The Zanna Function

by Daniel Wheatley

  “Doors are opening!”

  It wasn’t a long walk from the entrance hall to the auditorium, but the line moved slowly, and Zanna was at the very end. She had never been in the auditorium before, though she had heard all about it from Nora. And she had spotted the white dome from the air many times—it stood out like a sore thumb among the school’s tangle of mismatched rooftops. But she had never set foot in it until now.

  It felt as if she had just set foot in the Colosseum. A gently sloping aisle led from the entrance down to the circular stage in the center. Floating chairs filled with parents, older students, and staff ringed the massive room. The same trick of light as in the classrooms flooded the auditorium—bright as noonday sunlight but not hot at all. Twelve enormous pillars stood around the arena like notches of a clock, decorated in silver and brass and quartz and carbon.

  The applause filled her lungs like a thick, intoxicating aroma. She stumbled and blinked on the threshold, too awed by the sight and sound to enter. Only Mrs. Appernathy’s candelabra bringing up the rear broke the spell. “Keep moving, Mayfield,” she said gruffly. “Don’t think I’m not watching you.” So maybe the woman was still a bit sore . . .

  The first couple of rows had been reserved for the freshmen. Something reminiscent of ripples across a pond shivered through the arena as Zanna walked down the aisle, people adjusting functions in their chairs to float a little higher and get a better look. High above the center stage, a screen broadcast a live feed of the proceedings, even though she didn’t see any cameras around the arena. At the moment, it was panning across Dr. Fitzie, Dr. Cheever, and Dr. Piccowitz, who were up onstage and wearing proper academic robes of voluminous black silk with soft velvet bonnets. Behind them were dozens of empty chairs on risers, waiting for students to come up and populate them. Then, suddenly, the screen cut to her. Her, walking down the aisle with a dumb amazement plastered across her face and the frying pan clutched to her chest, and the entire auditorium rose and applauded and cheered until she couldn’t even hear her pounding heartbeat.

  Somehow, she made it all the way down the aisle. Somehow, she found her chair. The screen cut away from her to sweep over all the freshmen and then up to Dr. Mumble on the stage, who greeted everybody and launched into a short welcome speech with the passion of a wet cardboard box.

  “I will now hand the program off to Dr. Trout for the announcing of specializations,” Dr. Mumble said, stepping aside. The Self professor rose and took the podium with a domineering expression. A golden book rose from a case that Zanna hadn’t noticed before and floated over to Dr. Trout, who opened it to a page and licked her lips.

  “Adam Reughel.”

  He had chosen a shovel for his Iron, an old and well-worked one. Dr. Trout shook his hand, whispered an instruction in his ear, and gestured out to the crowd.

  Adam cleared his throat. “Physics,” he said, and a third of the crowd burst into applause. Dr. Trout pointed him to Dr. Cheever, who beamed and held out a large book—a paper one, not gold. Adam signed his name and took a seat behind the professor.

  Dread began to creep over Zanna, and her fingers tightened around the handle of her frying pan. It was all so public. Not that your specialization was a secret, but she hadn’t thought the actual moment of decision would be anything like this. Of course, she thought, for everyone else there isn’t a decision. They had figured out their specialization weeks ago. In Nora’s case, it had been more like months. They hadn’t been putting it off until the last minute . . .

  “Beatrice Scotti.”

  Zanna craned her neck. Her friend looked so small as she climbed up on the stage. Dr. Trout had to bend over a little to shake her hand. But then Beatrice turned to face the crowd, and her face went up on the screen, and there wasn’t an ounce of fear in it.

  A cannonball, indeed.

  “Mathematics,” she said, loudly and clearly. Dr. Fitzie let out a “Whoop!” and embraced her before Beatrice was allowed to sign the book and take her seat.

  Dr. Trout went through a couple more names of students that Zanna had only exchanged a few brief words with. Then came one she recognized.

  “Cedwick Hemmington.”

  There was a strange silence in the crowd as Cedwick took the stage. It was like the silence that had preceded Beatrice but even more reserved. After all, this wasn’t just one of the five freshmen who had helped to bring down a madwoman. He was the son of Lord Hemmington. Had the past year gone differently, Zanna might have been just another student, but Cedwick would always have been watched closely by the Scientist community. The thought made her chest squeeze, as if she had momentarily forgotten how to breathe. No wonder he had gone with such a heavy Iron on his shoulders.

  “Go, Cedwick!” someone shouted. Owin. Zanna recognized the voice at once. The crowd broke into laughter, its tension loosened, and Cedwick glared up at his brother. He twisted the length of chain around his fist.

  “Chemistry,” he said, almost spitting the word out.

  Zanna wished that she could see Lord Hemmington’s reaction at that moment, but instead, the screen showed Dr. Piccowitz grinning as Cedwick signed the book and took a seat. The crowd applauded politely.

  “Liberty Wilder.”

  The name caught Zanna off guard, for she didn’t remember anyone in her class named Liberty, but then she saw Libby get up from her chair and take the stage, her face twisted in a frown. When she shook hands with Dr. Trout, it was a cold and violent movement. She threw her shoulders back and stared down at the crowd, as if daring them to call her by her real name again.

