I scan the bench and the faces of the other boys. They don’t look particularly menacing; I’d be willing to fend off any one of them.
A door opens and another candidate is pushed into the room. “Quinn!” I say, and go to him. “We were worried,” I whisper.
“I’ve just had a three-hour test followed by the most humiliating physical exam of my life,” Quinn says.
“Where are Bea and Jazz?”
He edges closer. In the past I might have moved away, but he isn’t flirting. “They’re alive,” he says, and suddenly joy and hope fizz through me. If Bea’s alive, and Jazz too, there’s no excuse for any of us to give up. “Bea was with Ronan Knavery. They’re planning a new rebellion in the pod. They have my father on our side this time and think they can take control of the army. But we need you.”
“Cain Knavery’s son?” I ask. He nods. It’s a lot to take in, and I have a hundred questions, but I haven’t time to ask any more because a bell rings, and Maks enters from the opposite end of the room wearing a skintight red shirt.
“Excited?” he asks. He rubs his hands together. I don’t like the gesture, or his leering expression. After what I saw in the stairwell, I pity poor Jo and her life with him. “Let’s do this,” he says. My gut tightens and I pull back the lower half of my facemask, so I can bite my nails.
“So the first civil war in the pod didn’t achieve anything?” I ask, taking Quinn by the arm.
“Well, it was enough to make my father and Ronan turn against the Ministry. Will you come back with me?” he asks.
“Yes,” I tell him. “Of course, I will.”
The orangery is an enormous conservatory attached to the east wing of the main house. Along three sides are rows of Sequoians gawking at us, and on the remaining fourth side is a stage decorated with a red banner that reads For Air, We Pair. It doesn’t even make sense: the only way to re-oxygenate the planet is to grow trees.
Vanya is standing under the banner wearing a red robe, although hers has no hood and plunges at the neckline where it’s held in place with a metal pin. Maks steers us to some empty chairs, then steps up onto the stage and stands next to Vanya.
We sit.
“A Pairing Ceremony is our most valued celebration,” Vanya says. “Through pairings, we preserve the human race from extinction. Along with pairings, these candidates will learn their vocations. They will become troopers, responsible for the group’s physical needs; academics, responsible for the group’s mental needs; or benefactors, responsible for the group’s spiritual needs.” I look around the room. I haven’t met anyone here who seems particularly spiritually enlightened, and she must have forgotten that humans and overpopulation was the reason for The Switch in the first place. Cut down the trees to feed the people—what a good plan that turned out to be.
“I marvel at what we have achieved,” Vanya continues. “We’ve made mistakes and sacrifices along the way, but we are stronger for it, and unlike other groups who have fallen, we prevail.” Vanya looks down at our group and I nearly give her the finger. It isn’t our fault The Grove perished. “Many of the candidates are refugees. Sequoia is the last stronghold against the Ministry and we defend our right, not only to breathe, but to breed a new people invincible to the elements.” The audience cheers. I look along at Silas, but he’s focused on the floor, his cheeks burning, his hands curled into fists. I wouldn’t put it past him to start something right now, but we can’t win if we try to battle these people. There are too many of them. When we leave, we should simply sneak away.
Vanya calls forward a set of candidates. “Song Jackson, Dorian Chasm, Juno McIntire, Martha Spencer, Quinn Caffrey, and Clarice Bird, please come onto the stage,” Vanya says. Dorian is the only person to stand. “All of you,” Vanya says.
“Here goes nothing,” Quinn says, and files onto the stage with the others. Most of them seem petrified, or at least nervous, but not Dorian. Since when did he decide that this was what he wanted?
“I present to you . . . our academics,” Vanya announces. There are cheers, presumably from other academics. “Please cover your heads,” Vanya directs. The hoods completely shroud the top halves of their faces. “The pairings have been scientifically chosen to ensure each person in Sequoia has a mate who is a true fit.” Vanya consults a list. “Please hold out your hands.” Vanya takes Song and another person’s hand and guides them to the front of the stage. “Presenting Song Jackson and Martha Spencer,” she says. They are made to kneel, then Vanya places a hand on each of their heads and closes her eyes. “Future generations will mark these days. May your union assist humanity. And may you strive for the greater good.”
“For the greater good,” the room chants. Vanya bows as though she’s performed a magic trick and pushes back the hoods on their robes. Song and Martha look at each other for the first time. Is he trembling? Vanya forces them to hold hands, and Song stumbles as they stand. Martha holds him up. After what happened to Holly, I’m surprised he’s been so composed about the process until now.
Vanya chooses another pair: Quinn and the girl called Clarice. Quinn’s the only one on stage wearing a mask, and I can sense the audience staring at him. He and Clarice kneel before Vanya who gives her speech and unites them.
Dorian is next, and once he has been paired, he leads his partner, Juno, to the side where he immediately lets go of her hand. Now he’s seen her, a round-faced, plain-looking girl with mild acne, he doesn’t look as keen on conforming. He leans as far away from Juno as he can.
Maks directs them to a set of seats at the back of the stage. There’s nothing funny about the pairings and nothing funny about Sequoia either, but seeing Dorian disappointed, his illusions shattered, makes me smile.
Vanya announces that there will be another group of academics. She calls out names I don’t recognize, and more robed candidates mount the stage. I blot out her voice and gaze through the glass ceiling at the black sky dotted with blinking stars. It looks just like the night I slept in the trees at The Grove—before the whole world came crashing to the ground. The peace I felt in those moments was like nothing else, curling up in the thick silence of space.
It isn’t long until my name is called. “Alina Moon, Silas Moon, Wren Darson, Sugar Collins, and Abel Boone, please come up.” And I am facing a hundred Sequoians shifting impatiently in their seats. Those who are paying attention are peering at Silas and me peculiarly, because, like Quinn, we’re wearing facemasks. But they can go screw themselves—they know nothing about who we are or what we’ve sacrificed to be here.
Apart from Silas, who can’t be my other, the only other male is Abel. It shouldn’t make me happy—none of this is right—but I’m glad for the facemask and hood, so no one will see my relief.
“Let me present the troopers,” Vanya says, and then Silas’s name is announced along with Wren’s. I can’t imagine what he must be thinking or feeling. Losing Inger is bad enough, but now this. Now her.
And Vanya speaks again. “Presenting Abel Boone and Sugar Collins,” she says. My chest tightens. I pull back the hood a few inches and watch Abel and Sugar hold hands and awkwardly step aside. Senseless jealousy ripples through me. There is a murmuring in the audience because I am the last candidate. Does this mean I won’t be paired? It feels like a blessing not to be, and yet. . . . My stomach knots.