The Beautiful Ones Read online

  The vision, brief as it is, inspires a smile across my face.

  A knock comes at the door, shattering the illusion of my former life.

  “Miss Byron?” a voice asks.

  “Yes?” I reply. “Come in.”

  The maid enters, bearing within her arm a hooded ensemble that appears to be made out of darkness itself. “Mother Terra has instructed me to give this to you. You are to wear it once you leave your cabin and then as you make your way off the shuttle.”

  “Why?” I ask, taking hold of the ensemble, which I now see is a heavy robe with a thick hood.

  “Your injuries, dearie. Mother Terra does not wish for the photojournalists to take pictures of an injured Beauty.”

  “Thank you, miss,” I say.

  She nods, then departs from the room, closing the door behind her.

  I stare at the hooded robe and frown.

  I am to be made the center of attention almost immediately. It makes sense, given it’s an annual occasion, but still makes me feel as though I am trapped, exposed, naked before the eyes of many. It’s enough to make my skin crawl, and causes me to break out in goosebumps.

  A series of banging knocks jar me from my thoughts and cause me to jump.

  The door shoots open.

  Ceyonne runs inside. “Do you see?” she asks.

  “See what?” I reply.

  She grabs my head and, with urgency I can’t have ever imagined her possessing, turns it to the side.

  I look. I stare. I awe.

  In the great distance stands the Glittering City. Even from here we can see its lights, extending into the sky as if they are great beacons from the Heavens, and already I can tell that the city is massive—sprawling, even, for it extends for as far as the eye can see in both directions.

  “Wow,” I say, both unable to believe my eyes and unsure what else to say. “It’s… it’s—”

  “Beautiful,” Ceyonne finishes.

  It truly is. It defies words, descriptions, even explanations. I know so little about the way the city works that I’m left fumbling to try and understand just how there can be so many lights in a world where there is mostly darkness.

  A knock comes at the outer wall. “Girls,” Mother Terra says. “Prepare yourselves for your arrival in the Glittering City.”

  “I guess I should go get changed,” Ceyonne says as the Gentlewoman departs.

  “Yeah,” I reply.

  “Can I come back and see the city with you? Once I’m done?”

  “You know you can,” I say.

  She closes the door to allow me privacy, then disappears across the hall and into her room.

  I look down at the robe. I sigh. I strip out of my clothes and slip into the ensemble seemingly made from darkness, leaving only my good flats on my feet.

  Ceyonne returns a short moment later, and joins me at the window as we look out and at the city.

  It comes rushing by us in the blink of an eye. An awe-inspiring wall, a series of watchtowers that glimmer with white-hot light, an expansive gate that groans and slides inward as the train comes barreling toward it—we witness the tracks as they begin to transition from the cold, merciless desert into the urban dwelling of the high-class world, which is layered with concrete, then watch as buildings shoot into the sky beside us. Glass windows adorn their surfaces—some winking light, others not. Most are black in color, but others are reminiscent of the buildings back home: white and sandstone-colored to reflect on a time that surely came before.

  “I can’t believe this,” I say as we continue to advance into the city, which glimmers like stars in the night sky. “This whole place is just sitting out here, in the middle of the desert.”

  “It’s amazing,” Ceyonne says.

  We pass fountains that spout fresh water, ponds that hold real, living and ornate fish within their depths, and witness buildings as they flash with untold colors, beckoning the populace walking about at this early hour of the night inside with promises of the treasures within.

  I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

  This place—it is Heaven: Utopia founded on the soiled grounds of our unfortunate world.

  There is little time for us to dwell upon the matters at hand, or even to think of what is going to be happening, as soon, there is a knock at the door, and Mother Terra is beckoning us into the hall.

  The brakes come on, the train slows down, the vehicle rolls under an underpass and then comes to a halt before a series of sweeping glass windows. Before them stands a multitude of people, both men and women, holding small objects with large lenses in their hands, which flash in quick, erratic and unexpected succession.

