Phoenix Without Ashes by Harlan Ellison, Edward Bryant

ye who feel so?”
    Quick replies from the congregation; loud but reverent: “Nay!”
    “Nay, Elder Micah!”
    “Nay, nay!”
    Like a herd of horses being led to the barley trough, thought Devon. He nearly laughed. In the dim light from the slit windows, Micah’s eyes seemed almost to burn.
    “And what say you, Devon? Be your humbleness merely worn like shirt or shoe? Dost thou harbor secret spite ‘gainst thy Elders?”
    Devon knew he was expected to dip his head in humility; yet he did not. He stared directly into Micah’s eyes. “Not spite, Elder Micah, but there are questions I would ask you.”
    Micah smiled slightly, but completely without humor. “Even in thy speech thou art troubling. Thou callest thy Elder ‘you’ with all familiarity. Thy stay in the hills hast done nought to cleanse thee!”
    It took all the resolve he had generated in the hills to reply. Devon said quietly, firmly: “If it’s love of Rachel you want to ‘cleanse’ from me, a hundred cycles in the hills would not serve.”
    Micah raised his gaze from Devon to the congregation and they responded—murmurs, then louder and angrier cries, shouts:
    “Impiety!”
    “He answers back!”
    “He should be driven out!”
    Another grim smile. Obviously pleased with the response, Micah raised his hands for quiet. The Elder looked back down at Devon. “Set this thought forefront in thy demeanor, Devon: thy parents be long dead, thy station be of the lowest, thy prospects slim, thy manner bitter as water drawn from the pollution pool. Thy genetic rating unsuitable. Thou art maintained in Cypress Corners as ward of the Elders. Young Rachel...”
    He looked above Devon again, and to the right. Devon turned his head slightly. Rachel sat there in the next pew behind. She sat with her younger sister, the two of them between Aram and Old Rachel. Hands folded, eyes downcast, Rachel did not react.
    Micah continued harshly, “... Young Rachel is promised since birth to Young Garth...”
    Young Garth sat between his mother and father in the pew behind Rachel and her family. The same age as Devon, Garth was half a head taller. He was a broad and solid man; deeply tanned from the fields, but also callused and muscular from the hammer, forge, and anvil of the metalsmith to whom he was apprenticed. Garth and Devon had been friends almost as long as each could remember. Now Devon caught Garth’s eye and Garth looked away.
    “...promised by the word of the Creator’s machine,” Micah’s voice droned on. “Dost thee still question the decision of the Creator?”
    Devon looked from Garth to Rachel and then back to Micah. He said angrily, “I still question! I still ask why the sky is metal and the ground is not. I still ask where waste goes when we put it down the trap. I still ask why Young Rachel must wed a man she doesn’t love!”
    Again Micah’s gaze rose to the congregation. Again, led by the other Elders, they responded like a well-trained pack of dogs with cries of “Blasphemy!” and “Shame!” And again Micah quieted them with a wave of his hand.
    “When first thee came to thy Elders with this blasphemy,” said the Elder, “thy anguish was met with kindness. Thou wert given leave to go to the hills to cleanse thyself. But thee hath returned to our prayer time still surfeited with recrimination and wickedness. See this, ungrateful child.”
    Micah stabbed the center of the lectern with one forefinger. “Perhaps you may give heed to the Creator’s machine.” There was a low whir. From out of the lectern rose a miniature replica of the rectangular, metal ivy-climb outside. The Elder touched one of a row of keys on the top of the Creator’s machine. A panel slid aside; Micah spoke into the exposed grille: “Respond to my voice. I seek again the answer to the mating question of Young Rachel and Young Garth. Be there genetic relevance for consideration of Devon as mate to Young Rachel? Answer.”
    The machine chuckled briefly to itself