Being Chosen

You should have told them. As soon as the results of the medical had come through you should have told them, your family, your friends. Joshua.

But you were afraid.

Instead of telling them, instead of boasting about what an honour it would be if you were chosen, instead of letting them be proud of you, of what you might bring to the region, you choose to run, to hide.

You are not a boastful person. You prefer to blend into the background, keep your head down. So when you get the results of the medical, instead of putting yourself forward into the ring hoping to bring glory to your country, your city, your district, you slink away and hide like a common criminal.

Let another take the prize, you think; you don’t want it. You’ll return when it is all over. What you don’t realize is that’s not the way things work.

Mankind is in trouble, you know that, but you don’t think you’ve got the psychological strength to be part of the solution. Ever since a pandemic some 150 years earlier, the fertility of the human population has declined. In addition, those babies that are born are often themselves infertile. 

The latest thinking was that if babies were conceived and born on the moon, this trend could be reversed. Every human on the moon has been screened, has their blood cleaned of all latent traces of the virus. It is hoped that eventually mankind would be able to bring this technology to Earth, to kickstart the dwindling population. Of course, for those on the moon, there will be no coming back to Earth; they won’t be able to cope with the gravity.

Such cleansing of the blood is expensive, which is why currently only one woman a year is chosen to make that journey. Annual compulsory medicals, as well as showing any illnesses a person might be suffering from, reveals those that are fertile, the potential mothers. Further tests will show which are the most promising, and the best candidate will be taken in great ceremony to the moon to be cleansed, impregnated. Taken to a sterile world with no winds, no trees, no fresh air. Not so much as a bee like that one there that buzzes so lazily on this hot afternoon round the nearby bush collecting nectar.

You don’t want to leave this behind. You want to live in a world full of life. Because you know that if you go to the moon, whether you are successful or not, after such a period of time there would be no returning to Earth. Gravity will be against you again.

You’ve told your family that you are going away to give thanks for your health. They don’t question this; it’s what people often did after a good medical, give thanks to the gods. And they would expect that travelling further from the village you’ll be able to return with some game for the whole district to share.

So here you are, alone, thinking you’ve managed to avoid being chosen, at least for this year. You wonder at how the district would react if they learned of your results. Would they want you, or would they reject you, the shame of being a district where a potential mother has shunned her duty?

As the day draws to a close, you curl up with your back to the cliff, no fire; you don’t want to attract attention after all. Yet they find you. Of course they do, because when you were born, they placed a tracker in you. They do that to everyone. You cannot hide, ever.

They question you. Why did you run? Why did you hide? You do not want their judgment, their wrath. You do not want shame to be brought on your district. You make excuses. You didn’t want to disappoint your district if you didn’t get chosen. You needed time to think what it might mean if you were. You needed time to experience this world, your beloved Earth. It might be the last time.

You are taken first back to your district, to see the look of hurt and confusion in your parents’ eyes. Why wouldn’t you tell them? Why not confide that your results were so good? They hold you for what they know might be the last time. The look of alienation on Joshua’s face, as if this was something you had sought out. He thought you were to be his. You thought you were to be his.

From there you are taken to the city, to their laboratories, so you can be further examined.

Other candidates appear excited at the possibility of the challenge. For one, it is her third year. Surely, she says, surely it will be her turn this year? You hope so for your sake as well as hers. They bond, the others, and you try, but you’re always on the outside of the group.

Further tests are carried out, and as the weeks go on, gradually the candidates are weeded out. Each week the world sees these women as they pray to be left in the game. But as others pray to remain, you pray to be let go. Part of you realises that even if you are released this year, you may be brought back next. Each week as others bow their heads with relief at remaining in the game, you bow your head in disappointment. The viewers do not know the difference.

When the woman who has been passed over twice is passed over again, she sobs, such is her need to be chosen. Maybe next year, she says as she is taken out and tears course down her face.

At last there are just three remaining of which you are one. DNA is matched to the potential paternal candidates who are already on the moon. These men have been watching with interest, seeing who their mate might be. It is best if there are a number of good matches, for then you would be given the choice of a partner. 

And when you are finally chosen, you cry. Not with the joy of being chosen, but with the dread you feel at being removed from all that you have known. It matters not. To the audience it all seems the same. They watch with envy at your celebrity in an increasingly meaningless world, though maybe some will pity you.

And here you are, being taken with much ceremony into the rocket that will take you to your destiny. As you have been told to do, you turn, wave goodbye to planet Earth, though the cameras will only see you wave to your audience. You feel the last breath of wind on your face and pause to savour it before you allow them to push you inside. 

You will spend the journey looking at the pictures of the men who have been chosen for you. The choice will be yours. There’s one that has the look of Joshua about him. And because you can do no other, you begin to wonder what he’s like.