  “Are those,” Ceyonne asks.

  “The photojournalists?” Mother Terra asks. “Yes, which is why you need to make sure your hoods are down—especially you, Kelendra.”

  I pull my hood further down my temple and nod to the Gentlewoman as she once again gestures us out of the cabin.

  Ceyonne goes first, and I follow shortly thereafter, falling into line. At first I struggle to count how many others there are, but soon realize that I am struggling because I cannot comprehend the few.

  Only seven other girls were selected besides me and Ceyonne? How is that even possible?

  I open my mouth to ask Mother Terra why this is, but am stopped when the Gentlewoman clears her throat at the front of the line and says, “Listen up, girls. It is imperative that you follow my instructions at all times, especially now that we have arrived within the city.

  “Now, with that being said, there are a few ground rules I’d like to go over.

  “Number one is: don’t talk to the photojournalists. They will shout things at you, ask you to remove your robes, ask you to show your faces, but under no circumstance are you to do this. We don’t want the public misinterpreting our actions.

  “Number two: follow me at all times. Do not stray from the group. It is easy to get lost within the city, especially when there are multitudes of people about.

  “And finally, number three: only speak to those who hold a title of authority. Do not tell them your name, your age, where you have come from, or what has happened to you in your former life. You are starting fresh, ladies, and will be expected to act as though you have been reborn. Do you understand?”

  “Yes ma’am,” we all say.

  “Good,” Mother Terra replies. “Now come. It is time for us to go to the Spire.”

  Mother Terra nods at Mother Chun and Mother Merissa before reaching forward and pressing a button to open the train’s exit doorway.

  We are immediately assaulted by flashing lights. Too numerable to comprehend, and seemingly as bright as the sun, they flash like stars in the twilight sky and cause me to lose my momentum for a brief moment before I step out of the train.

  “Hey Beauties!” a man calls. “Tell us your names!”

  “Where are you from?” another woman asks.

  “Take off your hoods!” a third photographer cries.

  “Don’t listen to them,” Mother Terra states. “Keep going.”

  “Follow us,” Mother Chun says, her bronze skin shimmering as her cat-like eyes settle upon us.

  We, the Beautiful Ones, nod, and begin to march as though we are dying men, armed with knives and swords and guns. While not heading to a battle in the traditional sense, we have a fight of our own to endure, especially now that we have arrived within the Glittering City. We are warriors—pulled from the depths of poverty and lifted by the grace of beauty—and though I have never once felt as though I have been persecuted for my appearance, I now realize that I could easily be seen that way now.

  Remember, my mother used to say. People won’t want to hurt you unless you give them a reason to. Be kind, be caring, but most of all, be compassionate.

  I must abide by these rules, for they are the fundamental teachings of my childhood. For that reason, I weave through the crowd, careful to avoid the photographers and their flashing lights and their sometimes-d
esperate hands.

  When one reaches out to me, a Dame—whom I have not seem before but whom I assume has followed us since our departure from the train—lashes out with her shock baton and strikes him in the arm.

  He screams.

  I cry out.

  The Dame looks at the photojournalists and asks, “Anyone else want to try and touch them?”

  No one responds. They merely take pictures of the event that has taken place.

  With my near assault handled, Mother Chun presses a hand to the small of my back and escorts me back alongside my peers, not bothering to look ahead or at her sides. “Once we reach the Spire,” she says, leaning toward my face so that only we can hear, “I will escort you to the infirmary. Do you understand?”

  I nod. “What about Ceyonne?” I ask. “She was hurt too.”

  “She will come as well,” she says. “Now, just a little bit further.”

  We round the corner of a long and wide street and are confronted by an astounding sight.

  Rising into the distance is the onyx structure known only as the Spire. Higher than any building I could have ever possibly imagined, and supported by a single column around which is wrapped a thick fixture of serpent-green stone, it is topped with a domed structure which flashes a multitude of rainbow lights from a band around its center as we approach, as if beckoning us toward it like flies to a campfire.

