Extraction by Stephanie Diaz

officials. And the kids resemble some of the adults, and they’re smiling and laughing and don’t look skinny as sticks.
    They’re sitting with their families.
    Something deep inside me loses a couple stitches. Some part of me that I thought was sewn tight and strong and whole, but now I’m thinking it might not be.
    I wonder what it feels like to sit up there in one of those pods and know the woman on your right is your mother, and the man beside her is your father, and the kid next to you is your little sister or your older brother.
    I wonder what it feels like to know you belong without having to ask.
    Cadet Waller leads us across the floor beneath the viewing pods. The Extractions from the other sectors—fourteen from each—are waiting on the floor beyond the last viewing pod, near the far end of the Pavilion, surrounded by several officials and instructors. Waiting for what sort of welcome, exactly, I don’t know.
    To distract myself from the fluttery feeling in my stomach, I wonder how the Developers keep enough air in the Core for everyone. It gets recycled, I suppose. Or they grow plants in special laboratories that produce enough oxygen to replenish what people use.
    When we reach the other Extractions, I’m pressed into their throng. The heat of their bodies makes me feel trapped. Boys and girls with torn clothes and sweaty palms press in from either side. They look as nervous as I am.
    A flicker of light catches my eye on the far wall of the room, about twenty yards away from our group. There’s a single glass box over there, about the size of my shack on the Surface. I’m not sure what it’s for.
    My eyes wander up from the glass box. A last, lone viewing pod juts out from the wall above the box. It’s smaller than the others. This one doesn’t have a staircase rising from the floor; instead, it’s attached to the wall by a short ramp. It looks empty right now.
    Above the pod is a large screen on the wall. It shows a faint image, the symbol of the Core: a full moon embossed in bronze.
    “There are ten thousand one hundred and ninety-two people here,” someone whispers.
    I turn. Ariadne, the girl who sat next to me on the hovercraft, is standing beside me. She’s scanning each of the viewing pods, her eyes wide, the clearest green I’ve ever seen.
    “Six thousand nine hundred and fifteen adults, and three thousand two hundred and seventy-seven children,” she says, her voice soft, as if she’s talking to herself instead of me. “Five thousand one hundred and twenty-seven females, and five thousand and sixty-five males. Two point seven percent are potentially Unstable.”
    My brows furrow. Is she counting everyone?
    “Please quiet down.” Cadet Waller hushes us with a hand.
    Behind us, the families in the viewing pods quiet too. The lights in the room darken, casting everything in shadow except for the wall screen with the Core symbol. A solitary light comes on—a thin red beam pointed at the viewing pod beneath the wall screen.
    A man in a slick navy uniform steps into view, followed by four other figures in white. These must be the five Developers, the descendents of the scientists who headed Project Rebuild. After the Developers quelled the people’s rebellion and established the work camps to secure their power, they passed their rule onto their offspring when they died, instead of letting new leaders be elected. They didn’t want new blood ruining their system.
    The man in the navy uniform is the only one who stands beneath the light. His face and upper torso replace the symbol of the Core on the screen. He’s older than I expected, with many creases around his mouth and on his forehead. His hair is a light shade of gray, flowing in waves down to his neck. His cheeks are a bit pale. He wears white gloves, and clasps his hands against his stomach.
    Something magnifies his hoarse, cracking voice when he speaks: “Extractions, welcome to the Core.”
    His eyes are a dull shade, but they