The first thing Elara remembered was the smell. Not the salt of the sea she had expected, but something cloying and chemical, a false sweetness that coated the inside of her nostrils and clung to the back of her throat. It reminded her of the orchid-scented disinfectant they used in the government waiting rooms back in Corvus City, where she had spent three days sitting on a cracked plastic chair, filling out forms that asked questions she barely understood.
She opened her eyes and immediately regretted it. The light was too white, too sharp, a surgical glare that seemed to probe beneath her skin. She tried to lift her hand to shield her face, but her arm felt like it was moving through honey. Her body was heavy, her mind wrapped in gauze.
"Awake at last." The voice came from somewhere to her left, calm and clinical, with the practiced neutrality of someone who had said those same words a hundred times before. "Welcome to Aethelgard, Facility Three. You are in the intake ward. You have been sedated for transport. That is standard protocol. The disorientation will pass within the hour."
Elara turned her head, the motion sending a dull throb through her temples. A woman in a white coat stood beside the bed, holding a tablet and stylus. She was tall and angular, with iron-gray hair pulled back so tightly that it seemed to stretch the skin over her cheekbones. Her face was unlined, ageless in a way that suggested careful maintenance rather than youth. On the breast pocket of her coat, embroidered in gold thread, was the emblem of a cradle encircled by a wreath of stars.
"My name is Doctor Voss," the woman continued, not looking up from her tablet. "I am the Chief Medical Officer of the Holy Order of the Eternal Cradle. You will address me as Doctor Voss at all times. Do you understand?"
Elara tried to speak, but her tongue was thick and unresponsive. She managed a sound that was somewhere between a cough and a groan.
"That is acceptable for now." Doctor Voss made a notation on her tablet. "Vocal response delayed. Slight resistance to the sedative. Nothing outside expected parameters."
The room was small and windowless, its walls painted a pale mint green that was probably meant to be soothing. A single fluorescent panel hummed overhead. There were three other beds in the room, each occupied by a young woman who appeared to be in a similar state of drugged stupor. Elara could see the rise and fall of their breathing, the occasional twitch of a hand or foot, but none of them seemed conscious.
She had been in the barracks at the Corvus City Processing Center when they had come for her. A woman in a navy suit had called her name, had smiled with teeth that were too white, and had told her she had been selected for a special placement. There had been a van, and a cup of water that tasted faintly metallic, and then nothing. A vast, swallowing nothing that had erased hours or perhaps days from her life.
She remembered the advertisement. That was what had started all of this. A poster on the wall of the communal kitchen in her building, printed on glossy paper with a photograph of a woman holding an infant, both of them bathed in golden sunlight. "Answer the Sacred Call," the text had read. "Become a vessel of hope. The Holy Order of the Eternal Cradle seeks healthy, compassionate women to serve families in need. Compensation, housing, and spiritual fulfillment provided."
The words had been carefully chosen, she understood that now. "Vessel." "Serve." "Provided." They were words that promised something without actually promising anything at all. But she had been hungry, and her rent was three months past due, and the factory where she had worked since she was sixteen had just laid off half its floor staff. The advertisement had seemed like an answer to a prayer she had not even known she was praying.
Doctor Voss set her tablet aside and produced a small penlight from her coat pocket. She leaned over Elara, close enough that Elara could smell the antiseptic on her skin, and shone the light into first one eye and then the other. "Pupillary response normal," she murmured. "Follow my finger, please."
Elara obeyed, tracking the woman's gloved index finger as it moved left, right, up, down. The motion made her dizzy, but she forced herself to focus. Some instinct, buried deep in the fog of the sedative, told her that compliance was important. That failure to comply would have consequences.
"Good." Doctor Voss straightened and made another notation. "Motor function appears intact. Cognitive processing speed within acceptable limits." She looked at Elara directly for the first time, her eyes a pale gray that seemed to reflect the fluorescent light without absorbing any of it. "Now. I am going to ask you a series of questions. Answer truthfully. There are no wrong answers. This is merely an assessment to determine your placement within our program."
Elara nodded, not trusting her voice.
"Your name?"
"Elara." The word came out as a croak. She swallowed and tried again. "Elara Sennett."
Doctor Voss tapped the tablet. "Place of origin?"
"Corvus City. The Fourteenth Ward."
"Age?"
"Nineteen."
"Education?"
"Secondary school. I did not finish the final year."
"Previous pregnancies?"
The question landed like a slap. Elara felt her cheeks flush, though whether from embarrassment or anger she could not quite tell. "None," she said.
"Sexually active?"
"No. Not—no."
"History of sexually transmitted diseases?"
"No."
"Family history of genetic disorders?"
"I do not know. My parents died when I was young. I do not know anything about their medical histories."