  The sight, while impressive in itself, is made even more so by the sloping hill that leads up to it. Between two rows of spouting fountains lies a single aisle of luminescent cobblestone, which glows a moss-like green to guide those lost in the dark to the Spire’s threshold.

  Though initially taken aback both because I am in awe and slightly afraid, we follow this path slowly and meticulously, never breaking formation or rank. The SAD agents—which have seemingly materialized out of nowhere—block passage to our left and right, while behind and in front of us walk the Gentlewomen. Mother Terra leads us forward. Mother Chun, meanwhile, draws back to where I stand at the end of the line. Ceyonne stands beside her, her trembling lips the only thing I am able to see upon her face.

  “Remember,” she says to both of us. “Follow me.”

  I nod and suck in a deep breath as four well-armed and heavily-armored women standing by the Spire’s doorway turn and push buttons on the wall to open the sliding glass fixtures that will allow us inside.

  The Beautiful Ones before me step inside as if this is the greatest thing they can ever possibly imagine. I, meanwhile, dread what is to come next.

  As we enter the building, which is air-conditioned to the point where I imagine we could see our breaths if we breathed improperly, I am blinded by the array of golden chandeliers which dangle from the ceiling and reflect light about the interior of the room. Before us is a single desk, shaped like the ocean’s waves, at which is seated a single woman. Behind her stands a series of doorways which, when opened, reveal a small room, with buttons indicating UP and DOWN at their sides.

  “What are,” I start.

  Mother Chun silences me and instead leads Ceyonne and I away from the group, toward a separate but closed doorway. “We’re going to the infirmary,” she says. “Don’t be alarmed.”

  I try not to be, but can’t help it. Now that I’m separated from the group, I am at the complete and utter mercy of this Gentlewoman, who is a greater stranger than even the one I am accustomed to; and while I don’t believe Mother Chun is in the position to cause me any harm, I still don’t know what her ulterior motives may be.

  We approach the doorway. It is here that Mother Chun reaches out and presses a single button to open it, revealing once again the inside of a room that does not have a doorway to exit through.

  “We’re going up,” Mother Chun says.

  “How?” I ask.

  “Oh dear.” She chuckles. “I forget. You girls have never been in an elevator.”

  “An ele-what?” Ceyonne frowns.

  “It’s a room that takes you to another level of a building,” Mother Chun explains. “Now come. We want to make sure you’re prepared to enter wardrobe and makeup.”

  We step into the room and wait for the Gentlewoman to enter behind me.

  After entering, she turns and presses a button.

  The door closes.

  The room begins to move.

  “Woah,” I say.

  “It’s a bit jarring,” Mother Chun replies.

  She keeps her silence as we rise for the next several minutes, during which time I mentally prepare myself for the examination that is to come. Though I have matured and been treated under the watchful eye of Witch Doctor Emery back in Sandstone Hills, I have never seen an actual physician. My thoughts instantly turn to what they might do to alleviate or even remove the bruising. Will they apply creams? Give me medicines I’m supposed to ingest? Use machines that will soothe the inflamed flesh? And what will they do for poor Ceyonne, whose torso was so horribly battered by the road runner’s thick boots? How will they treat her?

  These thoughts, and more, continue to run through my mind as we rise, threatening to bring panic to an already desperate situation. I’m just about to open my mouth and ask Mother Chun what might happen when the door opens and we are made witness to a long, sterile white hallway with many bright lights set in fixtures upon the ceiling.

  “Come,” Mother Chun says.

  I glance at Ceyonne—careful to acknowledge her short but determined nod—before following.

  Within moments we are standing before a desk that is shielded by a thick panel of glass. Mother Chun knocks once and waits for the young, unremarkable woman on the other side to turn her head.

  “Yes?” the young woman behind the front desk, whom I can only assume is a clerk of some sort, asks.

  “I have brought two Beautiful Ones in for examination and treatment,” Mother Chun replies. “They need to be seen immediately.”

