Matronly Duties Read Free

and pushing me to my limits, is exhilarating. Life as a resident of MITI is one of seclusion. We are kept away from general society to avoid being distracted from our training. Getting to leave the compound—even if it’s only for a run with my guard—is a treat.
    George leads me through the winding corridors, but the halls are mostly empty at this time. We don’t see anyone until we exit into the exercise yard, where a couple of fourth or fifth years are running laps. We walk across the open area to the black four-door cart parked on the other side.
    Carts are the primary mode of transport for government interests, and MITI has three to transport its residents to appointments and functions across the sectors. They’re a cross between what the ancestors called a car and a golf cart. George holds open the rear door of one for me, and I climb inside and take my seat, fastening my lap belt while George hops into the driver’s seat.
    “All okay, Ms Greene?”
    I nod, and we are off.
    I gaze out the window as we make our way through the sectors. The two- and three-storey buildings of the government sector give way to the single-storey, flat-roof dwellings in the residential sector. Preparations for the dedication of the next Matron are visible on every street. The normally drab brown, grey, and black buildings are decorated with smatterings of red, green, blue, and gold—the colours of the Oceania flag.
    Street after street, lane after lane, I watch citizens happily going about their lives. Some of them look up as the cart goes by—one lady even waves—but most of them ignore us. I can’t help but be a little jealous of the kids playing kickball in the street while a woman I assume is their mother hangs laundry on the clothesline strung up between their domicile and the one next door. They appear carefree, laughing and running amok.
    I’m going to be their Matron. I’m not sure I’m ready for that responsibility.
    As the residential dwellings give way to more industrial-looking buildings, and then the maintenance sector, the sloping grey-brown cement walls of the dome become visible in front of us. George makes another turn and, within a few moments, we roll to a stop outside the catacombs, the maintenance tunnels that run around the perimeter of our underground city. As a rule, they are only accessed by the workers who keep our city functioning. For me, however, they’re an escape.
    I wait patiently in the cart while George hops out to check everything is okay.
    “All clear, Ma’am,” George says, gesturing towards the large industrial doors that lead into the tunnels.
    Grinning, I take a deep breath. “Thank you.”
    After a quick stretch, I take off at a brisk pace. Looking over my shoulder, I realise George is a few steps behind.
    “Come on, old man, can’t you keep up? What would your colleagues say if they knew you couldn’t even keep up with little ol’ me?” I wink and George chuckles. Then he picks up his pace and falls in step beside me.
    We run a familiar path through the timber-lined stone tunnels. We aren’t allowed to make any unplanned twists or turns, but I don’t mind. It’s invigorating to be moving. We fall into a good rhythm and in no time at all a light sheen of sweat covers my skin. Loving the feeling, I push myself—and George—harder as I round one of the sharper corners.
    “Whoa!”
    “What the—”
    I nearly trip over my own feet trying to stop before I collide with a group of four burly men blocking the tunnel. They’re carrying weapons of some kind, their clothes are threadbare, and their faces unshaven. Instinctively I back up, an uneasy sensation settles in the pit of my stomach. These men have the look of the extremely desperate.
    “We’ve been waiting for you,” one says.
    Every hair on the back of my neck stands up, but I try to keep my voice calm. “I think you have the wrong person.”
    “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Ms Greene.”
    The moment