Chosen Ones

by Veronica Roth

  Together they walked to the elevator. They got back to the Chosen Ones’ hallway just as Matt and Esther were waking up.

  Chicago Post

  NATIONWIDE SEARCH FOR “CHOSEN ONE” BEGINS

  by Lucia Arras

  (from the archive, August 11, 2009)

  CHICAGO, AUGUST 11: When word of a verified apocalyptic prophecy leaked to the press last month, fear and chaos ran rampant. But there was one ray of hope: rumor of a “Chosen One” who might be able to stop the prophecy’s foretold doom in its tracks. Now an anonymous source inside the Council of Cordus, the government’s “magic” branch, has revealed that the council will be aggressively searching for this individual in the days to come.

  “The criteria listed in the prophecy is quite specific,” the source said. “We’ll be looking at a selection of children, mostly ones who have already displayed an advanced magical ability.”

  Religious groups across the nation are divided regarding the doomsday prophecy, with some denouncing it as a false teaching or a heresy, and others declaring it to be a message from the divine. People dwelling in haven cities, which prohibit the practice of magic, have begun protesting the government’s perusal of their children’s records for the purposes of finding and honing magical talent, citing privacy laws and the separation of church and state.

  The Council of Cordus declined to comment on this story and has not released an official statement on the matter of the Chosen One or the prophecy. In the past, however, the council has acknowledged some unique expressions of magical ability in the population, including “demonstrations of raw power (i.e., without a siphon), such as telekinesis, the creation of short-­distance portals, mind-reading, and divinatory gifts.”

  TOP SECRET

  PROJECT DELPHI, SUBPROJECT 17

  EXCERPT from the official log of [redacted], code name Merlin:

  I will begin by stating that I am composing this report a week after the fact, upon verifying that subject [redacted], code name Mage, is, indeed, the most likely subject of the Sibyl Doomsday Prophecy who is “the last hope of Genetrix,” commonly referred to as “the Chosen One.” This will inevitably account for some bias in the retelling, as I am unable to separate myself from my current knowledge. However, I shall endeavor to be as objective as possible.

  My first impression of Mage came from his file, which I scanned prior to entering the examination room. There was a list of the usual facts: his name, [redacted]; age, ten; hair color, [redacted]; eye color, [redacted]; birthplace, [redacted]. When I opened the door, he was sitting with his hands in his lap and his legs swinging. Average height for a ten-year-old but somewhat scrawny, as if he had been mildly food-deprived, though it could have simply been his natural build.

  I experienced none of the signs that others have reported upon seeing our Chosen One for the first time—no tingling, no existential satisfaction, no blinding lights, choirs of angels, or impulses to prostrate myself before him. I find those reports to be ridiculous, as they elevate meeting Mage to a religious experience when it is in fact just encountering a child who has raw magical ability.

  “Hello,” I said to the boy, and I sat across the table from him. Someone had brought him the magic-development game Perception Interception. It can be programmed for a single player and had been for Mage. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t used it or even touched it. He had instead been sitting in the examination room unoccupied for the better part of an hour.

  “You didn’t want to play?” I said.

  Mage shook his head.

  “All right,” I said. “What have you been doing in here?”

  “Watching,” he replied.

  “Watching?”

  “Yeah, the—strings.” He wiggled his fingers. “If I concentrate, I can see them.”

  “Strings,” I repeated. “What do they look like?”

  “They’re like when you see the sun through fog,” he said. “In rays. Bright, a little hazy.”

  “And you’ve always been able to see them?”

  Mage’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

  “I don’t,” I replied. “I think maybe you are describing an experience with magic that we simply haven’t documented yet. Magic is new to us, and we are only just beginning to understand it. So I am inclined to believe you.”

  “Oh.” Mage brightened at that, but then, almost in the same moment, he deflated. “My mom and dad told me not to talk about it.”

  “I think your mom and dad were just trying to keep you safe,” I said. “Because there are some people who get mad when they hear things they don’t understand.”

  It was a shame, really, to see how readily he accepted that, to know how young we learn these lessons.

  “Can you tell me more about what you see? How long have you been able to see them?”

  He shifted in his seat.

  “A long time?”

  “Since I can remember,” he said. “Not always, though, just when I try really hard.”

  “Well, that makes sense,” I said. “When we talk about a work of magic, we often use the word intent, which is like having a goal or a purpose. Magic doesn’t work without intent. So when you concentrate on the strings, as you call them, your intention is to see them. Understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you ever tried to touch one?”

  He shrugged, but even crafty children are not skilled at keeping secrets. It was clear to me that he had, in fact, experimented with his unique ability. And since one of the major criteria of Sibyl’s prophecy was that the Chosen One would have a magical ability heretofore unseen on Genetrix, I needed to pursue it further. “Will you show me?” I said.

  Mage nodded. He lowered his eyes, so he was no longer staring at me but instead at the table. He drew a slow breath, in and out through his nose. It was clear to me that he had spent a great deal of his idle time doing this trick, because there was a process to it already, even though he was a mere ten years old. In and out he breathed, steadily, until a kind of energy came into his eyes, like the answer to a tricky problem had just come to him.