  “Right away, ma’am.”

  The woman turns and disappears around a corner we can see through the glass inset in the wall.

  “How long does this normally take?” Ceyonne asks.

  “Do not worry,” Mother Chun says. “You will be in wardrobe and makeup before you know it.”

  Surely that must mean that we will be treated with advanced technology. How else would they remove the bruising on my neck and on Ceyonne’s chest?

  I’m not able to think on this for very long, as a door opens a few feet away and out comes a tall black woman with skin much darker than Ceyonne’s. “Revered Mother,” she says, acknowledging the Gentlewoman with a nod.

  “Doctor,” she replies. “These are the Beautiful Ones you will be seeing.”

  “They can come on back now.”

  “I’ll be escorting them,” Mother Chun says.

  “I’m sorry, Revered Mother, but there really isn’t that much room back in the examination—”

  “Come with me, girls,” she interrupts, and leads us toward the doorway.

  We pass through the door and allow the nervous doctor to lead us through the bright white halls and toward a large open area in which there are many dividing curtains. Whether or not we are alone I cannot be sure, but regardless, that doesn’t matter, as two young women in ugly green clothes that look like thick film step forward and smile at Ceyonne and myself.

  “If you would please remove your robes,” the doctor says.

  “We’re not wearing any clothes underneath,” I offer.

  “That doesn’t matter. Don’t worry, I’ve seen it all before.”

  I’ve never been naked in front of anyone except my mother. Not even Witch Doctor Emery has seen me completely nude, especially not in the later years of my life. The fact that I am being asked to remove my clothing in front of these people—and these strangers, no less—is unsettling, to the point where the hairs on the back of my neck rise and goosebumps develop along my arms.

  “Don’t worry, girls,” Mother Chun says. “Everything will be just fine.”

&nbs
p; Ceyonne and I both nod. While one of the medical professionals leads Ceyonne into the small space beside mine, the young woman who’s spoken to me thus far slides the curtain around the metal rod to give us privacy. I then, with hesitation, begin to remove my robes.

  The woman’s eyes immediately center on my neck. “Ooh,” she says, grimacing. “That has to hurt.”

  “It does,” I say as I allow the robe to fall at my feet. “My gown?”

  I am offered, and then slip over my shoulders, a simple gown whose backside is exposed. I then seat myself on a small chair with a filmy covering while the medical professional begins to arrange a few materials.

  “What are you?” I ask. “I mean… I know you work in medicine, but what do I call you?”

  “I’m what you call a nurse,” the woman says with a smile.

  “I see,” I say, impressed.

  A throat clears outside the threshold. Then the curtain is drawn and the doctor steps inside. “Hello,” she says. “I see you have a nasty bruise on your neck.”

  “I was,” I start, then stop before I can finish, thinking of Mother Chun’s words.

  The doctor waits, obviously expecting more.

  “I can’t say,” I finish.

  She lifts a small wand-like object from the rack arranged by the nurse and steps forward. “Lay back, please.”

  I do, and watch as she draws nearer. The doctor leans forward to look at the bruising and nods as she reaches out to touch it. “It’s very minimal,” she says. “Unlike your friend’s injuries, this should only take one pass.”

  “Pass of what?” I ask.

  “This wand—” she presses a button on the side, and I watch as the flat edge of it emits a purple light “—is designed to treat subsurface injuries. You’ll feel a slight tingle on the surface of your flesh, then some discomfort as the waves it produces penetrates the dermis—or the top—of your skin. Are you ready?”

  I nod.

  The doctor presses the wand to my neck.

  I am immediately struck by an uncomfortable sensation of something pressing into and then reverberating throughout my skin—like a punch that is felt at first on the outside of my gut and then in the muscles within. The pulsating sensations continue on for several moments as the doctor tends to my bruising, moving the wand carefully and with practiced measure. She performs the same process on the front of my neck from one lymph node to the other.