Daughter of Albion
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S.A. Elodie
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Born of Ashes
“Who was she?” The man takes a moment, echoing the journalist’s question back to him.
He’s seated in a bulky, overstuffed gray chair, his hands resting on his knees. A fire crackles in the fireplace next to him, casting long shadows on the pale wall behind him. Half his face is hidden in the darkness. The journalist across from him leans in, trying to get a better look.
“She was freedom. She was fire and ash. She burned with passion. Her name was Alexandra, and she was my mother.”
***
I’m standing in the grand hall, where we usually have our meals or sort bullets into their respective boxes. Long tables stretch from one end of the room to the other, and light-gray curtains hang from the ceiling, pulled back to reveal the barren, ash-covered landscape outside.
Today, the room is empty. Heavy iron blinds cover the windows, plunging the room into darkness. Only a few yellow bulbs hanging from the ceiling provide any light.
We’re standing in rows. Ten rows of fifty girls. We’re all in our uniforms: long, gray felt skirts wrapped tightly around our waists, with light-gray linen blouses tucked into them.
We’re wearing black ties, socks, and shiny shoes. Ribbons pull our straight blond hair back tightly. In front of us stand our teachers and the Masters.
This is the first time I’ve ever seen a Master. They’re taller than I expected, much taller than us. They keep their blond hair short and their sharp, angular faces clean-shaven.
There are five of them in the hall with us. They stand straight-backed in traditional gray suits, their arms held behind their backs.
Our teachers quickly move to the back of the hall. They blush slightly, clearly intimidated by the power of these men.
The Masters sit down on the small stage in old plastic chairs, facing us. They hold papers in their hands, paper, and pens.
Behind the Masters hangs the Eternal Albion flag. I feel a surge of pride when I see the flag hanging behind our Masters. At the same time, I feel butterflies in my stomach.
It’s breathtaking. A gray background is speckled with red embers, and in the center, a red phoenix.
It’s a representation of us, the people of Albion. We are the people of the ashes. We have risen as a great power from the ashes that our forefathers buried us in.
As silence fills the room, I’m reminded that this is the moment that will define the rest of my life.
This is the day I’ve been preparing for my whole life. This is my time to prove to my people that I’m worthy of being a Perfect, worthy of my country and that I will serve it until the day I die, proudly.
I’m one of the youngest in my generation, so I stand in the last line, closest to the locked windows.
It’s the last day of Testing, and all those girls in the other lines have already been tested and have become Perfects, and now they’re waiting for us so we can all go to the establishments together.
They look at us encouragingly, as if they’ve aged five years as if they are already Albion mothers.
After what feels like an eternity, one of the Masters looks up at our line. He studies us closely and then turns to his list. He clears his throat; it’s the loudest sound in the room, and everyone tenses.
“Numbers 958,687,487.64.3 to 987,533,512.64.5,” he says. “Please wait outside the room until your number is called. The rest of you are dismissed.”
There’s a shuffle of feet, and then we all place our fists over our hearts and face our flag. We swear our lives to the flag proudly. Then, the girls who have already become Perfects leave the room silently.
My line waits for them to disappear before we exit into the corridor outside the hall. There are long benches in place, and we sit down to wait. One girl stays inside.
Sandy, number 987,533,512.64.5. I see her glance at us just before the doors close.
I sit with a racing heart, clutching the underside of the iron bench tightly. The girl next to me, Julia, bites her fingernails. She shouldn’t. She could get in trouble for that. I want to tell her, but I don’t dare.
I’m not sure if she’ll pass her Testing. Though she’s plenty fair and blond with dark eyes, her jaw is too sharp, her teeth are too large, and her lips don’t pull together well.
She spends most of her time with her mouth open to breathe. As I watch her, I realize that she has a good chance of becoming a Defective and going to work in the factories.
A few other girls I’ve known my whole life have become Defectives this week. They didn’t stay around to see what would happen to the rest of us.
They were ashamed and left immediately to work for Albion, to serve Albion like they had been trained to. Just not as they had dreamed.
Julia glances at me, then away again. I reach out and grasp her hand tightly. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. I know she’s thinking the same thing I am.
We wait, side by side, as girls are called into the Great Hall, and others emerge.
Beth, my best friend, was made a Perfect yesterday. I didn’t doubt she would make it for a second. But she didn’t show any joy or pride for my sake.
She’s at the end of the corridor now, talking with one of the teachers. She glances in my direction and gives me a sharp nod. I hold my fist up and shake it to show her my strength. She smiles proudly at me.
Jennifer fails her test. She’s a Defective because of her wavy hair and short legs. Tears stream down her face as she runs past us, and Julia holds her breath. My heart thunders as I go over my answers in my head, those I’ve carefully prepared for today.
The door creaks open, and a Master appears. He gazes at his list.
“958,687,487.64.4,” he announces.
My heart skips a beat. I stand up slowly, my knees shaking slightly. Julia lets go of my hand with a small gasp. I glance back at her as I walk toward the Master. He gazes at me, then nudges me into the Great Hall.
It’s silent.
The door slams shut behind me, and the Master walks across the floor quickly to join the others, his shoes slapping against the stone floor. My blood seems to rush in my ears, loud and violent. I feel cold, and yet I’m sweating.