  He reached out with his left hand . . . and pinched.

  As to what happened after that, please refer to the video footage for a more complete understanding. Gravity failed, and everything in the room—myself included—began to float. The chair I had been sitting in bounced off the ceiling. I specifically remember one of the game pieces from Perception Interception, a glass eyeball, drifting past my face.

  But sitting in his chair below, as if nothing had changed, was the young man we came to know as the Chosen One.

  TOP SECRET

  19

  SHORTLY AFTER SLOANE returned from the library, a young woman named Cyrielle knocked on her door and introduced herself as Aelia’s assistant. She was dressed head to toe in purple, the only exception the silver glint of her throat siphon, which Sloane now recognized as a status symbol. It was a simple cuff around the woman’s neck with a string of purple beads at the back.

  Sloane spent the rest of the morning receiving deliveries from Cyrielle: food, shampoo, soap, an old-fashioned straight razor, a pile of clothes, an assortment of shoes. By the time Sloane was dressed—in a high-necked black sweater with sleeves that stopped just above her wrist and a pair of loose pants, also black—and fed, it was almost noon, and Cyrielle had gathered them all and was taking them to the Hall of Summons for what she called their “orientation.”

  Sloane took one look at Esther and groaned. As Sloane should have anticipated, Esther had taken to Genetrix’s extravagant fashion immediately. She was swathed in layers of muted pink, cream, and beige. Her shoes—also beige—came to a sharp point. Her face had been restored to its former made-up glory, her skin dusted with powder, lips stained the color of wine, eyeliner winged to her temples.

  “All dressed up and no one to see it,” Esther said with a sigh.

  “We see it,” Sloane pointed out.

  “I meant Insta!
” Esther said. “You guys don’t count.”

  Matt walked beside Cyrielle, smiling and asking questions. He had not opted for the dramatic cape or voluminous cowl of the Genetrixae men they had seen the night before, but the jacket he wore was snug around his broad shoulders, and Cyrielle obviously approved, judging by the way her eyes lingered on him.

  He hadn’t so much as looked in Sloane’s direction that morning. Sloane felt like something in the center of her had hardened into a tight knot of muscle. Esther hadn’t given her much acknowledgment either. It was as if Sloane were someone Esther recognized but she couldn’t remember from where.

  But dealing with situations like these, Sloane knew, was just a matter of knowing the right procedures. She had learned how to disappear after Cameron died and her mother burrowed into her bed and never came out again. You dealt with it the same way you dealt with the cold when you didn’t have the right jacket: you let the chill pass through you, digging deep into your bones, until you could no longer feel it.

  The Hall of Summons was huge and empty. The walls, concentric circles of stone, curved up to a covered oculus at the highest point of its domed ceiling. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass, casting bright spots of blue and green on a far wall, where there was a rusted door.

  Directly beneath the oculus, set into the floor, there was a metal plate, a little like a drain cover but larger, maybe six feet in diameter. There were decorative flourishes in the plate, curlicues twisting together like vines. Sloane thought back to what Nero had said about there being a powerful siphon fortis in Chicago. This had to be it. The room felt strange, like the air was too close.

  When they walked in, Aelia was using her siphon and a whistle to guide a large stone table to the center of the room. Nero was at her shoulder, showing her a page from a book that barely fit in the cradle of his arm, it was so large.

  “Ah,” Aelia said when she had set the table down. “Thank you, Cyrielle. Good morning to the rest of you. I can’t stay long, but I stopped by to make sure that your accommodations were satisfactory.”

  “Well,” Sloane said, “it’s hard to be satisfied with what is essentially a prison cell, but sure. Great pillows.”

  Esther gave her a sideways look, familiar. Then she seemed to realize she wasn’t supposed to do that and angled her body away so Sloane couldn’t see her face.

  Sloane let that pass through her. Soon she wouldn’t even feel it.

  Aelia pursed her lips. “Well. As you may have observed, it is essential that you be able to do small workings with a siphon in order to get by in this building, let alone to pursue your mission. Therefore Nero will be teaching you how to do some things with the siphons before we move forward with your mission. Nero will be—”

  “Actually,” Matt said, “before we start, I have a request.”

  Aelia’s mouth puckered like she had just tasted something sour. “Yes?”

  “I want to know more about this connection between our universes,” Matt said. Sloane had told Esther and Matt about the article she found in the library, and they agreed that it was enough to tentatively trust what Nero and Aelia had claimed but not enough for them to risk their lives. “Everything you know, basically.”

  “Also,” Esther added, “no offense, but if there isn’t a connection, then it’ll feel like you’re lying to us to get us to risk our asses for people and a place we don’t even know. And I, personally, have done enough risking of my ass for one lifetime.”

  “I am not sure how to demonstrate what we know about the connection,” Aelia said. “At least, not without all of you attaining a somewhat advanced understanding of magic.”

  “Well,” Matt said with a smile, “I suggest you figure something out.”

  Aelia shot a look at Nero. He cleared his throat.

  “I will commit myself to it,” Nero said. “In the meantime, perhaps you would still be amenable to learning a few siphon skills so that you can move more freely through the building?”

