Brave New Worlds

people and the crashing waves of music. Zel has taken off his shirt and is dancing half-naked under the strobe lights with the others in an orgy of arms and hands. I'm standing off to one side of the dance floor beside Jamin, who doesn't dance, but nevertheless gazes on Zel adoringly.
    Our scripture says: “And in his own image God made them, man and woman; and bade them be fruitful and multiply; and set them apart from the beasts and gave them dominion over the beasts. "
    And also: "It is good for a man never to touch a woman, nor a woman touch a man, lest they be tempted to behave as the beasts of the field do in their passions. "
    I have never even seen beasts in the field. Theology classes glossed over that, only teaching us that before God gave people the wisdom of science we behaved as they did. With peace and prosperity and time, we have become a very secular people, falling into relationships, doing our work, and living our lives with questions.
    Zel grabs me by the hand, pulling me onto the dance floor where the lights are flashing, music pumping, and ecstatic faces surround me. He only wants me to be happy and he only knows what makes him happy, and so he tries to bring me to that too. I resist him—I resist everything these days—and pull away.
    "Smile," he shouts at me above the din. "Have some fun!"
    "I'm having fun!" I shout in reply.
    "Are you excited by marrying tomorrow?" I mumble my answer to him, but he doesn't hear me and leans forward, sweat dripping from his forehead on my shoulder, shouting "What?"
    "I said, ‘Scripture says it's better to marry than to burn!'"
    He laughs as if this is the wittiest thing in the world, and spins around, arms and fists pumping in beat with the music.
    But I am burning already. The thought of Ali is a fire in my mind and a searing pain in my flesh, an unquenchable flame, even though I know all my feelings for her are wrong. Still, I will go do my duty tomorrow, and marry rather than burn.

    The next morning, I arise with the other bachelors before dawn. Many have hangovers, and some are too sick to marry this time. Their absences are noted by the priest's assistant in his white jacket as we board the bus. Those who have not made it are roundly mocked by even the sickest of those aboard. The other men are hugging, wishing each other well, but I hold myself apart. There are only a dozen of us, so it is easy to take a seat away from the others.
    My stomach is queasy as we head for the Temple of the Waters, and not just from last night's drinking. Our route takes us along the edge of the women's quarter and none of us are wearing veils. I slouch in my seat. Several of the men pull their robes up over their noses; others put their hands on their heads, or pretend to rub their faces. The priest's assistant, who misses nothing, points this out to them and they all laugh. But I can only think that perhaps Ali is sitting in another bus without her veil on either; and I wonder if her mouth is as round and full as her eyes, if the arch of her lips matches that of her brow, if the curve of her neck is as graceful as the bridge of her nose.
    Would I even recognize her? I do not know.
    The Temple of the Waters sits at the center of the Government Quarter, across from the Palace of Congress. It is an oasis of green and blue marble in a desert and steel and concrete and sandstone. The giant telescreens that surround it show images of the ocean, the surge of waves in calm weather, but they remind me of the storm-tossed gray of Ali's eyes and I breathe faster.
    As we're climbing off the bus, the priest's assistant steps in front of me and grips me by the shoulder. Instantly, I know that he saw how I stayed apart, he knows that I am different from the others.
    But he only says, "Why don't you smile? this is going to be a good thing— think of the pride you'll feel!"
    I force myself to smile and pull away from him to follow the others. We strip in the anteroom. A few of the men are as young as I am, but they range in age up to a solemn gray-haired old man who goes about his preparations with all the grim seriousness of a surgeon in a touchy operation. The room is as hot as a sauna and several men grow visibly excited. One man, a boy almost, younger than me, can't help himself and spills his seed there on the floor. The others chastise him until he starts to cry, but the priest enters through a second door and all falls silent.
    Noticing the mess, he says "Don't worry, I'm sure