“958,687,487.64.4?” the central Master inquires. He’s older than the rest, probably one of the oldest people I’ve ever laid eyes on. Older than all my teachers. But he doesn’t look frail, just weathered by time.
I let my eyes wander over the other four Masters. Three of them appear to be middle-aged; the one on the far left doesn’t seem much older than me.
But his eyes are sharp and calculating, and I feel them drilling into me as if he can see all my thoughts. As if he’s privy to all my memories and I can’t hide anything from him.
I lift my chin and press my shaking hand over my heart, just as I was taught. This gesture gives me a bit of courage, and after clearing my throat, I manage to respond.
“I am,” I say, then pledge my allegiance to the flag and my country. When I finish, they jot something down on their papers.
“Also known as?” one of them prompts.
“Alexandra, Master.”
“Your mother as well?” another one asks.
“Yes, Master.”
“The first daughter. You turned eighteen a month ago?”
“Yes, Master.”
“And you had your first period seven years ago?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Good. Has everything been regular since then?”
“The first two years were irregular, Master. But now they are regular, Master,” I answer.
They all nod in approval.
“How many children did your mother have in total?”
“Eight, Master. A full life, Master,” I respond.
“That’s appropriate. How many sons?”
“Seven, Master. I was her only daughter.”
“Good. Very good. Hopefully, her fertility will favor you. Now, cover your left eye and stand on that line.”
The Master points, and I move to the line a few steps behind me. A small chart of letters is placed at their feet. I cover my left eye.
“Read the letters.”
“A-H-T-G-D-H-E-L-M-I-T, Master.”
“No hesitations. Now, the right eye.” He switches the chart.
“J-H-T-K-L-B-U-H-O-P-D, Master.”
“Good. Now step forward.” I move back into the center of the room. “Can you tell us a bit about your skills?”
“I enjoy sewing. I often help mend uniforms. I like children, I help with the younger girls when I can, Master.”
“Help with their classes?”
“Yes, and in the workshops. I’m good at teaching them how to organize their work in the workshops. And organizing them to go to bed, wake up, eat, and so on. I like organization.”
“So do we. Do you have many friends?”
“Not many, Master, but true and close friends.”
“Do you like sports?”
“Yes, Master.”
“What sports do you do, and how often?”
“I’m on the school track team, and I’m good at archery.”
“Archery?”
“Yes, Master. We had classes here a few years ago, and I’ve continued.”
“That’s admirable. Good sports. Do you get sick?”
“Rarely, Master. I help out in the sick ward when I have time.”
“Ever had cancer?”
“Never.”
“Did your mother?”
“No, Master.”
“A few years back, there was an attack in Sector 64. Were you exposed?”
“A few walls broke, and a whole classroom of girls was exposed. I was on the other side of the school, and I was safe.”
“You’ve never left the school walls?”
“No, Master, never,” I say, the idea making me pale.
“Good girl.” He leans back in his chair, studying me. The others fix their gazes on me as well. My heart pounds in my chest, and I hope they don’t notice the blush creeping up my cheeks.
“You’ve had a medical test?”
“Yes, five days ago. I received all my vaccinations as well,” I answer.
“Good. Allergies?”
“No, Master.”
“Asthma?”
“No, Master.”
“Diet?”
“Normal, Master. Fruits and vegetables only, Master.”
“You’re almost finished. Would you please remove your clothing?”
I nod. I’ve been prepared for this. My heart racing, I take off my tie and fold it before placing it on the floor next to me. They watch and wait as I remove my shoes and socks.
I take off my blouse, skirt, underwear, and finally, the ribbon from my hair, which falls down my back, straight, thick, and long. The Masters gaze at me as I stand naked in the room. I’m shaking. I only hope they can’t see it from a distance.
“Turn around,” one instructs me, and I comply.
The room is cold. I shiver, turn my back, and then turn to face them again.
“Thank you. You may put your clothes back on.”
I nod. They stand up and huddle together to discuss while I dress. I haven’t quite pulled my hair back up when they turn back to me.
The oldest Master approaches me. He towers over me and places his hand on my shoulder. My heart races.
“From this moment on, Alexandra 958,687,487.64.4, you are a Perfect,” he informs me.
Relief floods me, and I feel like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs. I lift my chin and step around him to face the flag. Placing both my hands over my chest and kneeling, I lift my face to the flag and take in the grey background, the proud phoenix. Tears of gratitude stream down my cheeks.
“I am of the ashes. I am reborn. I am Perfect. I am Phoenix. I pledge to serve my people in every way I can. I pledge to serve until the day I die, and I pledge to die for my people.
“I’m going to be worthy of the Phoenix. I’ll give my country children—perfect children—and I’ll kill for my country,” I whisper to myself.
The Masters give approving nods. One of them extends his hand, pulling me up to my feet.
“You are perfect. You won’t let anyone—Cripple, Traitor, Defective, or Foreigner—touch you or contaminate you. You are born of the ashes. Fulfill your destiny.”
I nod in response, kiss his hand out of respect, and then bow deeply to the other Masters. They return my nod, and then I’m led back to the door. The next girl is called in.
There are moments, like the day of my Testing, when I wish I could borrow strength from the future to combat the impending darkness. If only I had known then what my true destiny was. It wouldn’t be long now before I met him and before he completely transformed my life.
