Daughter 4254

Chapter 3

My mother’s final use ceremony was nothing more than any other. My father had compiled her list of many qualities and contributions. It was read by a public servant that none of us knew and my father, brother and I watched in silence as her box was lowered into the earth in the ancient tradition. We walked home in the same manor. No tears, no warm embraces like those my mother had given at the grave of her sister.

In the days following, I spent many hours trying to sort through her final words. They had struck me as almost mutinous, which wasn’t like my mother at all. I hadn’t repeated them to anyone, not that I had anyone to repeat them to. I had been labeled a trouble maker from the very beginnings of nursery school. I was constantly breaking rules, unable to sit in my seat or follow directions; none of the other children had wanted to be associated with me. It was bad enough that I was Neurodeficient, but some days it felt like noncompliant was a much worse label.

 My father had always been a strong and quiet sort of man. He worked long hours at his job in the lumber yards and forest programs. I had never thought of him as Neuroadvanced because of his menial labor assignments. I guess there had to be a place for everyone, though. He had a natural tolerance for loud sounds which many other Neuroadvanced citizens didn’t, so he was able to work with minimum sensory protection in harsh conditions. I didn’t see him often and when I did, we had little to say to each other. There were times when he was called upon to discipline me, but it was always with as few words as necessary.

 “You know the rules. You know the consequence, Daughter4254. Do not make the same mistake again.”

 And with that, I’d be subjected to food rationing, loss of a free day, extra field work or school work. The worst punishment had been The Chair. If I ever happened to break a major rule, I was to sit in a chair in the center of town, facing The Shop. That is where they took people who were to be put to final use. It was supposed to remind me of my mortality, my usefulness and my mistakes, but it just turned my stomach. It was horrible. I kept envisioning terrified people being put to death by cold sterile hands in thick gloves, watched over by masked faces. I tried the best I could to avoid doing anything that would require that punishment, but I had experienced it twice in my younger years. I was getting better at avoiding attention and discipline, but I was still a very far cry from the model youngster.

 I was stealing what time I could in my room after the ceremony to lay on my bed and stare out the window when my father pushed open my door. He stood in the doorway awkwardly; he hadn’t come to my room in at least five years. He did not meet my curious gaze; it was not his way and was considered rude in most social circumstances, but he spoke with a soft voice that betrayed his deeper feelings.

 “Daughter4254, I know it’s been a trying day.” He still had his hand on the door and he looked at his shoe as he moved it slowly across the floor, back and forth. “But I would appreciate your help with the food preparations for tonight.”

 I sat up and slid to the edge of my bed, looking at my knees. How I longed for him to take me in his arms and hold me like my mother had, but I knew this wasn’t a possibility.

 “Yes, Father.”

 “I’m sorry to ask it of you, but I know that your mother trained you well and there are certain items I cannot find...” His voice trailed off for a moment before he continued. “You will be Head Woman in our home now, or at least until you receive your assignment in a few weeks. I doubt that you will be assigned away, however. Most likely you will be sent to replace your mother at the textile works.”

 “Or the sewers.” I cut him off. He glanced at me for a second, surprised.

 “No, you are not equipped for that, physically or mentally. You have had trouble with compliance but you are intelligent, Daughter. I doubt they would waste that skill.”

 I doubted his words but appreciated them nonetheless. He so seldom spoke to me that I never considered what he thought of me. He thought I was intelligent, and so did my mother. I had never considered, for even a moment, applying to The Secondary School. It was only for the very most intelligent of our society. And, as a fact, some family lines carried a higher quotient of intelligence, while some were genetically more physically talented. Your genetics and family traditions determined your station and therefore your assignment. My family were all workers of above average intelligence. We would be given more intricate jobs in the labor stations, but not considered for the Secondary School where they trained Leaders, teachers, and those who held the most mentally challenging of careers.

 But to go to the Secondary School...there was no rule against me applying. It just wasn’t done very often. I would not be welcome there. I would have to pass the tests. My mind was racing. I was often in trouble and reprimanded during school hours, but I never found the work difficult. I wondered how hard the tests would be. What did I have to lose? I would be made fun of and discouraged, but then again, I’d been made fun of and discouraged my whole life. What was a few more months? That idea, coupled with the fact that my mother wished it, set my mind easily on the path. If I failed, they would just give me my original assignment and I’d go off to the factories to be miserable for the rest of my life. But if I passed...the idea dangled in my brain, shiny, new and tempting. If there was someone who could help me there, someone who knew my mother and could explain her strange stories on her death bed...

 “Daughter?” He was still standing in the doorway, looking at his feet.

 “Yes, Father, I’m coming.”

 I would ask for the forms first thing in the morning.