Doctor Voss made a note, her expression unchanged. "Any history of mental illness? Depression, anxiety, psychosis?"
"No."
"Substance use?"
"No."
"Any allergies or chronic medical conditions?"
"No."
The questions continued for what felt like hours, though it was probably no more than twenty minutes. Doctor Voss asked about her menstrual cycle, her sleep patterns, her dietary habits. She asked about her childhood illnesses and her dental history and whether she had ever broken a bone. She asked about her religious beliefs and her emotional state and whether she had ever experienced thoughts of self-harm. Through it all, her expression remained perfectly neutral, her stylus moving across the tablet in precise, economical strokes.
When the questions were finished, Doctor Voss instructed Elara to remove her clothing. Elara hesitated, her hands frozen on the hem of the thin gown she had been dressed in while unconscious. Something in her face must have betrayed her discomfort, because Doctor Voss let out a small, impatient sigh.
"Modesty is a luxury that does not serve our purpose here," she said. "Your body is now a vessel for a sacred mission. You must learn to think of it as such. A vessel does not feel shame. A vessel does not feel fear. A vessel simply carries, and nurtures, and delivers."
The words were chilling in their matter-of-factness, but Elara found herself obeying. The gown fell to the floor, and she stood naked under the harsh fluorescent light, her arms wrapped around herself in a futile attempt at modesty. Doctor Voss circled her slowly, making notes, occasionally reaching out to prod at her abdomen or measure the circumference of her hips with a flexible tape.
"Excellent physical condition," she said finally. "Muscle tone slightly below optimal, but that can be corrected with the dietary regimen. Pelvic structure is favorable. Breast development is adequate. Reproductive organs appear healthy based on external examination."
She stepped back and made a final notation, then looked at Elara with something that might have been satisfaction or might have been simple, clinical approval. "You are classified as Breeder Grade A," she said. "That is the highest designation. You should be pleased. It means you will be assigned to a high-priority client. Your compensation will be correspondingly generous."
The word "breeder" echoed in Elara's mind, a word she associated with livestock catalogs and the breeding pens at the agricultural fair her father had taken her to once, when she was very small. She opened her mouth to protest, to ask a question, to say anything at all, but Doctor Voss was already moving toward the door.
"You will be given a new designation," she said over her shoulder. "Your birth name is no longer relevant. You will answer to your designation number. You will not discuss your previous life with other vessels. You will comply with all medical protocols without question. Failure to comply will result in reassignment to the Paradise Wing."
The door opened, and a woman in a gray uniform stepped inside. She was younger than Doctor Voss, with a round, placid face and eyes that seemed to look through Elara rather than at her. "This is Attendant Mora," Doctor Voss said. "She will escort you to your dormitory and provide you with your uniform and orientation materials. You are expected to attend evening devotion in the chapel at eighteen hundred hours. Attendance is mandatory."
And then she was gone, her footsteps receding down the corridor with a crisp, efficient rhythm that seemed to match the beating of Elara's heart.
Attendant Mora handed Elara a folded bundle of pale blue fabric. "Put this on," she said. Her voice was soft, almost gentle, but there was something hollow in it, something that reminded Elara of the automated voices on the public transit announcements in Corvus City. "Then follow me."
The uniform was a simple dress, high-necked and long-sleeved, made of a material that was soft but clearly synthetic. There were no pockets, no buttons, no zippers. It pulled over the head and fell to mid-calf, shapeless and modest. On the left breast, the same cradle-and-stars emblem was embroidered in gold thread.
Elara dressed and followed Attendant Mora out into the corridor. The walls were the same mint green as the intake room, the floor a polished gray linoleum that reflected the fluorescent lights in long, pale streaks. Doors lined both sides of the corridor, each one identical, each one closed. There were no windows. There were no signs indicating exits or emergency procedures. There was only the corridor, stretching on and on, and the soft shuffle of their footsteps on the linoleum.
They passed through a set of double doors and into a larger space that Elara assumed was the dormitory. It was a long, narrow room filled with rows of narrow beds, each one separated from its neighbors by a thin curtain on a metal rail. The beds were neatly made, the blankets pulled tight and tucked under the mattresses with military precision. At the foot of each bed was a small trunk, and on each trunk was a number painted in white.
"This is your bed," Attendant Mora said, stopping beside one of the trunks. The number on it was 247. "Your trunk contains your hygiene supplies, your devotional materials, and your schedule. You will keep it locked at all times. You will keep your area clean and orderly. You will not enter another vessel's area without permission."
Elara looked down the row of beds. Most of them were empty, their curtains pulled back to reveal the identically made blankets and the identical trunks and the identical pillows. But a few of them were occupied. She could see shapes under the blankets, the curve of a shoulder or the crown of a head, and in one case a pair of eyes watching her from between the gap in the curtains.
