know it I am towing him by that sweaty paw into the gloomy hallway. Here we find ourselves surrounded by AOs looking down at us from the Corporation vert posters that line the walls. I ignore their bright smiles. I turn away from their clear smooth skin. I turn away from their happy sparkling eyes and away from all the wonderful things they are encouraging me to buy and drag the boy after me toward an open doorway at the far end of the passage. The urge to adjust my ponytail is so strong it nearly makes the muscles of my arm spasm.
But I do not pause even for that. Instead, I march to the open doorway and step carefully onto a rail platform made slick with ice in in the cold brightness of the first day of my future.