  “Physics,” she said.

  One by one the students took the stage, and with each one, Zanna’s dread grew a bit more. Everyone seemed so confident—even the quiet boys who huddled together and never glanced over at Zanna in class managed to stand up straight and tell everyone that they were specializing in Mathematics. Zanna put a hand to her stomach. Her paradox pains were turning bad. She should have heeded Mrs. Turnbuckle’s advice and stayed in bed today.

  “Nora Elmsley.”

  Nora rose with a smile, her crowbar swung easily over a shoulder. It fit her so perfectly, Zanna couldn’t imagine her with any other Iron. Especially not some fancy ruler.

  Nora took the steps in perfect time, stopping dead center on the screen. Her voice rang out without hesitation. “Chemistry!”

  Now came the waiting. Endless waiting as students Zanna barely knew crossed the stage and gave their specialization, each one walking a bit more slowly and taking a bit longer than the last. This is what waiting for the gallows must feel like, Zanna thought as she sank lower in her seat and tried to calm her wriggling stomach. After a while, she just wanted to get it over with.

  She had never let go of Cedwick’s report. The paper was crumpled from her anxious wringing, and she smoothed it out on the back of her frying pan. His handwriting was only marginally better than hers, so she had to read it slowly. Then she read it again, even slower. And then a third time.

  “Zanna Mayfield.”

  Her head jerked up. All the freshmen seats were empty, all except for hers. Carefully, she tucked Cedwick’s report into a pocket and walked down the aisle, trying to be as steady as all the other students had been, but she knew it was obvious. Her knees trembled, and her stomach felt like one big bruise. This was a dead-man’s walk, but she faced it with every scrap of strength she could muster. If she could stagger out of the Canadian wilderness with just a handful of nitrogen, she could make it up onstage.

  “Congratulations,” Dr. Trout said as Zanna got closer. Everyone was still applauding, and bile bubbled up in her throat. Sweat beaded on her forehead, in her armpits, and behind her knees, even though there were no hot stage lights here. No one here knew her. Not the teachers and parents and students out in the crowd. Not her friends onstage. Not Cedwick—or his report. Not even Pops. To them all, she was a girl who had escaped
single-handedly from the clutches of a maniac and had then gone back to rescue her grandfather in a daring sacrifice. If they knew that the criminal the Primers had hauled off was the same person standing before them, what would they do? Not applaud her, that’s for certain.

  There’s a dark time coming for the world, Anna had said. I can prevent it. I can prevent so many things if you’re here with me.

  “Zanna,” Dr. Trout prompted.

  She had frozen up completely. All three of her professors leaned forward, their faces hungry.

  Otherwise, Nora, Beatrice, Libby, Owin, Cedwick, and even Pops, Anna had continued, they are going to die.

  Zanna stared at the hands wrapped around the handle of her frying pan. How the tendons tightened beneath her skin and the veins made faint blue lines. How her knuckles bulged. How different they looked from those perfect killing hands of her future self . . .

  And then she had her decision.

  “I choose Self!”

  The room went absolutely silent. Her teachers stared with expectant expressions still glued to their faces, as if Zanna was just joking and her real choice was still to come. But that was her choice, and the moment dragged on. No one spoke.

  “Well done.”

  Zanna looked up, and her mouth fell open. Dr. Trout was smiling.

  “Well done, indeed,” the professor said, and it was louder and grander than any applause possible.

  Acknowledgments

  Science is built upon the shoulders of giants, and so too was this book. Thank you first and foremost to my family for encouraging me every step of this journey. Thank you to my brother Russell for putting up with my endless questions about calculus, and to my sister Leanne for being my very first teacher. And a special thanks to my Mom and Dad for being at my side throughout it all and being my first and biggest fans. I love you all more than I can say.

  I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to Jen Fulmer for many, many writing chats, editing discussions, and frantic text messages. Thanks also to Kenton Fulmer for always being the perfect host to two talkative writers and never minding if we monopolized the conversation for hours. Thank you to Laura Steward for reading through the manuscript in one night and calling me up to demand answers, as well as being an excellent book-hunting companion. Many thanks to Steph O’Neil, Joanna Meyer, Rose Marie Green, Devan Soyka, Alice Chiang, Susan Roberts, and Colleen Brenner for donating some of their time to read through the manuscript and offer their ideas.

  A great many thanks to my fearless agent Laura Zats at Red Sofa Literary for picking Zanna up and dusting her off. I would be lost and suffering from a lack of cat pictures without you. Thank you also to Mari Kesselring, Reece Hanzon, Ashley Wyrick, and Megan Naidl at Jolly Fish Press for their guidance and advice. I’m eternally grateful to have you on my team.

  And thank you, for reading.

  About the Author

  Daniel Wheatley worked as a financial news proofreader and copy editor before making the transition to editor at Mascot Books, a hybrid self-publisher in Herndon, Virginia. When not helping other writers achieve their dreams, he enjoys teaching swing dancing and collecting cheesy movies. The Zanna Function is his debut novel. Find him online at grammatarium.com or on Twitter @grammatarium.