  “How about outside this building?” Sloane said. “Or does our leash not extend that far?”

  Aelia was not provoked. “At this time, we don’t think it would be safe for you to leave the building,” she said. “You don’t know anything about our world, and you don’t know how to use siphons—”

  “But after we learn more,” Matt said, “surely your policy will change.”

  Sloane covered her mouth to hide a grin. Aelia reminded her of a wind-up toy; each demand they made twisted her up a little more.

  “We will evaluate it as the situation develops,” Aelia replied. “I will leave you in Nero’s and Cyrielle’s capable hands.”

  Aelia rearranged the fabric of her stiff cowl, smiled with pursed lips, and walked out of the Hall of Summons, her shoes snapping all the way down the hall. As the sound faded away, Cyrielle approached the box that was on the stone table and started laying out its contents: a line of handheld devices that resembled recorders, the kind that Sloane had seen reporters use during interviews. Cyrielle placed one next to each siphon and switched each one on. A small screen lit up green at the top of the device, right below what appeared to be a microphone.

  “Well, shall we begin?” Nero said, bringing his hands together in front of him. “The purpose of today’s lesson will be to master something very simple, something we teach children on Genetrix—we call it a magical breath. But in order to do that, you need to know the basics of what makes a working, which is what we call any act of magic, no matter how small.”

  “Like . . . a spell?” Esther said.

  “No incantations are involved, so I think that was deemed inaccurate,” Nero said. “What is involved is sound. If magical energy is like water, then certain frequencies are like channels in stone that provide pathways for particular workings. And we help you to find the right frequencies with one of these.” He picked up one of the devices from the table. “It’s formally known in the magical community as a praecontograph, but it’s just a modified oscilloscope—it measures frequencies with the attached microphone. A sophisticated praeconto­graph can be set to tell you what category of working your frequency falls in.”

  “Does that mean . . . men and women do different kinds of workings, usually?” Matt said. “Because men’s voices are usually lower?”

  “Yes—when the sound comes from the voice,” Nero said, smiling. “There are an array of small instruments that can be used to produce a wide range of frequencies. And though some people do make their workings quite musical, even someone with a horrible ear for music—or someone who can’t hear at all—can still make sound at the correct frequency.”

  “That’s a relief,” Esther said, “because I’ve been told that when I sing, I sound like a drowning cat.”

  “The range of workings possible with the human voice are quite limited anyway,” Nero said. “But the magical breath is one of them, which makes it ideal for children. Unfortunately for male adults”—here he looked at Matt—“the frequency is somewhat high. One hundred seventy megahertz. I have a whistle if you can’t quite manage it.”

  “My falsetto isn’t bad,” Matt said.

  “Excellent. Well, first, everyone take an oscilloscope, and we’ll all try to find the right frequency.”

  Sloane went up to the table with the others to pick up one of the devices. While she was there, she looked over the siphons. They were simple, made of a black, grainy metal, with a plate for the back of the hand and one for the palm, like a glove without fingertips. A standard-issue siphon, Sloane guessed, whereas Nero’s and Cyrielle’s were for the wealthy. A logo was stamped on the back: a beast with a bird’s head, a man’s torso, and a serpent’s tail instead of legs. The tail was curled around a large A.

  “Abraxas,” Nero said when he saw her staring at it. “They make the highest quality siphons.”

  Sloane stepped back, an oscilloscope in hand, into the line with the others. Cyrielle then sang a note. Her voice was unwavering—not especially beautiful, but the so
und was consistent, easy to mimic. Nero gestured for them to repeat the noise.

  Sloane’s cheeks heated up. She had never sung in front of people. She didn’t even sing in the shower. She wasn’t tone-deaf—she just . . . didn’t do it.

  She held the oscilloscope’s microphone up close to her mouth and hummed. A wavy line appeared on the device’s screen, as well as the number 165. It took a few tries to hit 170 MHz on the nose, but once she found the pitch, she was able to do it again without too much difficulty. Next to her, Esther was rolling her eyes at the oscilloscope, her lips pursed as she whistled. Matt, however, was singing “Ah” like he was doing a vocal warm-up. Sloane wondered if he would have been in choir if he had been allowed to live a normal life.

  Her chest felt tight at the thought.

  “Good!” Nero said. “Now—siphons. Put them on your dominant hands, but don’t make any noise just yet.”

  The siphon was cold against her skin, and loose. Cyrielle saw her fussing with it and stepped over to tease a small wire from the space between the plates. When she pulled it tight, the plates drew together around Sloane’s hand, and she wrapped it around a small hook to keep it secure. Sloane flexed her fingers. The siphon was clunkier than the one Nero wore, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, and the metal warmed the longer she wore it, like a wristwatch.

  “You may have noticed Aelia or me making a small gesture when we do a working,” Nero said. “That doesn’t actually have an impact on the working itself—it’s more of a way of getting your mind to realize that you are trying to do something. So gesture or don’t, it doesn’t matter, whatever helps you to focus your intentions. What we call a magical breath is just a small puff of air emitted magically by the user. When I tell you to, you will make your sound at the correct frequency, and you will try to have that tricky, nebulous thing we refer to in magical study as ‘intent.’ ”