The eyes belonged to a woman who looked older than the others, though it was hard to tell her age exactly. Her face was thin and sharp, with deep hollows under her cheekbones and shadows around her eyes that suggested years of accumulated exhaustion. Her hair was a dull brown, cut short and uneven, as if it had been hacked off with scissors rather than styled. But it was her eyes that held Elara's attention. They were dark and deep-set, and there was something in them that was neither curiosity nor hostility but a kind of weary, knowing assessment.
"New fish," the woman said. Her voice was low and rough, with an accent that Elara could not quite place. "They did not waste time replacing the last one."
Attendant Mora ignored her. "Evening devotion is at eighteen hundred hours," she repeated. "The bell will ring fifteen minutes before. You will line up with the other vessels and proceed to the chapel in an orderly fashion. You will not speak during devotion. You will not leave the dormitory after curfew. You will not attempt to access restricted areas." She paused, and for a moment something flickered in her empty eyes. It might have been pity, or it might have been a trick of the fluorescent light. "The rules are for your protection. Obey them, and your time here will pass without incident."
She turned and walked away, her footsteps fading down the corridor. The double doors swung shut behind her, and Elara was alone with the other vessels and the silence and the overwhelming, suffocating smell of orchid-scented disinfectant.
She sat down on the edge of her bed, the thin mattress compressing under her weight. The woman in the next bed was still watching her, her eyes unblinking. "What is your designation?" she asked.
Elara hesitated. "They told me I am Breeder Grade A," she said. "But they have not given me a number yet."
The woman let out a short, humorless laugh. "Grade A. Of course. You have that look. Young, healthy, pretty enough but not too pretty. Good hips." She shifted under her blanket, and Elara saw that her belly was swollen with pregnancy, the fabric of her uniform stretched tight over the curve. "I am 139. But you can call me Sorcha, when the attendants are not listening. It is a small rebellion, but it is mine."
"Elara," Elara said. "My name is Elara."
"Do not get attached to it," Sorcha said. "They will take it from you soon enough. They take everything eventually." She turned her face toward the ceiling, and Elara saw the fine network of scars that traced along her jawline and disappeared into the collar of her uniform. "This is my fourth cycle. I have been here for three years. I have seen them come and go, the new fish like you, bright-eyed and terrified. Some of them last. Some of them crack. And some of them..." She trailed off, her eyes closing.
"And some of them what?" Elara asked.
But Sorcha did not answer. The double doors opened again, and Attendant Mora's voice rang out across the dormitory, announcing that evening devotion would begin in fifteen minutes. Elara looked at Sorcha, but the older woman had turned away, her face hidden behind the curtain that now separated her bed from Elara's. The only answer she received was the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing, and the distant chime of a bell echoing through the sterile corridors of the facility.
That night, after the devotion was finished and the lights had been dimmed and the other vessels had retreated into their curtained alcoves, Elara lay awake on her narrow bed and stared at the ceiling. The devotion had been held in a small chapel at the end of the west corridor, a windowless room with wooden pews and a simple altar and a tapestry hanging behind it that depicted a woman in flowing robes, her arms outstretched, a cradle at her feet and stars in her hair. A priestess had spoken, though Elara could not remember her words. Something about sacrifice. Something about duty. Something about the sacred calling of the vessel and the holy purpose of suffering.
The other vessels had listened with their heads bowed and their hands folded in their laps. Some of them had wept. Some of them had smiled with a serenity that Elara found more disturbing than the tears. And Sorcha had sat beside her, motionless and silent, her eyes fixed on the tapestry with an expression that Elara could not read.
Now, in the darkness, Elara thought about the advertisement that had brought her here. She thought about the woman in the photograph, holding the infant, bathed in golden light. She thought about the word "breeder" and the way Doctor Voss had spoken it, as if it were a compliment, as if it were an honor, as if it were anything other than a brand.
And she thought about what Sorcha had said, about the girls who cracked and the girls who did not last and the ones who disappeared into the Paradise Wing, where no one ever saw them again.
In the morning, she would begin her orientation. She would learn the schedule, the protocols, the rules. She would be assigned a number and a regimen and a purpose. But tonight, in the quiet darkness of the dormitory, she was still Elara. She was still herself.
The thought should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like an elegy for something she was already beginning to lose.
Somewhere in the facility, a door opened and closed. Footsteps echoed in the corridor, slow and deliberate, pausing briefly outside the dormitory before continuing on. Elara held her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs, but the footsteps did not return. After a long moment, the silence settled back over the building, heavy and absolute, broken only by the distant, rhythmic hum of machinery and the soft, stifled sound of someone weeping behind their curtain.
Elara closed her eyes and did not sleep.
No comments yet. Be the first to comment!