Chapter Three: Caryn
First Official Foreman, himself, is waiting for me as I climb out of the water. A brief sense of relief washes over me as my feet touch the cool, rough tile. Foreman offers his hand and I quickly wipe mine on the towel Anderson is holding out for me before I grasp his hand with my own. His brown eyes watch my every move with a somber attention and I can’t tell if he is angry or pleased.
“Congratulations Caryn,” he says. His tone is level and practical. “You are a tribute to all our scientists have worked for over the last two thousand years.”
“Thank you sir,” I manage to say in between gasps for air. I take the towel from Anderson and wrap it around my shoulders. Its warmth reminds me of how the cool water has numbed my body.
“Congratulations are due to you as well, Seventh Official, for the care and training of your candidate. Well done.” His eyes turn away from me and I let my shoulders relax.
Anderson bows his head, but doesn’t say anything. Although, I notice his hand slips into his pocket and the corner of his tie peeks out before it is snatched back in.
“As you know,” Foreman turns back to me. “Many dignitaries from all over Beta Earth are in attendance today. The mayors of Highton City, Space City, and Andorim, as well as members of the council, are here and they would like to meet you both.”
“Now?” I ask. I can feel the small pools gathering around my feet and my hair matting in clumps to my forehead.
Foreman tilts his head to one side and I wonder if my tone was too impertinent. But when he opens his mouth he doesn’t address it. “As soon as you are presentable,” is all he says and then he nods at me, which I take to be permission to go.
I leave as fast as I can safely walk with wet feet on stone. Once inside the changing room I pause to let my body relax. May and Janissa have both already showered and May is adjusting her clothes while Janissa combs her hair with a brush.
“The eighth task was when I started having a hard time,” Janissa is saying. “I didn’t think I would make it to the ninth. Did Rafferty tell you that we are not swimming anymore?”
“What? What will we do then?” May asks. She pulls at her pant leg to straighten it.
“I don’t think they know yet. Jones mentioned something to me about it being dependant on our abilities and....” Janissa pauses seeing me in the mirror. “Congratulations on your time, Caryn. It was quite impressive.”
May also mumbles “Congratulations,” but doesn’t look up and I can’t tell if she really means it or if she is upset because she didn’t win.
“Thanks, you both did well too. That was a personal best for you, wasn’t it Janissa?”
She smiles and shrugs her shoulder. “It wasn’t good enough though. It’s going to take the scientists years to create another candidate like you.”
“I would not be surprised if both of you could beat my score in another year.”
May stands up quickly and the towel next to her falls to the floor.
“Looks like we will never get the chance,” she says and practically runs out. As she opens the door I see a drop of water slide down her chin, but I don’t know if it is from her wet hair or her eyes.
I watch her disappear not knowing what to say or if I should even say anything. I never really thought about what would happen after the Tournament for us, or considered what a life without the pools and training might be like. The Tournament is our life, the only reason we exist, for all three of us, but only one can win. We are trained to anticipate that possibility and to accept the responsibility that comes with it. May and Janissa also expected to be the one to win, but they didn’t.
The door closes with a soft thud behind May. On some level we are all facing a form of death, the death of the future that has been drilled into us from the moment we could understand. Death we are prepared for, our Officials made certain of it, yet they did not prepare us to live. May and Janissa would be given the cure and could live for two hundred years, a long time when you don’t expect to see the next month. Each day in the pools we are expected to give everything we have and then give it again. It makes sense because the moment is all we have. But how do you flip the switch and stare into the bright, long rays of life with nothing?
I try to picture what it would be like for me, if I had lost. I can’t imagine what I would do. I could do anything, go anywhere. Immediately I dismiss that thought. Why would I want to leave the Compound? I could work in one of the science labs or become an Official. Perhaps I could work on finding an antidote to the anemone poison, since this is a puzzle that has eluded us for two thousand years, and once there is an antidote, none of the candidates will have to die ever again.
My mind begins to imagine myself being dressed in white lab coats, pouring liquid into vials, and discovering the key that will solve the problem, but I have to stop myself from going further into the daydream. Making plans for the future, when I don’t have one, is one of the first things we are taught to forgo in the candidate program. There is a whole class on dealing with death--squeezed between philosophy and history--where we are taught how to handle our circumstances with grace and how to accept personal loss. I center my thoughts, breathe deeply once, and turn back to Janissa.
“I don’t know what her problem is,” she says. “May’s been acting differently these past few days.”
“It could be stress,” I say.
Janissa nods, turns back to the mirror, and begins braiding her hair. I watch her for a moment wondering how she is handling this situation then I head to the shower. When I am finished cleaning up and my hair is dried, I leave the changing room to find the practice aquarium empty.
The hall is mostly empty, with the exception of an old woman I have never seen before. She must have been invited to watch the Tournament. When she sees me a wrinkled smile lights her face and her heels clomp on the carpet as she approaches.
“Wonderful time dear,” she says.
“Thank you.” I am a head taller than she is and her hair is so thin and white I can see the carpet through it.
She holds out her hand to me and when I take it I feel a slight tingle on my palm. Her grip is strong, but her skin is cold. She shakes my hand once more and then smiles and leaves.
I head back into the practice aquarium and see Anderson waiting by the changing room.
“Where were you? We were expected in the conference room five minutes ago,” he says. I follow him away from the practice aquarium and the training pools, to the elevator that shoots us up to the eighth and top floor.
“Will I need to say anything?” I ask, just before the doors open. It’s not often I am around people who don’t work at the Compound.
“You’ll do fine,” he says and the doors roll back.
