A Short Story by A.B. Timothy

Mary Johnson looked down on the glowing red globe beneath her ship. Mars was to be her new home; she would die there. Several years prior, when the New Party took power back on Earth in the late twenty-second century, Mary, then called Maria, had been given an ultimatum: Join or Die.

New Party morale monitors had raided her small hotel room, a place on the Sonoran forest’s floor that had been abandoned by all of the North American cities which had risen to reside on the clouds, in ‘Sky’. This moldy apartment had housed her and several dozen other “Unwanteds”. The monitors broke the window and threw in gas canisters to choke the consciousness from those who may have resisted in the room.

She remembered watching her brother try to stand despite the gas, but his chest was riddled with holes before he could even take a step. She lost consciousness as the men in black uniforms kicked the doors down and began to poke at bodies.

In a blink, she had gone from the floor of a moldy hotel room to a pristine white room. The room was so white and her clothes so bleached that the only reason she knew she was still on this side of the grave was her black hair, which she had caught a look at as she had woken up. Through an unseen doorway, a woman in her forties had walked in and sat on something across from Mary. The woman’s clothes, which stretched from neck to toe, were so white that she appeared to be a floating head. Her skin was as dark as night, and it made for a disturbing contrast.

“Maria Velasquez.” The woman tilted her head and looked into the eyes of Mary. Her eyes were a dark brown. “Your name is not pure enough.” She said as if this would have been plainly obvious to even a child. “Choose another family name.”

The woman placed a sheet of large printed black text names on the table between them. The table’s existence shocked Mary as there was no differentiation of light or shadow to distinguish the four legs, or the plane from the surrounding room. After the brief shock wore off, Mary leaned in and looked at the papers. On the list were four options. “Red, Johnson, White, Henry.”

“Henry isn’t even a last name.” Mary was surprised when the thought she had made privately was produced aloud for herself and the woman to hear. When she looked up, confused, and watched the woman speak, Mary realized her lips never moved.

“The mind speaks, and the words are formed. We do not move our lips in Sky. We have no use for them.” She did not move her lips into a smile but somehow gave off the warmth a smile would have otherwise produced. “I didn’t think you would know the name Henry. Most Unwanteds don’t care to even know our great history. North American Literature has a strong tradition that dates back centuries, even before the unification of the twenty-first century. Not that your kind would ever care. I am surprised you can even pronounce it.” She seemed to catch herself and stop. “There I go rambling again,” the thought-sound projector produced a low giggle. “Now pick, please, we do not have all day.”

“Johnson.” Mary pointed at the name and nodded. She had heard stories like the one she was living right then. Most of the unwanteds that she knew in their small enclaves just called these stories propaganda, lies, or fiction. No one had ever heard of an Unwanted going into a University and coming out alive.

“That is true,” the woman said, responding to the words Mary had thought. “And yes, you are in a University, good job. But we do not kill the Unwanted, no, that would be a waste. We merely train them. Teach them how to be Wanted, this is what we do.” The woman took the text prompt away and stood from whatever she had sat on. Mary felt like her eyes were burning, and pulled her hair in front of her eyes as the woman walked out of the room.

“Don’t worry.” The woman’s thought-voice permeated the room. “Soon the light will be your friend.”

Mary had not resisted. In her heart, she knew this was the end. Why resist the end? Every day in that neverdim room was a day closer to the death of Maria Velasquez and the birth of Mary Johnson. Her guard never offered a name in thought or in writing, so Mary only knew her as “the woman”.

After only several months, the woman told Maria that she had progressed much faster than her friends.

“Tell me something, Mary,” the woman said. “Do you want to be Wanted?”

“Of course, miss,” Mary had answered. “I’ve wanted that since I was a child. Ever since the Unification wars, my family has-” the woman held up a hand, and this silenced Mary.

“I do not need, nor did I ask for, your story. Now tell me: Do you want to be Wanted?” the woman repeated her question.

“Yes,” Mary remembered having to fight to keep more thoughts from entering her mind.

“What are you willing to do to be Wanted?” the woman asked.

“Anything.”

“Anything? Even abandon Sky and go to a new planet for the glory of Sky, her people, and to become Wanted?” the woman asked.

“Anything, miss,” Mary answered.

“Well, you are not the first, and you will not be the last. We have use of those who want to be Wanted. Servitude for seven years. Then, freedom. Service to the glory of Sky under a new Sky.” The woman made the idea seem like a pitch—

“It is,” the woman clarified. “So, what do you say, Mary?”

With the death of Maria Velasquez, Mary Johnson ascended through the clouds of Sky to a place far above it. She looked out of the porthole window in her accommodations aboard the N.P.S. New Horizons, and Mary saw Mars. The world where Unwanted became Wanted.