Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Maraline’s cries are filling the town square. This is now officially a scene. She is in absolute despair. My heart is breaking for her, and for myself. This can’t be happening. This is everyone’s worst nightmare.
The older officer sighs. “We do not have time for the dramatics. Take the girl and let’s go. The shuttle will not wait, and the Archon-General certainly will not.”
“Mommy!” I use a word I have not used since I was small as the officers come down the stairs toward me.
I am not prepared to leave home. Maraline has a whole set of luggage devoted to preparing her for her new life, but I have nothing. I am not ready. I am not dressed for this. I am barely old enough for this. The man they are saying I am already married to is forty-two years old, more than twice my age. With that thought, the ringing in my ears intensifies. This can’t possibly be real. I see Maraline turning toward me, an expression of betrayal on her perfectly porcelain face. It is as though she is wearing a perfect mask of complete disappointment.
To her credit, my mother is arguing on my behalf.
“She’s not dressed for it. She’s not ready. She’s too young. She hasn’t learned any of the precepts of womanhood, bearing, birthing, or wifely duties.”
“That’s your failing,” the officer says. “Mila has been chosen as the mate of the Archon-General.”
“He’s more than twice her age!”
“And I am sure he will enjoy her all the more for it.”
The officer is lewd, crude, and common. We are told that the officers of the Artifice are chosen from lowborn people in order to maintain a sort of impartial fairness. They have no skin in the games of the highborn. But they certainly seem to enjoy causing us pain as and where they can.
“She is just a baby.”
“She is anything but.”
They are coming down the stairs toward me now. I descend, wondering what will happen if I simply run.
“Don’t,” the younger officer says, catching my thought. “I will chase you down, and you will be punished.”
I freeze as he speaks to me bluntly. I am not used to being threatened by strangers. I am not used to being treated like an object. But that is precisely what I am now. Everything I was afraid of for Maraline is now happening to me.
“I won’t go!” I declare. “Send Maraline! She wants to go!”
“So the Seraphines are a family full of disobedient blasphemers,” the older officer smirks. “This will be noted on your record.”
That stops us all in our tracks. We know well enough there is no choice to be had in this matter. To be seen as resisting the Artifice is to commit one of the primary crimes of our society. We fall silent as one. My father will not look at me. Maraline cannot stop staring at me. It is my mother who tries to give me some small comfort.
“You must be brave,” my mother says, clutching my hands in hers. “And you must be obedient. You know nothing else, so just do as you are told.”
Rough hands reach for me, grip me by the arms. There is no elegance or refinement in this handling. I am a prisoner being taken from my family by force. As I approach the doors of the temple, Maraline begins to cry and curse at me, blaming me for taking what she thought was hers. She hates me. I know this because she keeps screaming the words over and over again.
“I hate you, Mila! You’ve always taken what’s mine. This is Banjo all over again!”
“Please, my dear, calm down,” my father tries to intervene.
“This is Banjo, all over again!” Maraline shrieks.
Banjo was a pretty eleven-hand palomino pony that she outgrew by the time she was ten and I was two. She graduated to a full-size pony, and I got to ride Banjo. Maraline was not happy about that at the time, and she is not happy about it now.
I don’t think Maraline has ever forgiven me for anything. I know she won’t forgive me for this.
My parents are still occupied with comforting her as I am led away through the Artifice doors, never to return.
The other side of the doors reveals the interior of the Temple of the Artifice. It’s not the actual Artifice itself, of course. That is everywhere and nowhere. But this is where those who serve the intelligence that has replaced all forms of government on planet Earth work. This is a sacred space, and I know I am fortunate to be seeing it.
There is a picture of the men who are credited with having created the Artifice many years ago. We all know their names: Yokohama, Wallace, and Patel. Those names are canon in our world. People swear on them the same way they used to swear to god. They’re long gone now, of course, but what they helped create remains, guiding us all.