Then we walk out onto plush burgundy carpets and white trimmed walls. The conference room door is open and when Anderson and I appear in the doorway the quiet small talk fades and twenty heads turn in our direction.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Foreman says. “May I present our White Lilac, Caryn Tobin, and her trainer, Seventh Official Taylor Anderson.”
Foreman then proceeds to name the others around the table, but aside from catching a mayor here and a councilwoman there, I can’t tell them apart. They all look old to me, with white hair, thin, wrinkly skin and soft eyes that become watery as they gaze at me. Only Meredith Cakramon, mayor of Highton, stands out, partly because Highton was the one city Heather ever talked about, but mainly because she was the woman who shook my hand in the hall. When she is introduced she smiles and squints at me with a penetrating gaze that stills any desire I might have to fidget. The mayor has to be ancient, at least 280 years old, longevity being one of the side-effects of the cure.
“She seems so young,” says an elderly councilwoman next to the mayor of Highton. “How old are you, girl?”
“I’m fifteen,” I say. I straighten my back and clasp my hands together in front of me.
“Fifteen?” The word floats ar
ound the room and then like the flick of a switch all the heads turn toward Foreman.
“She is too young,” says a councilman. He presses a hand against the table and shakes a finger at me, although he continues to glare at Foreman.
“She is the oldest, surviving contestant we have had in 47 years.” Foreman clutches his hands behind his back and he begins to pace around the outside of the table. “It’s too risky to wait much longer. Our stores of the cure are severely depleted and she is the best chance we have to obtain more, not only for us, but also for those who come in the next two hundred years.”
“Why have the contestants not lived beyond the age of fifteen?” asks the councilwoman. Her voice is loud and she raises an eyebrow as she speaks, making the skin around her eyes stretch into new wrinkles.
Foreman stops pacing and says. “There have been several reasons. When we started to improve the genetic code there were complications. Most did not survive long enough to be born. Many of those who did died before the first five years. Still others have not responded well to the treatments we have created to counter the side effects of improved DNA. And for a few, their DNA would be fine one week and then break apart in the next, often in their early teen years. We have made significant progress in the last fifteen years, and we believe, with contestants like Caryn, May and Janissa, that we have finally ironed out the previous complications. As you saw earlier, Caryn’s performance has exceeded all who came before her.”
“We concede that her time was extraordinary,” says one of the other mayors, “as were all the contestants’ times. What we want to know is that these improvements do not interfere with their quality of life. Have these changes produced any negative outcomes?”
Foreman pauses. Without thinking I rub the small heart-shaped spot above my left elbow where my skin becomes flat, shiny scales.
“There have been no negative outcomes that would interfere with their ability to perform their job.” He says, carefully enunciating each word.
“You, girl,” says the councilwoman. “What do you think of the quality of your life?”
I glance back at Anderson, but he only tilts his chin at me as if to say ‘give her an answer.’ It is strange to have adults, especially ones as old and important as these, wanting to hear what I might say. Normally I am asked to do, not speak. My opinion has never really been sought, because the Compound’s purpose, my purpose is more important than whether I like it or not.
“I have a good life.” It is the safest thing I can say.
“I’m sure you do, but are there things you wish you could do and can’t?” She folds her hands and leans toward me.
I watch her for a moment wondering what answer she is looking for. I decide to be as diplomatically honest as I can. “Yes, but doesn’t everyone?”
A scattering of laughter fills the room and the councilwoman shifts back in her chair, a small smile on her lips.
The councilman on her left clears his throat and says, “What Councilwoman Blaine is trying to say is that we are so honored you have accepted the gold card and we are willing to provide anything you can dream of during its three day activation.”
“What?” Anderson frowns.
“When did this happen?” Foreman turns to me but his question is meant for Anderson.
I shook my head. “I didn’t--”
“Show us your right hand,” the mayor of Highton says.
I turn my right palm up and there is a thin, gold square in the center. I scratch at the corners, but it sticks to my skin and won’t come off. My mouth dries and I hold my hand up for everyone to see. The last hour flashes through my mind and I can’t think of when this might have happened. The water wouldn’t have done that. It’s possible there was something I might have touched in the changing room.... But then I remember shaking the mayor’s hand and my skin grows cold. She knew. Whatever this is, she did it.
A small smile plays at the corner of the mayor’s mouth, but then it is gone and her chin tilts with a businesslike determination. “According to the Rules of Privilege, Caryn has entered into a binding week long contract with the governing council, during which time she will live in Highton under our care.”
“Absolutely not,” Foreman states. A worried glance passes between Foreman and Anderson.
The mayor holds up a small hand. “I assure you this contract is ironclad. It does have some room for time adjustments, but a minimum of three days must be fulfilled. However, if such an adjustment was made, we would need something in return. Our scientists would need full access to the Compound’s servers.”
The room is silent for a moment.
“We will discuss such details later.” Foreman’s back is stiff. “Are there any other questions?”
“What of the search for the anemone antidote?” asks the councilman and thankfully the attention in the room shifts away from me.
Foreman turns to face the man, but casts a side glance at me.
“We are always searching for the antidote. Several years ago we even tried to genetically alter future scientists to understand this problem, but the project had to be abandoned. I can divulge more about our findings, but if there are no more questions for the White Lilac I will let her get back to her preparations.” Foreman nods at us and I am trailing Anderson out the door before I or anyone else can object.
“Are you really still searching for an antidote or have other projects become the major priority?” I hear the councilwoman ask before the door closes. My ears strain, but aside from knowing the muffled voice of Foreman, I can’t make out any words. I drag my feet along the top of the plush carpet as I hope to catch a syllable, anything, but once we turn down the hall even Foreman’s deep voice dissolves completely. As soon as we turn the corner, Anderson leans against the wall, sighs and rubs his face.
“I hate them,” he says.
The White Lilac Page 3